Failte!

I'm excited to share my adventures with all of you! I want your first taste of my life in Ireland to be this poem that I wrote very late one night when I was a Junior in College. Its meaning seems eerily prophetic now. More than anything, I've created this blog to make the actualization of this life-long dream of mine visible to those I love: my friends who are my foundation, my endlessly supportive family, my mentors and co-workers who inspire me, and my former students who have given me enough satisfaction and fulfillment to last two lifetimes... Have the courage to believe that your wildest dreams can come true.

Is fhearr fheuchainn na bhith san duil, (It is better to try than to hope)

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Mourn (A Seaside Peak in Southern Ireland)

The dark, earthen sod saturates her fair feet,
but briefly since she frolics fast in knee high
blades of greenest grass that blow dizzily in the Celtic-sea air.

Her wool skirt, stiffened by ware of evenings past
is splashed by cresting waves that break
against a beach blacker than her hair.
Those once stiffer fibers were loosed by nights upon nights
of hanging perfectly on his line before being wildly blown dry
by the crisp Hibernian salt air.

The pair sits to rest a while instead of dodging
breakers or skipping paler stones.

"Indian summer's here," he says softly,
but all of summer here feels like the edge
of autumn to her, even though she grins in agreement
as she dangles her pale, soft feet off Achilles' peak,
where Erin's vermillion-gold sky meets
an ocean that is grey with years.

She sleeps with her eyes closed tight most nights.
He asks her if she believes in Tier-Nan-Og,
and she asks him if he believes in anything eternal.
Outside the tide is rising, or it's receding—
She never can tell but for the strengthened smell of
salty freshness strained through his light, lace curtains.
She thinks to herself that he is like trying to hold the sea 
and she imagines the water running between her fingers--
clenched so tight.

And so, the night calls her out of her sleeping,
like daytime chides her into dreaming.
She slips her white fingers through the holes of an old loose scarf
that affords her more company than warmth
on these newborn autumn evenings. She is off-- 
Night clouds reflect emerald from land to sea,
And the tara that she never eyes from long hours of
staring too far into star blanketed skies,
feels cool against the thickening pads of her pallid feet.

Elisabeth Lewis (2005)

02 November 2011

Skinny Love: Happy Humpday

Study break for photo op! <3
 10. Candace climbing in my lumpy bed to wake me up this morning. sweet love.
9. Starbucks giftcard from Sissy = Pepperment Lattes galore!
8. The Irish sea that I'm looking at right now & its perfect greenish-grey color
7. "Winter is Coming" and it's my favorite season, so Bon Iver! (Skinny Love)
6. The word "brassiere"
5. All the hipster Halloween costumes! We've made it! I wrote an award winning* play in 2006 that is pretty much a modern adaptation of Hair! which predicts, not only the black president, but the rise of the "new hippies" and our generation's own protests. I guess I'll have to produce it to prove my genius. Or Not.
4. Whelan's tonight for indy music and beer!
3. Listening to my talking book on iTunes. Oh, Heathcliff, you're so emo. love it.
2. Andrew Bird's Amazing tribute to Shel Silverstein: Twistable, Turnable
1. Daydreaming about the FOOD I'm going to EAT next week: Sushi,  The Usual at 300 East, pumpkin lattes, Char-Grill, mussels, Carrburritos, Sutton's, Top-O, Tricia Ann's enchiladas!
Hoping to gain back a few of the pounds I've lost this fall because...
Who wants to be skinny, anyway?

*Sam Seldon Playwright Award, no big deal. The main characters are based (more than loosely) on Reid, Les, Far, and Lo. No one has ever read it (other than the judges). And no one ever will.
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