I was awakened this morn by the unpleasant exhalations of a hair-dryer. Does it seem odd that the only member of the household to use our decrepit warm-wind-machine is Justyna’s politically correct German boyfriend Robin? Ordinarily an all-female household (with the exception of two roosters) we have thusfar found absolutely no use for such items, this particular one which was generously donated by a previous resident from the French-speaking portion of Switzerland by the name of Sandrine. Her memory being much treasured, minor shock ensued upon my arrival when I confiscated the pernicious object and placed all of her Cosmopolitan Magazines deliberately and pointedly into the fire bin. (“Hot bodies”, by the way, do not necessarily result in a hot fire in our stove Humphrey). Robin works in Dublin in a large, corporate office called a bank. Justyna, a nutrition conscious vegetarian Polish political science student from Krakow, works in the office here maintaining, updating, repairing, and designing the websites, online magazine, and managing the application and exiting process (a monumental and intricate task) of future and past volunteers at “the Project”. She met this fellow on one of her European Service Volunteer Training Sessions, which took place in Dublin, and he has since visited us thrice upon this sublimely beautiful barren rock. Not too proud to chop wood, fetch coal, or harvest spinach, his more eccentric habits such as brushing his teeth six times a day and blow-drying his long, silky locks have been politely overlooked by the community here, especially since he brings us Kalamata olives from the outdoor market in Galway every time he visits. My first impression of Robin was an overwhelming tide of nostalgia for an initially unknown reason, whereupon I later remarked that his habit of merely speaking endlessly and eloquently upon subjects which may or may not interest the listener or relate to one another or the situation at hand reminded me of Daniel Mellstrom at age five. Daniel used to regale us with long stories of his dreams, films viewed, comics read, news heard, computer games played, and all manner of unobtrusive scientific information whether we were alert or otherwise, and Robin has a similar habit, although with him it verges on a way of being. I understand how he does well in the Public Relations post at his bank. He with Justyna have one hour previous embarked upon an ambitious journey with Justyna’s entire upper-class family (descended from the nobility of a fallen monarch, in fact). They intend to tour Ireland, which is strange to me as what I would expect them to care for is Justyna’s experience here on Inis Mor, and they do not even care to visit our humble, well-run, cozy abode… perhaps they would struggle to understand that Justyna bakes her own bread by preference rather than of painful necessity. In any case, they left this morning in a nervous state, to meet the entire contingent of demanding Polish relatives, who will rent a mini-bus for the duration of their stay! What a story.
Robin is not the only guest we have hosted over Christmastide. Cassandra, recently arrived from the Netherlands to take the Household Position, invited her boyfriend and he came in all his tallness. An additional guest was Esther, a true pilgrim originally from Switzerland, who has done social work in most countries I could mention, and settled truly in none of them. She now approaches the age of sixty and spends winters here on the island in a hut with no phone. She has spoken with me much about her experience in education and social work, which has been fascinating and sobering, although her constant idealism and faith in the human spirit could stand to be less harped upon. She loves the island and loves living simply and feels the need to share this love every second, which is all very lovely but her awareness of personal psychic space appears a bit hindered by her enthusiasm, which threatens to overwhelm us every time she visits. In any case I truly admire her and she is slowly becoming a sort of mentor to me, as I am usually the only one in the house patient enough to listen to her and question her thoroughly, extracting many valuable insights from her oftentimes over-positive theorizing about human nature and spirituality- she is quite observant but tends to disregard the value of her observations unless questioned about them, because she seeks an authentic understanding of intution. As this is an island in Ireland there are many people of this sort here, and I am becoming quite skilled at finding out what I want from their speaking and creating a mutual friendship out of what could develop into a one-sided conversation if I were more timid about interrupting. The only man with an equal amount of sense to temper his idealism whom I have met thusfar is my music instructor, Mihal. He is a truly amazing creature, in appearance a vibrant old elf with a small belly, upon which he can rest all manner of traditional instruments and play them with unsurpassing talent and love. It is thanks to him that I have been able to memorize so many Polkas, Jigs, Hornpipes, Reels, Flings, and Mazurcas- he believes that reading music should come late in one’s endeavors, so we have lessons by ear, and as he calls out a form or a name of a song, I play it or describe its defining characteristics. It is wonderful. Lessons are Wednesday evenings, prior to an evening at the local pub, where he plays with other elderly island inhabitants of considerable, if not equal, talent. He was once a science teacher in Dublin, but moved to Aran “for love of a woman”- with whom he still resides- and now teaches music in the schools and travels worldwide giving concerts. He is quite well-known on the traditional Irish Music scene, and is constantly showing Janina and I his most newly acquired flute and pipe variations… most recently having obtained a cherry-wood flute from his stay in Indonesia with an indescribably sweet and lilting tone. Janina and I have played with him and his merry band of followers in the pub on several occasions, and the more lessons we attend, the most songs we can join in on. As it is Christmas, I have been shirking my practicing, but will soon resume in earnest!!!
Before I descend the wooden staircase into the kitchen, passing our larder of bulk grains which threatens daily to regurgitate its ridiculously healthy contents upon the heads of those foolish enough to assume a knowledge of Kamut dishes, I must mention that this journal entry could only take place as a result of Janina’s generosity. I type at present upon her computer, my knowledge of German serving me well as I explore its innards in an effort to understand its workings. My computer, sadly, has hummed its way into non-being; although my brother suggests a distinct possibility of recovering the past six years of my written life (stored foolishly in my hard drive) it is unlikely that the machine itself will resurrect. Thus, I am without contact to the “real world” on a large piece of rock covered in seaweed, off the westernmost coast of Ireland, in a self-built house in appearance straight from “The Secret of Roan Inish”. It is unusual only in the extent that it has luxurious wooden flooring, and a second storey, wherein sit our “bedrooms” (alcoves possessing one window each and partitioned by quilts and curtains). I have transformed my alcove, known as “Scarborough Fair”- each room has a song name based upon its characteristics- into a beautiful, dynamic, creative living space which I am intimately proud to call home. There is nothing in this space which I do not like… an amazing feat, for those who know me, and one which has taken diligent effort. Now, however, all I need is within sight, except for a full library and a functional computer to call my own. Thus, as Janina is home on vacation (Germany) I have the use of hers, and have been steadily transferring musical data into my mp3 player so that when sowing season comes I have numerous audio books and music files to explore as I garden. I most recently listened to Zadie Smith’s “On Beauty” while transplanting chamomile and rosemary and thyme in the tunnel, and disliked it. I felt that its treatment of human feeling was simplistic and its indulgence in transient emotion excessive. Additionally, the narrative did not reflect upon itself in a manner which provokes self-examination beyond a superficial level. In short, it does not deserve to call itself a novel, but it can be a book if it likes. This is all my opinion, of course, and I had recently read Milan Kundera’s “The Book of Laughter and Forgetting” while seated in front of the stove and drinking homemade herbal tea, so my level of comparison is fairly high. (Read this book, by the way, anyone who hasn’t!)
Well, I can hear Cassandra refilling the toilet paper box on the landing, and preparing breakfast, so duties call. Cassandra is the most newly arrived volunteer from the Netherlands (where, according to her boyfriend, all people are tall due to great nutrition- a statement which last night resulted in seven-way debate over the benefits and deceptions of Statistics as an objective science.) Today we hope to complete some Spring Cleaning Tasks in my garden as well as revisiting the old fifth century fort we stumbled upon yesterday during a storm. The cats were with us, so we did not linger.
