Eircode H91
on migration, home, small pains- but mostly, small joys
first and foremost folks, the playlist:
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“Acolyte”- slaughter beach, dog
“Revolution 0”- boygenius
“Northern Sky”- nick drake
“Voyager”-boygenius
“First Touch”- francis of delirium
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“How are you doing?”
“I’m good! I’m doing good!”
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What I think of when I think of how I’m doing- an official list:
★I am obsessed with the first 6 seconds of the song “Guestlist” by Katie Gregson-MacLeod. I will watch her live in Dublin in 1 month and 5 days.
★ I eat potatoes every day, in all shapes and forms. I love barbecue sauce, lost mary vapes, Bailey’s with ice. My preferred beers are 1)Moretti, 2)Heineken, 3)Guinness.
★I have built a solid cup base collection. Every time I leave the house, I return with a new one tucked in my bag.
★I sometimes have a fancy glass of red wine with writer friends. I appreciate the ones I had at home for 80% cheaper a bit more every day. But I love it nonetheless. There’s something valuable in only drinking 1.
★I have not yet taken the bus, although appealing for being double-decked. I walk everywhere, every day, every time. The city is flat, which is a joy. My Lisbon girl calves are on a gap year.
★I have walked past the fishermen by the docks a handful of times. They linger there on weekends, chairs unfolded, cars parked nearby. Most of them foreigners. I have witnessed a kid fishing up a mackerel from the water with joy.
★I notice when certain grafittis are written over, from one day to the other. Even the walls have begun to be familiar.
★I have had one friend visiting. Have received one postcard, have ordered one book and around 10 meals to my house. I know where delivery people park when they, more often than not, can’t find our house.
★I have 3 loyalty cards- to the cinema, Charlie Byrne’s, Dubrays. I am consequently loyal to the loyalty cards and never go a week without stopping by.
★I can rate local bookstores by book selection and by the niceness of the employees, as well as music selection or the space’s aesthetic. Not to sound like the most developed version of my pretentiousness Pokemon, just underlying that I have seen enough to formulate very detailed stances on it, which is a privilege of the act of repetition and of presence. I am developing familiarity in all corners.
★I have learned Irish sounds. I can say Saoirse and Roisin, and know that Woodquay is read as “Woodkey”. I say “class”, “lovely”, “craic”, “wee”. I know not to answer how I’m doing when the bartenders ask “Are you good?”, but simply place the order.
★I have crossed paths with a friend in the supermarket. With another while sitting outside of a cafe, whom I noticed by the sound of his voice alone. Recognised a person in the club’s bathroom, just to leave for the main floor and realize someone else I’d been introduced to before was DJing the party. It is a community if I’ve ever seen one, and I do not say it- or take it- lightly.
★I have had fights over whether Saint Patrick is a ginger or not- I am definitely in Ireland. I have been warned of what typical expressions are actually not used at all, making me sound like an American tourist if I word them out loud. At its core, it can also translate as a great thing: I have developed enough closeness with some Irish people to make them comfortable enough to say this to my face.
★Ultimately, Sundays are for crosswords. In quiet bars only- Tígín or Hughes. This is relevant because the one thing I enjoy more than crosswords is the heartwarming perspective of a non-demanding routine. Once a week, show up if you’d like. Have a beer, if you’d like- you will. Join in the game, if you’d like- you will.
It’s crossword Sunday. Don’t call, don’t text, unless you're coming over- you might.
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I try to remember every bar I've walked into as if it were a collection. We have not yet settled for any favorites- we always switch around, which helps the collection. Sometimes, as I'm commuting somewhere, I try to list them down in my head. This is what I can come up with:
Sultz , Sally Longs, Taaffes, Murphy’s, The Quays, The Dail, McGettigans, McSwiggans, Tígín, Caribou, Buddha Bar, Hughes, Barr an Chaladh, Cooke’s, Hole in the wall, Rouge, Blue Note, Roisin Dubh, Garavan’s, Ol’55, The Skeff, 1520, The Front Door
A few bars I have heard of but haven't stepped into (yet):
The Crane, Monroe’s, Blake’s, The Salt House
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I want to remember the first times.
First time arriving at Dublin airport. The first coffee shop I went to- Nero. Every single thing I bought while in there- sour patch kids, shrimp salad, water, crosswords. The table I sat in to read.
The first time I stopped at the door of my house. How up until the door opened I was living on the crippling fear it would not work out. The time it took for it to open, how N. stood at the door, D. sat on the stairs, and how Bruno kept on walking around agitated. He did not immediately trust me. The privilege of having time is that what is not true one day can be the very next. If not, then perhaps by the next.
The first time I headed towards Pálás. How I sat outside on the steps, waiting for a friend. Illuminated solely by screens displaying the movies in exhibition. Seeing them walking up from the opposite side of the road. How they knew me so little, and yet still knew to ask “Do you want to keep the tickets?”. Of course of course of course -I always will.
I am walking back home with no maps open anymore. I know to cross the street, follow straight when I spot “Blake’s”, know which way cars circulate on certain roads. I look inside a store where a colleague works to see if she is there.
It is a privilege to drop off the face of the earth into a new place with heavy bags, unpack, have your own shelves and fridge space. To get to store your bags away and buy silly things like carpets and mirrors- because truly, there is time. And despite the usual fear of jinxing it, I will still write it down: I have always wanted a quiet life such as this.
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After a solid 6 years of drinking, my drunk personality has also mildly shifted. Happy to report (although in truth, I have a few mixed feelings about it) I have not yet cried when drunk.
I have barely cried.
When I did, recklessly and fully, It was under a tree, rain pouring down on me on a stormy day. It was still a cinematic setting to cry in, and It felt more cathartic than upsetting.
Or on my couch, in a house-made-home, heat blasting while fully cocooned in the duvet I dragged downstairs, despite its heaviness and my own tiredness. In the back something played on Netflix, in the profile my housemates created for me- my icon sits at the end of a row of 5.
At its core I believe what I want to address is this: I feel, to a degree, sheltered from debilitating sadness due to the significant layer of comfort and love I have acquired in this country- a house-made-home. There’s both privacy and company, long talks and silent walks to the shop. There is space for choice- dealing with things alone or reaching out. Having coffee alone or with friends. And there’s a profile for me on this TV, so, regardless of whatever comes- and I will say it in the simplest but most meaningful way I can- I think I will be okay.
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I’m very aware of the cyclical element of a calendar. If I were to measure my life in physical shape, I’d pile up 22 calendars. If pierced a needle through a certain area of it- say, October- I would touch every single October of my life. All Octobers pile up on each other that way in my mind.
I have always been kinder with future versions of myself than I am with present ones, let alone past. But I can feel a shift. I am kinder to myself today because, as I write horizontally, threatening permanent damage to my neck, I can't ignore the memory of what it felt like to inhabit my body in past Octobers. Octobers at age 13, Octobers at age 16. How during my 20th October, all I wished for next Octobers was for the happiness to linger. How by the very next one I was afraid to look that past version in the eye and confess that life did not continue to go uphill, but instead seemed to have parked for gas and got distracted in superficial conversation with the worker at the counter. Maybe grabbed some gum and leafed through some magazines. And when you thought they were done? Came outside to smoke a cigarette.
Just like it would go in a scenario when a parent lingers in the gas station, when you’re desperately consumed with the wish to go home, I suppose all one can do is wait. I did not accept that easily or perhaps at all, but there was no choice. Eventually, life kept moving. This October I can confirm I am speaking from a better place- not heaven tho, just a cozy room abroad.
On that 21st October, there were a lot of afternoons spent in the college bar, knee shaking under the table, apple tart leaving crumbs all over. Too much caffeeine as well. All of this constituted the essentials for the mission of finding out what the hell to do next. Not directly next- that would be picking up even more 50-cent, sugar-filled coffee from the machine. But for other Octobers. For life, as if the future was “real life”, “adult life”, making everything else that came before a mere childish simulacrum for the big thing.
It was a debilitating doubt. It did not stop at the end of the workday, but followed me home into every room, cozied up in my subconscious in every attempt to sleep. It impeded all sorts of rest. But it is October again, and I have figured it out. And if I have figured it out, it is solely because of the work done on that 21st October on Earth. Down to November, December, January, February, (…), all past versions of me led me here.
I am laying in a new bed, in a new country, with new friends and foods and weather and- in regards to whatever versions brought me here, I think I owe them nothing but kindness. I can look them in the eye now.
If we stood in a room all together, I would most likely give them a heartfelt bro punch. Also maybe address 13-year-old Marta about the Bershka shirts, but further on into conversation, for politeness’ sake. 9 year old me would not understand it, as politeness was not yet in her vocabulary. I will teach her that in time. I am patient because I can rest now. Listen up everyone, I can rest!
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I know this will be a detour from the theme and the tone, but with everything in life being nuanced, it felt important to underline the remembrance of what came before. What one leaves in order to arrive somewhere else.
Every trip I’ve ever taken has ended the same way- with a profound sense of relief by seeing Lisbon from a window plane. Sometimes generating a tiny sneaky tear, even.
I have written plenty about home. I have thought about it even more. I suppose I know it is still there, otherwise I would have never left. If I didn’t ever leave it, I would never get to see it from an airplane window again. I might never again be reminded of how it feels to be so detached from your comfort zone, whether you know it at the time or not, and suddenly recognize every sight- from afar, from up close. Understand every word written on a screen, every word spoken that floats in the air.
I wrote about Lisbon for week 3 of Poetry class. The theme was cities, and I addressed it as L. as if it were its own entity. During class discussion, as I finished reading the very last line of it, my colleagues confessed they had assumed it was about a lover all along.
A quick Google search would let us know that the first definition for lover is “a partner in a sexual or romantic relationship outside marriage”, with the synonyms of “partner”, “boyfriend”, “girlfriend”, “man”, “woman”, “lady-friend”. Lisbon might be an emotional partner or a lady-friend for all I know, but not entirely.
The second definition would be “a person who likes or enjoys a specified thing.” Synonyms would be “admirer”, “devotee”, “fan”, “enthusiast”. This definition implies then that I would be the person/lover and Lisbon the specific thing. We’re getting warmer.
I suppose there is love for this specific thing, in plentiful amounts. But Cities are not lovers. If anything, Cities are parents. They let you linger for as long as you need, and slightly kick you in the butt out there when they see you need the push, in hopes that you’ll realize by your own will that it is where you want to be.
I know Lisbon is always where I’ll end up. There is no haunting sense of duty, just a genuine conviction that I have left it enough to know the impact of returning. This feeling of having a space saved just for you- a land that saw you cry into the world after 9 months of belly aquarium time, and witnessed everything from then on, is perhaps why I can be at peace in this far corner of the Atlantic.
On that note, and because I write for myself and, for a long time, also just for my friends:
I know you’re getting this in your inboxes, some of you in emails you have had since children, which I emailed just to say hi when my dad created my account for me at age 11. Others whom I met at times when email had already changed purpose, serving as a mere formality to address adults or teachers, but rarely each other.
If you are getting this in your inbox, however, it is because you have made a home for me, in one place or another. I am only able to rest and live a separate life because I know you’re around in the world. No place feels like a full home until you have stepped foot in it, so I will wait for you to come and provide this place with the last ounce of approval needed.
Nothing helped me more in the departure than the comfort of knowing there is already a place out there for me. I know it and I feel it, as if gravity itself is messing with my body’s axis. As if I am being held onto by a very long leash. It does not feel reclusive, purely the result of love.
Maybe Lisbon is my lover.
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Now- back to my love affair with Ireland
I have made friends with employees.
In a number of places, I can guess who I’ll find when walking in. Charlie Byrnes, X’ian, Aisling F.B., Mr M Vape, Taaffes, Gala, Smokeys, Gourmet Tart.
In the Gourmet Tart down the street, I made a Brazilian friend. I resort to Gourmet Tart almost solely for breakfast, but sometimes also for the opportunity to speak my mother language, and to give the other employees a slight moment of awkwardness where they don’t know where to stand, where to place their hands, if they should address me entirely as we ramble in a foreign language.
This is one rare aspect of my life where I know what I want- a chocolate croissant, that is actually just a wrongly identified pain au chocolat. I also want an americano, if I am too desperate for caffeine (because they don't have any ice for an iced one, and the hot one is not nearly as good).
I have not seen my Gourmet Tart friend in a week now. It seems odd that something I imprinted in my mental map of the city is now gone, with no previous notice. If I had the chance to walk in there tomorrow and see him behind the counter, I would most likely succumb to a deep, long breath of relief, just before jumping onto a rant along the lines of:
“Where were you? The world as I know it seemed to be crumbling. I am glad you're around. Yes, the usual- chocolate croissant. How are you? please don't do this again. It's not your fault I stick to people like a clamp but please next time give me at least a 20 work days notice. Have a nice day, yes, I’ll see you around- I will. I hope I will, I’m glad I will. Adeus e obrigada!”
The same thing has happened with an inanimate object the size of a building. There is an orange cargo boat that has lingered on the docks since the very day I arrived. More than visual pollution, I assimilated it as a permanent element of the docks- even if boats are built to move, It simply never did. There have been a myriad of times when I've walked by and seen men stroll around the boat, stand at the door, smoke, talk on top of this big floating orange thing. With time, I built up a true wish to walk up to them, just to pose them with the following questions:
why are you always on land?
wait- are you always on land?
also, can I take a peek inside? The only boats I believe I enjoy are the ones on land. The only relaxing experiences for me are the ones with an easy, clear, escape. Pretty please?
Around a week ago, almost synched with the disappearance of my Brazilian friend, I noticed the horizon had changed. I could not place exactly what had changed for a bit, until it hit me- where was the orange boat?
I can tell you that the view is a lot prettier without it in the way. I can see the glimmer of the water at a big distance and from all angles, which was previously made impossible. But I miss it regardless. The boat is part of what I expect to see when I leave the house. It seems as crucial to my well-being as drinking coffee in the morning. I like to know they are around, so I peek often to see if they have returned to their signature place. I always expect a return.
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Today is a Monday. It is 17:20h when I walk out of the arts and science building. I’m doing good, yes, in part because I never thought I’d get to inhabit an arts building.
As I am walking out, I notice the trees are different from how I first saw them- perhaps even different from when I was last here on Thursday. A few meters down the road, I cross paths with a man who carries nothing but a bright orange pumpkin as he enters campus.
I did not know this was something I had in me, but I see it now: misery can be twisted into something else. I am often presented with escape routes for it. How could I be upset? There’s a pumpkin being carried like a newborn baby onto my college campus.
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I think I was able to love everything I was given as much as I could at each moment. I have stopped every time I saw a swan or a duck, contemplating them catching food with their butts up, singing “todos os patinhos*” in my mind (*Portuguese song for children about ducks).
I have audibly gasped at green fields, at how the Corrib River runs under the bridge. At this one specific house you can spot from there (fig. 12). I never took a bit of it for granted, and so I am happy to report that my mind and body are not weighted down by any regrets so far.
I have rarely lived without haunting remorse. It’s a near first, and I quite enjoy the feeling of it. I want to see sheep and cows, and I want to speak to all the dogs I see on the street. I want to be happy despite all lack of faith in the world. I want to be sad just to be soothed when I see a boy carry a pumpkin onto campus.
So, to answer your question- How am I doing?
Good.
I am doing good.
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xoxoxo,
-m