The Everywhereist

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Sunsets on Hayman island were quite lovely.

I’m mostly speculating here: we missed a large number of them. We were so jet lagged that we were often in our room by dusk, impatiently watching the last bit of light disappear from the sky so we could justifiably crawl into bed.

I don’t know if two childless adults have ever cheered the arrival of 7:30pm as much as we.

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One of the things I love about any friendship is when you create shared memories together. It pushes you from the realm of merely “people who get along” into the world of “people who have been through some shit together.” It opens up the door to inside jokes and stories that begin with, “Remember that one time …”

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There are moments of my life that are so perfect, so ridiculously wonderful, that eloquence fails me.

You’d think that those would be the times when words would come most easily. But when you are surrounded by poetry, it is incredibly hard to create more of it. You simply look around, stupefied, and think, “Heh. This … awesome. Life … good. I … happy.”

That’s what happened one night when we were walking along the river in the Milwaukee.

Yes, Milwaukee. (I will kindly ask that you not look so surprised.)

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It’s funny how quickly the bizarre becomes normal.

How things that are strange and weird become familiar and every day. So that after a while, we forget that they’re even all that strange, until someone else points it out to us.

When we first moved back to Seattle from Florida, nearly 20 years ago (good heavens, the years. They are slippery little suckers, are they not?) my mother and I were faced with an odd problem. Our home felt far too empty. My brother had gone off to college, so it was just the two of us, living in far more square footage than we’d ever known.

We dealt with the problem in the usual way: we bought a mannequin.

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I was recently talking to someone close to me about marriage.

She told me about Buddhism, and her husband, and their shared views on infidelity – and how the damage it does is like throwing a stone in a pond. The stone causes a splash on impact, but it also causes ripples to form, which extend outward, eventually touching every aspect of your life.

In short, if you want a happy life, and a happy marriage, don’t cause ripples in your pond.

I really liked the analogy. Seriously, can you think of a more poetic way of saying “don’t go around banging random peeps”?

And with that in mind, I would like to start 2013 with a confession of sorts.

Oh, relax. It’s not that interesting.

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Walking down a crowded street on a rainy night in Dublin, we heard the distinct sounds of people watching an outdoor movie.

I can’t specifically say what the noises were – it’s strange how despite the thousands of films in existence, and the myriad of soundtracks and dialogues and moods expressed therein, they all start to sound alike when played through outdoor speakers.

It doesn’t matter if you are watching The Princess Bride or The Exorcist (for my sake, I hope it is the former.) 90% of them have scratchy ambient sound, a bit of heavy-handed dialogue, and a soundtrack by John Williams.

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My beloved, with his beloved.

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In case you were unable to gather it from yesterday’s post, Guinness is a big deal in Ireland.

Okay, calm down. Yes, I realize there is far more to Ireland than Guinness (trust me, I GET IT). I’m not trying to upset anyone. I don’t mean to overgeneralize or to come off as a bigot. I’m sure plenty of people in the emerald isle don’t drink the stuff at all.

So please, stop waving your finger around like that and calling me names. Really. Such language.

I simply mean to say that Guinness is important to the Irish. Much like pasta is to the Italians, or koala meat is to the Australians.

KIDDING. I’m KIDDING … Italians don’t eat that much pasta.

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I was going to write about The Troubles today, but just thinking about doing so after yesterday’s tome on Irish history made my brain hurt.

So instead I’m going to write about candy.

I know. I know. I’m awful. But tomorrow is Halloween, and I figured I’d better get a jump on a sugar high that should last, if I time it right, until well after New Year’s.

The thing I found about Ireland is that they understand their sweets. They really get them. And then came the inevitable follow-up realization: I could live here.

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