If walls could talk

I've always been fascinated by abandoned structures. When I see an empty domicile, my senses are flooded with ideas of what may have taken place to render the place forlorn and empty. So many stories rest within its walls and the researcher in me becomes curious to learn more about the place.

I live in a sleepy gated subdivision that has seen better days. The community isn't very old, but some of the structures have aged beyond their years due to neglect. A few streets down from me, an old house sits quietly amid the pines and brush. Its design reflects an era long before the community existed, which makes me think that this house was already here when the land was developed, and that the community simply built around it. I've lived here since September 2007 and I have never seen anyone taking care of the place, trash taken out for pick up, or the lights burning inside. The structure has character and looks like it could come out of a horror novel (or at least a really good ghost story). I love old houses, so this home has grown on me, but I'm still grateful that I live in a much newer place that doesn't have all of the classic problems that crop up in old homes. When I get my next roll of film developed, I'll have to add a picture of the house to this entry.

One place that continues to remain in my memory used to sit back from I-70, between Columbus and Dayton, Ohio. It was a 2-story brick house, its windows void of glass and panes, the roof nonexistent, and its interior completely destroyed. From the freeway, I could see timbers lying askance within the brick walls. As long as I can recall this place, I always wondered what happened to it to make it a silent reminder of the life that once dwelled inside. Was it engulfed in fire? Or was it simply vacated long ago, with no one to breathe new life into it, rendering it to the ravages of time and weather? Did the house contain love and happy memories? Did some human tragedy take place to cause the occupants to leave? The remnants of the house no longer stand, apparently razed several years back. I'm not sure when someone decided to put the poor thing out of its misery, I just know that it was still standing one day, and the next time I traveled that freeway, it was gone. I still wonder what happened to it.

Oh, the stories these dwellings hold!

The Two Trees

Nothing of significance is entering my mind today, but to stay in the habit of making regular entries, a Yeats poem will have to do. This work is one of my absolute favorites:

The Two Trees

Beloved gaze in thine own heart,
The holy tree is growing there;
From joy the holy branches start,
And all the trembling flowers they bear.
The changing colours of its fruit
Have dowered the stars with merry light;
The surety of its hidden root
Has planted quiet in the night;
The shaking of its leafy head
Has given the waves their melody,
And made my lips and music wed,
Murmuring a wizard song for thee.
There, through bewildered branches, go
Winged Loves borne on in gentle strife,
Tossing and tossing to and fro
The flaming circle of our life.
When looking on their shaken hair,
And dreaming how they dance and dart,
Thine eyes grow full of tender care:
Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.

Gaze no more in the bitter glass
the demons, with their subtle guile,
Lift up before us when they pass,
Or only gaze a little while;
For there a fatal image grows
With broken boughs and blackened leaves
And roots half hidden under snows
Driven by a storm that ever grieves.
For all things turn to barrenness
In the dim glass the demons hold,
The glass of outer weariness,
Made when God slept in times of old.
There, through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting thought;
Peering and flying to and fro,
To see men's soul bartered and bought,
When they are heard upon the wind,
And when they shake their wings; alas!
Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:
Gaze no more in the bitter glass.

My Bucket List

I was at Wal-Mart today getting a few disposable cameras developed. As I was waiting for my photos, I did my shopping and browsed around once done. I stopped by the media section and saw a trailer for "The Bucket List" play on the TVs on display. The film is about two men who are facing and realizing their mortality, so they make a list of things they would like to do before they die. It made me wonder what my list would look like if I created one for myself, and it would possibly look something like this:

1. Go to Egypt to climb to the top of a pyramid to watch the sun rise and set.

2. Travel to Ireland to explore the country.

3. Visit Machu Pichu.

4. Swim with dophins.

5. Tour the Arctic Circle.

6. Tour Alaska.

7. Go white-water rafting.

8. Go deep sea diving.

9. Tour the Hebrides and Orkney Isles

10. Earn my M.A. in English (a more realistic life-goal).

11. Write a novel and get it published.

12. Stay a weekend in a haunted castle.

13. Learn how to play the harp.

14. Actually read Eliot's "The Mill on the Floss" from start to finish. (I started the book a long time ago, but the book's pace is too slow for my liking...a perfect challenge for me)

15. Finally learn Algebra, understand it, retain what I've learned...all without having a nervous breakdown! (I'm horrible with math; my math anxiety is enough to make a psychiatrist see dollar signs for the amount of therapy I would require to overcome it.)

16. Learn the Gaelic language.

17. Ride the wildest rollercoasters in the U.S.

18. Learn to dance the Irish jig.

19. Learn how to play the bagpipes. (Boy, wouldn't my neighbors just love me!)

20. Take a cross-country hike across the U.S. from California to Maine.

21. Go storm chasing!

22. Go ghost-hunting.


What do you want to do in your lifetime?

Ailein Duinn: Faclan le Anna Caimbeul

Lately, I find myself listening to a lot of music as my mind wanders aimlessly rather than doing my favorite activities. I've been unable to snap out of this distracted state. The other day, I was listening to a CD that I hadn't listed to in a while; it had one of my favorite laments on it, sung in its native language: Gaelic. I love the language and even though I cannot understand the words without a printed translation in front of me, the expression and music get the point across.

There is a true love story that goes with this song: In the spring of 1788, Allan Morrison, a sea captain from the Isle of Lewis, left Stornoway to go to Scalpay, Harris, where he was to marry Annie Campbell. Unfortunately, they sailed into a storm and all the crew sank with the vessel. "Ailein Duinn" is the lament Annie composed.

The broken-hearted Annie wasted away through grief and died a few months afterward. Her body was washed ashore near where her fiance's was found.

I've always longed for a love that strong. My great-grandparents had that kind of love for each other. There is only one person who has elicited that kind of emotion in me. Hopefully, I'll get to see him again in the future.

Ailein Duinn (in Gaelic)

Gura mise tha fo eislean,
Moch 's a' mhadainn is mi 'g eirigh,
O hi shiubhlainn leat,
Hi ri bho ho ru bhi,
Hi ri bho ho rionn o ho,
Ailein duinn, o hi shiubhlainn leat.

Ma 's e cluasag dhut a' ghainneamh,
Ma 's e leabaidh dhut an fheamainn,
O i shiubhlainn leat,
Hi ri bho ho ru bhi,
Hi ri bho ho rionn o ho,
Ailein duinn, o hi shiubhlainn leat.

Ma 's e 'n t-iasg do choinnlean geala,
Ma 's e na roin do luchd-faire,
O hi shiubhlainn leat,
Hi ri bho ho ru bhi,
Hi ri bho ho rionn o ho,
Ailein duinn, o hi shiubhlainn leat.

Dh'olainn deoch ge boil le cach e,
De dh'fhuil do choim 's tu 'n deidh do bhathadh,
O hi shiubhlainn leat,
Hi ri bho ho ru bhi,
Hi ri bho ho rionn o ho,
Ailein duinn, o hi shiubhlainn leat.

Translation:

How sorrowful I am
When I rise early in the morning
O hi I would walk with you.
Hi ri bho....o ho,
Brown-haired Alan, O hi, I would walk with you.

If the sand be your pillow
If the seaweed be your bed,
O hi I would walk with you
Hi ri bho....o ho,
Brown-haired Alan, O hi, I would walk with you.

If the fish are your candles bright,
If the seals are your watchmen,
O hi I would walk with you,
Hi ri bho....o ho,
Brown-haired Alan, O hi, I would walk with you.

I would take a drink, though everyone would be scandalised,
Of your heart's blood after you were drowned.
O hi I would walk with you,
Hi ri bho...o ho,
Brown-haired Alan, O hi, I would walk with you.

William Butler Yeats

Yeats is one of my favorite poets. I enjoy his work for the complexities that lie within it. There are several poems which I adore. Lately, my mind has been on a person whom I care about very much. I haven't spoken to him in several years...I miss him and the influence he's had on me in the past. My creativity was at its most active when he was nearby and that creativity has been in a slump for the past few years as daily cares have taken over my mind. I wish I could reconnect with him again!

I think of him when I read the following poem, which I believe was intended for a woman who Yeats loved, but his affections were not reciprocated. I simply change the gender reference when I read it.

When You Are Old

When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.