Dublin, August 1, 2013
We’d finally made our way into the capital city and I knew the words would come after a night here, so it only seems logical to begin with my wildest experience in Dublin, still heavy and aching from last night. I was out until sunrise in a completely new city with strangers and I wouldn’t change a second of it for the world.
But to recap for memory’s sake: Kilmainham Gaol (pronounced: jail) was quite gloomy, Coppinger Row: a recommended restaurant was divine, hostel check-in, beer and whiskey before Blur at Royal Hospital, lots of photos, more beer, The Irish Times (always handy to have a pen and pad), beautiful women, late night cheeseburger with new friends.
And it all centered round a band that have been playing since ’89. Think related acts such as Gorillaz and The Good, The Bad and The Queen.
We showed up at the Royal Hospital, turned museum and concert venue, after a shot of Jameson and pint of Guinness. The baroque style architecture made the evenings festivities climactic and surreal. The opening acts were already playing and the gates were flooding. We stood and watched as I realized that the lime floating in my first Corona here was oddly cut.
After a thorough pat down and no words about my camera, we were in. So naturally, another trip to the beer line. In the back of my mind, I knew it was a matter a time before I was separated from whom I tagged along, and I’d be venturing solo. This didn’t stop me from big leaguing my way to the front, and even at one point, with two beers and a camera. I wanted a decent shot. Several trips were made to the toilets and my finger kept snapping away as I noticed the spaces getting tighter and atmosphere electrify with chatter.
Blur had taken the stage and I was happily buzzing and flowing with the people all around me. Since I knew but two songs previously I focused on the camera and limiting the damage—I had already spilt beer on it. The band must have been in their forties but thrashing with a youthful spark.
As the show went thru its platforms and the sheen of the band and crowd glistened, my photography was apparently becoming an issue to one particular security guard at the front barrier. He didn’t approve. I don’t know if my camera was considered professional photography or what, but the third time he caught me, I was sure he’d jump over the barricade and snatch me up. I tried not making any eye contact, lowered the camera and carried on enjoying the show.
A couple ladies behind me shared their wine and found my photos to be unbelievable, as they would momentarily appear on the LCD.
After the encore and ultimate finale, we talked and discovered they worked for The Irish Times and would love to submit a photo or two for me. I was thrilled and beyond ecstatic, as I whipped out my pad for information. I looked around at the littered plastic cups and random articles dropped and thought about what I had just experienced. I was genuinely happy, as I realized more people had seen the photos during the concert and wanted a few to be emailed. My pen and pad made it around as I conversed, keeping an eye out for my lost comrades. I departed with two pages of names and addresses.
My bladder was on the verge of bursting and I hadn’t a clue where my buddies were. Upon exiting the venue grounds, I was stopped a handful of times to snap a photo, and even given five euro to guarantee a delivered photo—which reminds me…
This is a point of the night I was hoping to just get home and submit my photos and wake-up a published photographer, but that’s not how it ended.
What follows is better left unsaid for now.
(Source: andreasangelidakis, via nuclearharvest)
Cork. July 29, 2013
Here again, writing from a desk that still hasn’t felt like mine, at that point of a study-abroad program where writing comes forced and rushed. A clashing of inspiration and debilitating criticism twist at me when I look at the Irish setting sun and laugh at my most current exchanges.
Having left the states in a bit of limbo, I have questioned my opportunity here and my direction of choice, thus far. The feeling is quite imminent with everyday that we’re here, but I’m gratefully torn with the growing awareness of how tiny my grain of knowledge is.
I feel as though we must be let loose among the country of Ireland and see what trouble arises. I’ve always been an advocate of unplanned adventures. But then again I’d get wrapped up and lost like I did in Kilkenny, which seems to be a good place to start this entry.
Kilkenny. 
July 24, 2013
I remember smelling strawberries and a faint sound of metal clanking together in musical rhythm. I kept walking and wanted to find the source of this familiar sound. Off the main road was an alleyway whose walls were coated in florescent green moss. I looked down into the alley and saw a man in tattered corduroy jacket. I quickly understood the slapping about he doing on his thighs and readied my camera for the low light. The best things are always off the beaten path and this just proves it. As I moseyed closer I could see that he was gingerly clicking spoons together and singing. I tried to make my presence smooth and not scare but entice me to play uninhibited with my lens just a few feet away. Of course he stopped playing for a minute as it took some encouraging and a 50-cent piece to get him going again. I squatted down against the moist wall opposite of this man to snap my picture. He was pleased to have someone so interested. I shook the man hand in introduction, as he made clear he was from Dublin and only in Kilkenny to see Bruce Springsteen—who is creating a rage in Ireland presently and played the next night. This made me chuckle inside cause this man was clearly not going to be getting into the venue, but let a gritty musician dream. The thought must of made him chuckle as well cause as he smiled so big he dropped an unusual amount of drool between his legs.
“Here, put your hand out like this.” He stretched his hand out flat and I did the same trying to understand where this was going.
“Like this, yeah?” he stood and continued slapping his spoon together as he moved closer and started playing on my hand and then on my shoulder. He began to sing and I felt like a used drum kit, as he quickly clunked a few atop my head and laughed. I was gracious in receiving this “Irish alleyway approval.”
“Do you know where the castle is?” I asked rubbing my head.
“Oh, that’s easy. You take a right and then a left, you can’t miss it,” as he looked up at me for the first time, pointing down the opposite entry of the alleyway.
I smiled and said, “See you, and don’t worry the photos won’t be on Youtube.” He was worried that his photo would appear on that particular site.
However, making it back to the bus at the designated time was lost on me when I frantically rushed around Kilkenny for an hour trying to find it. It was even more embarrassing when I had just had a pint with my professor before getting lost, and where the information was dealt for probably the third or fourth time. I must’ve misheard. On a side note: my conditioning has left me and the cigarettes have engulfed me, must be the laborious inner dialogue.
Cork. July 21, 2013
Although the last picture post of Gougane Barra looks like something out of a sorcerous place, I’m still scratching at the midge bites all over—should of kept my shirt on and stayed on the paths. However I feel as though the adventure here is mounting and interactions with Corkonians are more fruitful and spontaneous than ever. (i.e. Eileen and the man who asked me to rub sunblock on his back @ Coffee Station)
Cork. July 19.
There are many areas to write on in this foreign country and maybe I haven’t understood what it means to be abroad and study in the midst of it. The luck at the greyhound races and the little nude beaches when out sea kayaking, but what are my findings? It’s quite strange:
Tonight happened so quickly. The electric grill dinner fell through. These long days are still playing games with me. The girls and I ended up at Fen Quay after some delegation and had a rather expensive dinner but divine. Our waiter was one the most endearing and accommodating—letting us sit after asking the kitchen to turn the burners back on. I had the Hake and Green Bullet Ale. The serving was posh, but fresh and local.
I knew I was going out after dinner but the girls had had enough and we went our separate ways after the gorgeous feast. The waiters last suggestion for a Friday night was the BDSM, a new rock and metal club in Cork.
At first I felt unsettled as I turned the corner to see the bright vintage theater sign. I rolled a fag outside the club and prepared for the unknown. I remember not wanting to come off too foreign, so I played with my own dialect, and remember immediately dropping the notion. I snuffed out the cigarette and confidently made my way though the door so the bouncer wouldn’t ask for an i.d.—I hadn’t any. Inside the music of my high school angst blared and I couldn’t help but rock my neck to the heavy jams. I ordered the only IPA I’ve seen in Ireland called trouble something or other. It was dry and hoppy, just what I was expecting.
I needed to scope my surroundings.
I shuffled my way out of line and through the hall to the back where I assessed where I needed to be. Everyone was sitting on kegs so I made my way through a heap and sat near a man with a flannel who reminded me of a young Daniel Johnston. Gave a nod and went about rolling another fag. After some time another man sat and chatted with the flannel shirt (whom I was later introduced to as Dave) and decided I’d spark a conversation. Turns out they were brothers and after the initial introduction of ‘where ya from’ turned I was inundated with the complex history of Ireland by a lad name Gavin.
Listening to this man speak gave me chills. He was well versed and not just a simple pub-crawler. I was made to think that its something the Irish have grown up with and understand more than any text or academia. I was thrilled that a native light was shone on the perplexed issue and was pleased with my spot at the BDSM.
We chatted about Irish and Texan sports cultures and dove in and out of politics.
“So you why are you here again?” Dave spat.
I found myself clicking my pen in and out as I told him. He immediately went off on all things Irish Literature and I couldn’t keep up jointing down the various poets and writers. I wiped some saliva from my face and was elated that I found myself in the place I was to be.
I go and order a metalman, I believe it was, and came to join these lads once again as Dave continued to give me smokes and wonderful conversation. We talked music and Dublin and the curiosity of the American Electoral College and the significance of swing states, Obama and other Irish rooted presidents.
Gavin ordered a round. I ended up going to the pisser and having a ratchet time using it during this nights’ hour.
Closing time was upon us and I slowly made my way into the bar. I decided to wait nonchalantly until I finished my pint and waited for the two lads to catch up—I needed some contact info.
At the bar my eyes met a blond woman who was ironically wearing an American flag tee. Of course I was titillated. The universe plays funny games.
She came to the bar and asked for water. I couldn’t let the moment slide. I asked the only reasonably thing I could in my state.
“So are you American?” and the ice was broken.
She had said no and I asked her name.
“Karen” she said into my ear, and after much deciphering and fumbling about for that name, I was eased out the door by security.
I was still intrigued and she looked great. I met her outside and tried to remain easy as my two lads from earlier made an exit and shook my hand. The streetlight revealed the wrinkles around her eyes suggesting an older age than I had presumed. Turns out she was a solicitor (or lawyer but was careful to clarify because of prostitution jargon in the states) and her eyes were just so critically blue.
Her friends came and seemed to enjoy me being Texan. It was a plus. Sandra and another girl who spoke broken French to me. We all shared a cab to Victoria Cross and I was asked about Austin. We pasted the Hall and ended up at their house. I wasn’t sure if I should stay or go.
Gougane Barra
Kinsale
Cork. July 16, 2013
So I’ve made it to Ireland with a sizable group of mostly females. We’re here to study and absorb the culture of being abroad, but still the latter is always more appealing.
Blog entry #1 will begin a bit random until I find a meaningful flow.
It’s pretty incredible how an ocean of separation, of displacement, can still render your thoughts and hearts’ feelings the same as they were before you left. Only to say that your scenery can change but your problems will follow.
I haven’t much to say for this evenings post except that I’ve only a taste of what Europe’s most Western post has to offer. I’ve been on Irish soil about nine days and I intend to take a gulp.
Revelations and an confrontation with identity. I need to experience more of the gritty side of Cork city because these comfortable accommodations make me feel the sicknesses of home.
More could be articulated through the stone relics of Barrycourt Castle and even Charles Fort in Kinsale, both of which opened my eyes a little wider to this blue marble we happen to inhabit. 
San Marcos activities.
