In which I remember that I have a blog, and post.
(The fact is, I don't really like blogging. I like talking (read: hearing myself talk) and as most of my talking is done to computer screens and thin air, you would think that it would be a natural transition to blogging. As far as the joy of articulating my internal monologue into open space, it is quite natural, and I take great pleasure in reading myself type. The trouble is content. Most of my talk is completely void of meaningful content, and that just doesn't blog well. But this is not an introduction to a meaningless post, merely an excuse for inconsistency.)
My style of adventuring has changed since the first tumultuous week, and this is in part due to a higher work-load, and in part to an instinctual desire for survival. They keep me steadily busy painting and cleaning and cooking at the Center, and when it comes to my day off, I most often relish the chance to watch the clouds change color for two or three hours and read a good book. (current book: Anna Karenina - progress: 70% - status: excellentovich).
But occasionally, I badminton.
That is to say, I badminton-ed once, and was so utterly humiliated that I had trouble returning. (the real reason, not the 2-15 score, was my very stiff and painful wrist the following day...). My opponent was vastly superior, and soon discovered that aiming the shuttle directly at my chest rendered me completely useless, and proceeded to place every single serve, return and recovery exactly there. My spasmodic attempts to parry these well-aimed shots were mostly elbow, with a little bruising and occasional grunts. But on the off chance that I did connect racket to shuttle, my furious racket/shuttle coalition would smart bomb the hell out of my opponent's racket, making it impossible to avoid returning my every blow. But my sweaty, smart-bombing, elbow and grunt approach to badminton was not the chief source of my humiliation, it was my opponent.
My illustrious opponent was a lovely, kindly, 83 year-old woman, recovering from a heart-attack earlier in the year, and "not on top of her game."
Hey! I am an artist, ok? I paint pictures and make pretty music and DO NOT excel in badminton. (which I previously ventured to ridicule as not a real sport - I have updated my opinion to "no comment"). But my convenient wrist injury excused me from further tearful humiliation, and I decided that I would engage is Ireland's other national sport - the Pub Crawl. I am excelling, thank you very much, and have the victory (loosened) belt to prove it.
Speaking of pubs, I must mention the Corner House for it's excellent folk music night. It hosts a casual jam session every Friday night, ranging from just a few guitars and a fiddle, to full Uillean pipes, whistles, banjos, bodhran, mandolin and an excellent irish tenor. The Rooney family, which supply the whistle, bodhran (the drum, said: BO-run) and guitar/banjo are an amazing group of teenagers, especially the several-time national champion drummer. I attend regularly, and it is one of the highlights of the village.
And that's it for sports news at ten, I believe there is also an update from the travel desk - Taylor?
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Uh, That's right Taylor, we go today to special corresponded in the field, Taylor, who I believe has some breaking news from Belfast. *camera shift to bundled correspondent* Yes thank you Taylor, this news comes just weeks after the incident that occurred here shocked and dismayed audiences everywhere, and I think has left many fans in a sort of haze. I myself am very disillusioned as to the integrity of our rugged traveling hero, Taylor Gray, but as much as it pains me to report this, I owe it to the public. That's right, our intrepid man-of-the-world has broken down and taken a bus tour! A full-blown, man-with-a-mic, double decker, hop-on-hop-off, picture snapping, map pointing bus-tour. And what is even more horrifying, reports amid the aftermath confirm that he did, in fact, enjoy the tour immensely.
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So that's my confession, which I have hidden in a clever news story gimmick (read it again if you missed it). And yes, I can confirm first hand that not only was the tour fun and educational, but the guide was hilarious and I would even recommend that future travelers do the same. But I still can't talk to much of it, my travel-pride is still a bit raw.
Aside from the tour, I spent some time with rough-neighborhood teens at a drop-in center in Belfast, and was delighted at how forward these Irish teens were. They would just march up to me and introduce themselves and practically demand to know who I was and where I was from and would I play ping-pong. I am happy to say that I creamed them at ping-pong, which given the average age of 14, doesn't exactly sooth the badminton sized hole in my ego.
I was also privileged enough to stay with the owner of Avalon Guitars (handmade in Ireland, average price is about $3000), and received a personal tour of the factory. It - was - epic. at least for me. It was full of half-made guitars and wood-scraps and sawdust. But it was therefore extremely interesting to me and I got to play all of the finished guitars in their showroom, which was also pretty much the shit.
That, and another excellent viewing of kung-fu panda, pretty much sums up my Belfast trip. And given the length of this post, I may just completely ignore the title and write about that in Chapter Six: In which I return with a purpose and a better title.
Cheerio for now!
P.S. The title of this post actually has no reference to real life, except that I wanted to describe Valerie, who is the wife of Norman, and in my imagination at least, is a field mouse. Pancake-Picturebook is ex nihilo, and I left it because I love how it sounds, and may have to form a band.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Improvisation #1
Well well well. Rather than lapse into complete radio silence, I am choosing to begin a post without having any clear idea as to its impending content. But a nice, wholesome update will do, and I think perhaps, a few character sketches of the fabulous people around me.
Updates -
1. For the first time in my adult life I have a room to myself. This revelation in home environment has caused several unbecoming displays of emotion and a long journal entry. In fact, I have in other literary endeavors called my new room a 'sanctuary' and 'akin to a holy place' or some such nonsense, but I think it best to avoid any radical sentiments here. Suffice it to say that a small, rather sparse, definitely cold, and hard-to-get-at room has brought me an inordinate amount of happiness. I even have wireless reception, and am sitting in it this very moment.
2. I am known at sight and by name at three pubs.
3. A local man asked if I was from Rostrevor, a great compliment to my affected Northern Irish Brogue - his level of intoxication will not be mentioned. Also, two lovely English ladies (to be described in future posts - and quite sober) exclaimed at lunch today that my request for tea and milk to be passed down the table sounded Irish. They were shocked, I was pleased, we all drank tea.
4. I discovered the stash of movies. They are not about worship conferences, prayer conferences, prophetic conferences, or in fact about conferences of any sort. This is certain to revolutionize my evenings around the middle of the week.
5. I have had no further misadventures, because I have not ventured much outside of Rostrevor. Defense a) There is a whole world of life in this one little village, and by getting to know it intimately, I am becoming a part of it - much more satisfying than walking around with a camera and being scowled at like a tourist. Defense b) you wouldn't go out in this weather either.
6. For those who are interested, I have been making huge progress at the piano, which is a blessing for me, having been very limited since my injury.
And now, someone I have been dying to introduce to you all - the first person I met in Ireland, the indefatigable Norman.
Norman is English. He is English in a way that went out of fashion sometime shortly after World War II, but Norman has very little interest in fashions, and will tell you so. He is a slight man, not tall and not broad of shoulder, and his eyes are rather close together and his hooked nose is rather prominent. Every day, Norman wears a collared shirt and a tie, both tucked into his corduroys, and a sweater to cover the whole affair. Norman is the grounds keeper, and when changing from his morning ensemble (shirt, tie, sweater, cords) into his outdoor clothes, he vanishes for several minutes, and reappears in quite a different shirt, tie, sweater and cords. He is 73.
The first thing one learns about Norman, however, is not presented to the visual, but the olfactory senses. Norman was born in an age and culture that was indifferent to such trifles as bodily odor, and he has been indifferent to his since. Did I mention, he is 73. The delicate odor of gently cooked rubber and aged, sweating onions is constantly present wherever Norman goes, and Norman goes everywhere. But despite his rough bouquet, Norman is of excellent and fascinating vintage.
Norman worked in a bank for thirty years, raising a family of four girls with his wife Valerie. His thirty years in a bank instilled the most common bank-like attributes in him, that is a perfect adherence to order and procedure, and a withering cynicism that would discourage even the most optimistic person from truly enjoying their banking. Not that Norman isn't happy, or indeed good natured - his face is deeply lined with many laughs, and his smile is quick, if a bit sardonic. No; Norman, like most cynical people, is quite happy and will tell you so. He has even managed to be quite active and healthy for his age - though after the English fashion he so purposefully ignores, he reached his old age very early, and so is very practiced. He can be seen on any clear morning, plodding between the flowerbeds with a small bucket held indifferently in his hand, or stooping amid the geraniums. Despite knowing the proper and common name of every flower and plant on the extensive property, Norman claims he is not a plant person. "They live or they die," he will say, "at least, that's the way I see it. You can't really do much by them, I should think." Actually, if he were a little taller, and said "I shouldn't wonder" instead of "I should think" I would say he was exactly like Puddleglum the Marshwiggle, but more prone to jokes.
I quite like Norman and have done him no proper justice, but the hour compels me to leave off this useless venture. (No use talking to your friends all the time, says Norman, they'll never know you were gone) I am too tired to continue, but I promise not to be so long between posts. Until then, Cheerio.
Updates -
1. For the first time in my adult life I have a room to myself. This revelation in home environment has caused several unbecoming displays of emotion and a long journal entry. In fact, I have in other literary endeavors called my new room a 'sanctuary' and 'akin to a holy place' or some such nonsense, but I think it best to avoid any radical sentiments here. Suffice it to say that a small, rather sparse, definitely cold, and hard-to-get-at room has brought me an inordinate amount of happiness. I even have wireless reception, and am sitting in it this very moment.
2. I am known at sight and by name at three pubs.
3. A local man asked if I was from Rostrevor, a great compliment to my affected Northern Irish Brogue - his level of intoxication will not be mentioned. Also, two lovely English ladies (to be described in future posts - and quite sober) exclaimed at lunch today that my request for tea and milk to be passed down the table sounded Irish. They were shocked, I was pleased, we all drank tea.
4. I discovered the stash of movies. They are not about worship conferences, prayer conferences, prophetic conferences, or in fact about conferences of any sort. This is certain to revolutionize my evenings around the middle of the week.
5. I have had no further misadventures, because I have not ventured much outside of Rostrevor. Defense a) There is a whole world of life in this one little village, and by getting to know it intimately, I am becoming a part of it - much more satisfying than walking around with a camera and being scowled at like a tourist. Defense b) you wouldn't go out in this weather either.
6. For those who are interested, I have been making huge progress at the piano, which is a blessing for me, having been very limited since my injury.
And now, someone I have been dying to introduce to you all - the first person I met in Ireland, the indefatigable Norman.
Norman is English. He is English in a way that went out of fashion sometime shortly after World War II, but Norman has very little interest in fashions, and will tell you so. He is a slight man, not tall and not broad of shoulder, and his eyes are rather close together and his hooked nose is rather prominent. Every day, Norman wears a collared shirt and a tie, both tucked into his corduroys, and a sweater to cover the whole affair. Norman is the grounds keeper, and when changing from his morning ensemble (shirt, tie, sweater, cords) into his outdoor clothes, he vanishes for several minutes, and reappears in quite a different shirt, tie, sweater and cords. He is 73.
The first thing one learns about Norman, however, is not presented to the visual, but the olfactory senses. Norman was born in an age and culture that was indifferent to such trifles as bodily odor, and he has been indifferent to his since. Did I mention, he is 73. The delicate odor of gently cooked rubber and aged, sweating onions is constantly present wherever Norman goes, and Norman goes everywhere. But despite his rough bouquet, Norman is of excellent and fascinating vintage.
Norman worked in a bank for thirty years, raising a family of four girls with his wife Valerie. His thirty years in a bank instilled the most common bank-like attributes in him, that is a perfect adherence to order and procedure, and a withering cynicism that would discourage even the most optimistic person from truly enjoying their banking. Not that Norman isn't happy, or indeed good natured - his face is deeply lined with many laughs, and his smile is quick, if a bit sardonic. No; Norman, like most cynical people, is quite happy and will tell you so. He has even managed to be quite active and healthy for his age - though after the English fashion he so purposefully ignores, he reached his old age very early, and so is very practiced. He can be seen on any clear morning, plodding between the flowerbeds with a small bucket held indifferently in his hand, or stooping amid the geraniums. Despite knowing the proper and common name of every flower and plant on the extensive property, Norman claims he is not a plant person. "They live or they die," he will say, "at least, that's the way I see it. You can't really do much by them, I should think." Actually, if he were a little taller, and said "I shouldn't wonder" instead of "I should think" I would say he was exactly like Puddleglum the Marshwiggle, but more prone to jokes.
I quite like Norman and have done him no proper justice, but the hour compels me to leave off this useless venture. (No use talking to your friends all the time, says Norman, they'll never know you were gone) I am too tired to continue, but I promise not to be so long between posts. Until then, Cheerio.
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