Tapping Into Ancestry

​In Ireland, I better understand how Irish I am. My Irish roots grow outwards. Stemming from the abundant ground. The green earth full of magic. My ancestors buried in the dirt still tripping out on ancient magic mushrooms.

There’s something about the way of storytelling here. These folks are wide-eyed dreamers with an appreciation for the Bardic tradition. It’s beyond magical realism. These folks still see faeries and forest elves. They hear the songs of their elders coming in the wind or down the ripples of a stream. In Brú na Bóinne, there was this thing that was marked “phallic stone” in its glass case, but I swear I saw an actual unicorn horn. And I wasn’t the only one.

Back in the US, I find myself becoming really attracted to indigineous tribes. I appreciate the stories of the Coyote. Tales of the Crow. Sacred animals. Sacred world. In the US, that’s more and more the only culture I can relate to. 

But here, in Ireland, I’m surrounded by my tribe. There’s plenty of Kavanaghs. Murphys too. I find my family names in all of the graveyards. I find them in memoriams for the Irish Revolution. I find them on the rectory walls of medieval churches. They’ve been living and dying here for millenia.

Except for the later Christian influence, these tribes are not that much different from the Lakota or the Navajo. There’s plenty of old spirits swimming around in all that green. Pagans running around shirtless. Painted faces, gobbling psychedelics. Really seeing the world around them. Really understanding it. Having an oral tradition. Here the Crow only have an Irish accent, but they still fly west with the sun, usually leading to some sort of doorway or secret portal to the netherworld. Here the Deer still come out to greet a humble traveler and point them towards safe shelter.

At home, I ride my bike around and sing to myself unconsciously. Not words, but sounds. Usually, I think I’m scatting like Fela Kuti. But here that’s called lilting and it’s existed as long as the Celts had instruments. A mixture of beatboxing and mimicking instrumentation. Even the drums have pitch shifts with taught skins. I’ve already stumbled upon a native drum circle. It wasn’t a hippy sort of gathering. More of a session at a pub, with dancers and other musicians.

Back home, I’ve often felt strange. I’ve often found my imagination feeling oppressed or otherwise derided. Maybe the English rule, repelled from Ireland, moved onto the Americas. There’s so many visible signs here of England’s attempts to strip these “savages” of their mysticism. It reminds me of many of my much more petty experiences, of folks, who just can’t see beyond the 2D world they’re trapped in, and their responses to my being far out in my perceptions.

The older I’ve gotten and the farther out I’ve gone, the more I’ve let my practical senses go. Having sense is not sensual. Everything out here is nonsensical. 

Too many folks busy themselves with being proper. And I’m just not wired that way. And now I see from where it stems. Even my superstitions. Or my inner revolts toward a square-ordered world. They’re not just mine, they’re in my heritage.

I lay my stones atop a rock of swirls to charge in the sunset. I meditate on the green hill and close my eyes looking inward. I become one with these savages. They are my brethren. In the dark, I begin to see the night, and realize it was always this way, even in the daytime. The Dreamer is always awake. Only boring people not of this separate plane would try to tell the Dreamer that he’s only sleeping. Only they would be ignorant to the true boundlessness of reality. 
The Sleepers recklessly sleeping and not learning to dream.

Those types of folks live here in Ireland, as well. But so far, as far as I can tell…there are less of them.

Tapping Into Ancestry

A Poet’s House in Cambridge


In Cambridge there is a house built on poetry.
Its walls comprise verse questioning reality and encouraging a move away from the norm.
Its roof beams hold the deep thoughts of a zen yogi.
Its floor bears the weight of the rain in the spring or the dew at dawn on mountaintops.
Step on it’s stoop and you stand tall on the absolute truths of creation
Smile and be productive.
Follow your heart and dream.

Its builder was a mighty dream laborer
Who years ago took his pen off the page and onto the wooden fence.
And from there gathered more energy
Spiraling out wider in his artistic sweep
Until the whole property was turned over in an expansive leap.
Minds altered
and the whole neighborhood enveloped in the psychedelic color of this grand cottage
this grand poet’s house
grand venture in an otherwise tight-knit portion of town
Where the benches don’t even allow bums to get some sleep
And traffic is mainly tourists from other countries seeking the lore of Harvard.

A Poet’s House in Cambridge