Chapter 19: Jumping into Life as Poetry

"oh boy oh boyohboyoh boy oh boy..." This was the sound I awoke to, "Fuck...aww shit..." as the new drunkard roommate climbed off his bunkbed, "breakfast...yeah, breakfast...I gotta ask them." and then he slammed the door. I got up some minutes later - as my silent, religious roommate opened the blinds onto the dawning Dublin morning - and took another cold shower. I went down to breakfast and ate with James, Luca and Fabio again and made plans to see Fabio at 2:30pm to go see the national gallery, and then I set off towards my day.
I took the walk down the bustling Dublin streets to Kilmainham Gaol, the oldest prison in Dublin/Ireland, where all the leaders of the Easter Uprising of 1916 were housed and executed. Walking through the dark, musty hallways, across the echoing, cold, stone floow, knowing that 158 men had taken this path as their final steps was strangely haunting. But it was also grandiose as we entered the main hall - built in 1860 - where the film "In the Name of the Father" was shot and I was walking the same ground as Daniel Day Lewis and Peter Posthelwait was very cool. We even walked the ground where those leaders' blood was spilled in the stonebreaking yard.
When I left, the cold had become more biting and I felt it chrystallise my bones and I was hungry so on the way I found a place that served an all day breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, toast, beans and white pudding. I ate that and soon left after a group of roudy Irish youths entered the place and began to talk loudly.
When I arrived back at the hostel I still had an hour to wait for Fabio and so I fell asleep on the front room couches reading Kerouac's "Lonesome Traveller".
Pretty soon - or so it seemed - I was awoken by Fabio's moustachioed face and an older Brazillian woman named Christina saying, "Let's go." We walked through the brisk air to the national gallery, seeing traditional Irish art from the 17th and 18th Centuries and some Italian art - some REAL Caravaggios! After seeing as much art as we could take, we left and began the walk back - it has gotten colder still. We stopped in on an Irish music store and soon continued on our walk, but Fabio left us as he had to be back at the hostel. Christina and I continued our walk, steopping in various stores, and she soon began detailing the intimate details of her life to me, "I met this Irish man Patrick at the hostel 4 days after I arrived," she said in her thick Brazillian accent, "and he has quite a good body for his age, you know? He's 65 and I'm 46, but he is very sweet. But there are some problems, you know? Like, he is a very PASSIONATE man, very sweet, he writes poetry, you know? So we are getting INtimate and he does not getting too hard, you know? So when I try to blow him, you know, to suck him, he goes, "No! No! Don't do that!" and we haven't even had sex yet! So I ask him, "When did you first go to bed with a woman?" you know what he answer me? 38."
My jaw visibly dropped, "I know!" she exclaims, "But he is also very Catholic man. But he tease me, you know? He say "You're serpant!" and he laugh. He was cheap - he never went shopping with a woman before me, you know? But now he spends more...only a little. But I ask too, what do you do with your day? "Get up, breakfast, read the paper." he says. He's very cultured, but mostly about Ireland, so what do you about NZ? Australia? Canada? "Nothing" he says. So what do you know? I ask. He lives a very sad, lonely life, and I told him so. But do you think he likes me?" She was very all-over-the-place but very sweet.
On our way back to the hostel Christina says, "I'm hungry, I need to eat. I know a place, but you can't tell anyone, okat?" So I nodded. We head down O'Connell street to one of its crossroads and take the right fork and then down the first alley of Earl Street. We head down the darkened alley to a place where a light was on over a doorway and people in blue uniforms were standing around outside smoking and having a chat, "Oh, so when we walk in," she said, "don't say a word and just do what I do. Everyone will be wearing the same blue uniforms."
"Christina, what is this place?"
"It's the terminal where the bus drivers eat," she said, "it's cheap and you really gotta be in the know to know about it. Now, if anyone asks you, my father used to work here, and you're my nephew here learning English." I nod.
To say the least, it was intimidating walking into that room of red-faced, blue uniformed Irish people, who, when they looked up to see who had enetered, expected to see a familiar face and instead found my curls.
"They know me now, I think, I come here a bit. Get a table." We put our things on a table and get our trays and gather up a buffet meal and I swear on my own, 7.50 Euros for a drink, a hot meal (pork chops, beans, mashed potatoes and whatever else), salad and a tea or coffee. We eat our meals in silence and soon move off back to the hostel, "Yeah, it was cheap," I said, "but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't intimidating walking in there." We soon got back to the hostel and I told her about past loves that had messed me around (not mentioning any names - we don't have to be cruel, do we?) and about Anna and how I thought she was "the girl of my dreams" and "the One" and she smiled. She showed me one of Patrick's poems and it was contrite and obvious to say the least, but when I showed her mine she laughed and said she liked them. She then wrote one for me, off the top of her head, written in Portuguese and then translated;

"The Boy"
Your curly hair
sparkling, reflecting -
reflection.
It spreads such a peace
that comes inside you.
That comes from you -
and angel.

Your skim, very white
your eyes with a deep
blue reminds me of an ocean.

Huge, empty, full, finite,
unlimited.
Lots of emotions.

Your calmly speaking, at
the same time, exciting
reminds me a little
boy, playing joyfully
in a big garden.

Without worries, happy
no thoughts, no needs,
no words, no yes,
no no.

Flowing, unique, eloquent.
Suddenly a light breeze
passes by
An ocean smell, at
the end of a hot
summer afternoon
Relieves...

- to be continued -

She wrote wryly on the page, "It's not trying to seduce you." She clarified.
"I know," I said, "from one writer to another." And she cried as she read it as it was her first poem since her mother died and she had torn up her 100 poems.
Soon Christina left to help another Brazillian with something and I found myself chewing on my journal. I look over and see the blonde girl I had seen upon entering the hostel the first day on the opposite couch laughing, "What?" I ask.
"Does it taste good?" she asked.
"Yeah, great, totally better than your Diet Coke and celery." I said, nodding to the tall bottle of Diet Coke and large packet of celery. She laughed. Turns out she's from Holland, over for Christmas break with her two friends Tantiva and Natasha. She was Milu. We spoke for some times on our travels and our studies before they soon had to head to the airport back home. I spent some times on the phone with Anna and talking with Will down in the dinner room listening to the Dubliners before I went to bed at 11:30pm.

- from the Journal 29th December, 2008.