Something strange happens to me on this land. My eyes get greener, my hair stays in braids. I take on the appearance of something half woman, half creature. Giggling, dancing. Walking becomes an urgent rite, as if my feet need to reach all four corners of the country. I start to see shapes in the trees and bushes, trunks weaving into twisted waists, whistling in the wind like strange women. Nymphs emerge from lichen patterned bark, winking out at these bright distances. Peering over babbling brooks, the water rippling in perfect spirals. An impressive reminder of the non linear nature of reality.
Ireland. My land.
Even in the streets, there is a beat, a drum, a beckoning. The rainwater, cobblestones and clapping feet seem to form an orchestra. Accompanied by the sing-songy voices of its inhabitants. We visit sides, fairy mounds, battle grounds, burial spaces. When I go to sleep, the earth seems to coddle me with a heavy tenderness.
The earth reconfigures in front of you, like a story that was never told. It’s language -an inexhaustible thread, weaving, creating, callibrating matter on the pathway ahead moment to moment. Shaping as it is told. Pastures of rumpled mushy volumes and brilliant greens seem to exist without beginning or end. Their indefinite distances peer back at me in an intimate complicity. Recurrent and immutable, unmoving, striking. Immune to the lies of man.This plain was once wilder than it is now, a place containing inconceivable power and majesty. Raised by Rebels. Pirates. Fighters. Masters of the Sea and Land. Run down by a war without conclusion-ongoing- its mystery shrouded by the solemn and cubic structures of the Church. This pain is felt like a nuclear ripple, sounding out from inside the earth. The non linear nature of time impresses a constant reminder of this poorly disguised mystery, every sacred site a stones throw away from the Roman Catholic Church. I heard they built over the oak trees, the elder trees, the holly trees. Attempted to form a monopoly over the inherent magic and its existing geometry. These priests, and their Babylonian Witchcraft, promised this land salvation. Configured prose of half truths, struck down trees for steeples. Dressed in ostentatious tablecloths, turning bodies into food and wine into blood. Spewing lengthy descriptions of hell, sacrifice, and ornate exhibitions of the mutiliation of a savior. The irregular Sun, a blazing chasm, is infrequent, but when it impresses its light onto these hills, I swear, I swear they are singing.