Throwing Stones

an essay

         They pulled a body out of the water yesterday. Around 11:30 am, the news said, people saw a body falling from the cliffs down into the icy sea. The Garda came, as did the Irish Coast Guard, and they pulled the floating corpse out of the ocean. They had identified the man but hadn’t released his name or whether it was an accidental or intentional fall. Regardless, if it cleared the cliffs completely, propelling itself far enough out as to avoid the bulky extremities of the cliffs, which an intact, floating body might suggest, the drop could have been over seven hundred feet and would have taken a little over seven seconds with the body reaching speeds of over 100 miles per hour. If it didn’t clear the cliffs though, it would have bounced and banged its way down, accelerating and decelerating, only to find a cold and short refuge in the Atlantic before the cruel waves would only continue the beating against the rocks, the bottom of the cliffs, hard. A beautiful place to die but hardly comfortable.
         There was nothing else about him in the weeks after. No name released. New searches brought up a new man, a new face, last seen in his car around the Cliffs of Moher in early June. It is July now. A young man, likely jumped to his death. I learned that this wasn’t uncommon. People go missing at and around the cliffs fairly often. While there are no statistics—at least not that I could find—of how many people die at the cliffs each year, by suicide or accident, a quick Google search with keywords such as “suicide,” “dead,” or “jump” brings up quite a few hits, links, and stories. There’s even a sign up on the cliffs asking people if they “need to talk?” with a number provided to call.
         Because it is easy to jump there. The barriers aren’t really barriers at all. Instead, they are short stonewalls characteristic of the Irish countryside built about 15-20 feet from the edge of the cliffs. The prescribed path is between this wall and a wire fence. It is cramped and narrow and each oncoming person causes me to tuck in my arms or turn sideways and suck in my stomach hard. To the right is the more worn path. A wider path, it’s the one most people take when exploring the cliffs, the path that is technically forbidden because the ground is dusty and eroded and weathered. On the very edge, the ground is broken. People walk on top of the worn rocks overhanging a long emptiness. It is no exaggeration, no cliché, to say that one false step would be fatal because there is nothing stable about the cracks and dips at the twisting and turning edge. Before stepping on to the path, we all notice a sign: “In memory of those who have lost their lives at the Cliffs of Moher.”
         “That’s probably to scare people into staying on the path,” one of us in the group says.
         It worked for us, at least for a little. We stick to the narrow path for the first couple hundred yards out onto the cliffs. We slowly make our way up to a point on the cliffs that juts out into the ocean, safely with what appears to our novice eyes to be a strong structural foundation of rock underneath. We hop over the short stonewall and now there’s no wall between us and the 700 feet fall. It feels no different.
         “You’d definitely die on impact,” Connor says. We all agree. But we aren’t thinking about dying really, at least I’m not. The brain and body do a funny thing when they are that high up and that close to the edge. They scheme together and take in the beauty of the waves, the view out into the ocean, the sight of the small ferryboat rocking around in the water with tourists seeing the cliffs from an alternative view. Usually scared to death of heights—even a ladder or stepstool can make my legs shake—my brain and body remain normal. I am disconnected from the real possibility that something could happen and I could be falling and bouncing and booming just like that man who killed himself or the others who kill themselves every year and even the ones who fall unintentionally because they slipped or because it’s gusty up there.
         There’s a casualness with which we treat the cliffs. A certain complacency, a lack of respect for the geological structure we stand and meander atop. We chat about things I don’t remember, about how beautiful it is, about how it’s surprisingly less windy on top of the cliffs than it was by the gift shops, about how freaking awesome it is to be standing where we are right now.
         My friend Katie and I sit on a ledge with another shelf about four feet below it. We pose for pictures, some smiling, some looking out into the distance and some laughing with each other. As we do this, Eli drops down to the shelf and puts his hands on the ledge we are sitting on and latches onto the rock with his arms. He twists his face into one of faux fear and strength as Connor takes his photo, making sure to exclude any sight of the ledge Eli stands on. It needs to look real. We all laugh and the photo turns out great. It really looks like he’s hanging there, gripping onto the rocks for his life. In this moment, I don’t know about the man who jumped, or the other man who may have jumped. I would learn that a few days later. Now, I imagine if we had known we would have acted differently with less complacency for our own lives and more respect for geology and wind and gravity.
         We linger here for a while longer, throwing small pebbles off the edge only to find that the strong wind just off the edge of the cliffs causes many of them to come right back at us. We learn that if you launch the stone in a spinning motion it’s most likely to come back at you and your friends’ faces. Others, thrown cleanly out, slightly spring back, as if attempting to get back on to land only to fall and hit the side of the cliffs and tumble down. We spend a few minutes doing this, laughing and picking up more rocks. Still sitting on the ledge, my body has a hard time letting me throw the rocks at full force as if using all the strength in my arm would somehow cause my body to fly out in that same wind, hit the side of the cliffs and tumble down. My momentum scares me. My legs begin to cramp up, the usual effect heights have on me. I need to not be sitting on this ledge. Slowly I get myself up and I scurry a few feet back on to stable ground. Relieved and safe now. Bodies aren’t like small stones because they don’t blow back.

From summer 2015. 

On Belfast, an excerpt

The sixteen of us were used to Irish bus rides on roads that never seemed wide enough. We would doze in and out, feeling guilty for sleeping instead of staring out into all that, the sheep like sleepwalking ants walking up and down the steep hillsides; the innumerable shades of green; the weather that changes too quickly from sun to sideways rain to something in-between. We grew used to it all because we were in these buses too much that summer.

It is a two-hour bus drive from Dublin City Centre to Belfast City Centre. One hundred and two miles or one hundred and sixty-five kilometers. We were crossing a disputed border into a disputed land, but you wouldn’t notice it from the drive unless you were looking for it. I was too tired to sleep so I was looking for it. I saw no border control, no slowing down, no passport presentation. Instead, the lines on the road changed from yellow to white, the kilometer disappeared, signs were only in English. Welcome to Northern Ireland the sign didn’t say and don’t forget, Welcome to the United Kingdom. Enjoy your stay.

Close to the city, British flags. Strewn over streets, glued to windows, flying outside homes, these Union Jacks mark Britishness, Protestantism, Unionism, Loyalism, of all these words we use to differentiate Northern Irish ideology, words on one side of The Northern Irish Binary. From the bus, all of this wakes me up. From the bus—because it seems to always be from the bus—we watched the subjects of that lecture from July 27th when the whole thing was laid out for us in easy terms. Through the dusty windowpane, they become fuzzy zoo animals used to the busloads of students, the new influx of tourists snapping photos of the murals, flags, segregation, them. They are white and I can’t tell if they are Protestant or Catholic. I can’t figure out if they are the murderers and bigots we learned about. Maybe they are the sons and daughters of IRA men or UFF men or maybe they are peaceful people, somewhere in the middle of all this, praying for harmony, not just for the two sides to get along but for the two sides to become one people.

Few people will say that Belfast is a beautiful city. The majority is mostly right. There is too much concrete and the sky is always grey. A port city on the eastern side of the island, Belfast thrived on industry into the early twentieth century. Shipbuilding and linen making brought capital and labor to Belfast making it one of the most industrious cities in Europe at the time. The industries fell and the rest of the twentieth century was defined by conflict, World War I, the Irish Revolution, the Civil War, the Irish Partition, and the Troubles, with small periods of peace in-between. Belfast slid into economic despair.

 By the docks, the two yellow gantry cranes rule the Belfast sky. Called Samson and Goliath, they still function today, they still build ships. They are a sign of a prosperous past, industrial instruments with symbolic importance, bright in the sky. At interfaces, the peace walls are still there, too. These symbolic in a different way, functional in a different way. The gates on these walls close at six each night and remain closed on the weekends. If you want to blow something up across the wall or if you want to murder somebody, you just need to take another route or make sure it’s before six on a weekday. Since the peace agreement was signed in 1998, they have grown tall, taller and taller to protect homes from flying objects, flying war. Protective metal cages adorn houses close to the wall. These barriers remain in Belfast because the people want them to stay, because they feel safer with them. Belfast is not Berlin.

The architecture of the city is a mix of old and new, not as a design trend, but as a result of the rebuilding that occurs when a building is blown to pieces by paramilitary groups and the concrete and cement gets all mixed up with broken body parts and burnt t-shirts. One must bury and one must rebuild.

From a larger memoir piece on my experience in Belfast and Dublin in Summer 2015. Informational footnotes omitted. 

On Eating Alone: The Pintxo

It is not something I do often or something I do well. I have little experience in this field and therefore little comfort in it. I can’t help but remember the interaction between Rachel and Phoebe on Friends where Rachel says, “I just think I'd feel really self-conscious, you know? Like I was on display or something,” to which Phoebe responds, “I was on display once. Nothing like eating alone.” In that way I am like Rachel: I feel self-conscious, as if everyone is watching me, analyzing my table manners, judging my food and clothing choices and most of all making snide remarks about my solitude.

The problem is that when I decided to travel to Spain for three days after studying abroad in Ireland for the summer, I also embarked on a weekend of eating alone. Before I left for Spain I was determined to be okay with eating alone. I asked my friends about the etiquette of it all, if I could bring a book, if I could write in my notebook, or if I could use my phone when my food came. They answered my questions and assured me that I would be okay and I would get the hang of it.

It is now my second full day of eating alone in San Sebastian, a small coastal city in the north of Spain in a region known as País Vasco, or the Basque Country. Perhaps one of the most beautiful places I have ever been, San Sebastian, and the entire Basque region, is known for the pintxo. The pintxo is a type of food that deserves its own essay but I will do my best here to describe it. The Basque equivalent of the Spanish tapas, pintxos are small finger food usually with any combination of anchovies, shrimp, smoked salmon, prosciutto, goat cheese and an assortment of veggies, roasted and raw. Usually served a top a bruschetta type piece of toasted bread, the pintxo is a visual masterpiece fit for a foodie. But the pintxo is more than the food itself, it is the practice of eating it that makes it special (and has caused me to write an entire essay on eating the pintxo alone). Pintxos are served at bar of restaurants where there sit plates and plates of food (health code be damned!). The practice is as follows: You walk into the bar and ask for a plate; from there you take what you like from any plate you like; depending on the place and depending on if you want to eat at the bar of if you want to eat outside at a tall bar table you either begin eating or you show the barman what you haven chosen and he counts it up and tells you the damage.

So what is the problem with specifically eating pintxos alone? First, the practice is to have a few pintxos and a drink, pay, and then go to the next bar where you repeat it all again. It is not relaxing nor do I believe it is supposed to be. The bars are usually packed with people all standing around eating so you have to fight to get to the bar and then at that point you are stuck with the plates in front of you when perhaps you want something somewhere else. Now I admit all of these things would be the same if I happened to be with people. However, my solitude heightens the discomfort of this. There is no sitting down and enjoying my food in these places. There is no savoring the flavors for me. Instead there is me at the bar, unsure of the proper pintxo etiquette asking ¿cómo trabaja esto? how does this work? to the bartender. My plate is too big to fit on the bar among all the other plates and I don’t really know which way to face. What do I do with my body? Outside, couples and groups of friends occupy all the standing tables and inside families occupy all the sitting tables. I stand at the bar, moving left and right to allow people access to the different plates. I watch couples and families come in and fill plates full of pintxos to be devoured along with lively vacation conversation. When my plate is empty I get the bartender’s attention and tell him what I ate, pay the bill and leave.

I did not prepare for this type of solitary eating.  On my first night I went to four of these places, eating one or two pintxos at each place. I love the pintxo—she is tasty and light and fresh—but by the end of the night I longed for the sit down tapas restaurants of Barcelona and the rest of the world. I don’t care if people are watching me eat alone as long as I can sit down and read a book or the newspaper or write in my notebook. As long I cannot be jostled and bumped into as I stand uncomfortably at the bar. Eating alone is nothing like eating the pintxo alone. 

Leah's Guide to the Second City (New York City)

     New York City is not for me. I daytripped last Saturday with a friend, and I have confirmed that it is not The Greatest City in the World or The Center of the Universe like many arrogant New Yorkers like to assert to us Chicagoans. It reminded me of Vegas. Granted we were dropped off in Times Square but still, my first thought was 'Wow, this is like Vegas all over again.' I do have to note that it was also 45 degrees and rainy and the First Saturday in December which must be a holiday or something in Manhattan. Yeah, that probably had something to do with it. My curiosity for the Second City is pretty much all gone but I did learn some valuable lessons that day: 

1.  Have a plan. Maybe, you know, ask people what to do before you go? 
2.  Do not think there won’t be a line at FAO Schwarz on the first Saturday in December. There will be.
3. Rockefeller is cool, I guess. 
4. There will a line at Starbucks, too. But when you're there you can chat up some cute older couple wearing Navy gear and learn about their grandson who went to the Naval Academy and wanted to fly planes but is colorblind and isn't sure what he wants to do. 
5. Beware of umbrellas. Especially short people carrying umbrellas. They will not realize that their umbrellas hit you right at eye level. They also don’t realize that umbrellas are wider and taller than them. Beware of the umbrellas wars.
6. Don’t wear Converse even if you have inserts in them. They aren’t good walking shoes, especially when you’re jumping over puddles. Also it's normal if the next couple of days the bottoms of your feet feel like the first layer of skin was pulled off. 
7. Be aggressive with cabs. If the cab has pulled up in an ambiguous position between you and another party, act like its yours unless they look like dangerous people. If that’s the case, just let them take the cab.
8. Bagel and lox will be expensive as hell but it’s completely worth it. 
9. Lastly, text your brother that you are in NYC because there's a chance that he might be there too and neither of you know that the other is there. 

Sideways

My Polysyllabic Spree

I am currently reading The Polysyllabic Spree by Nick Hornby (thank you, Harrison!). It's a nonfiction book of stories that Hornby wrote during his time at Believer magazine. All of his articles were about the books he had read/was reading. At the beginning of each chapter/article, he gives a list of books he bought in the last month and books he read in the last month. Long story short, I'm stealing that for my end of term reading recap. Because I'm creative I am including book lengths.  

Fall 2014

Books Bought/Acquired Via Loan
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens                         
Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen                                 
Belinda by Maria Edgeworth                                         
A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver 
Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded by Samuel Richardson     
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers
Here, Bullet by Brian Turner 
Drown by Junot Díaz
This Is How You Lose Her by Junot Díaz 
The Polysyllabic Spree by Nick Hornby

Books Read/ing
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens                         484
Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen                                 251 
Belinda by Maria Edgeworth                                         >500
Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded by Samuel Richardson    >500 
A Poetry Handbook* by Mary Oliver 
This Is How You Lose Her by Junot Díaz                       240
The Polysyllabic Spree by Nick Hornby                          141

*I even got $3 back when I sold it back to my college bookstore! 

In the Meantime: a Poem

Songs That Stick With Me

It's fourth week. Which for those unfamiliar with the Carleton system, we name our weeks. The first week is called first week. The second week is called second week. There are ten weeks. If you're keeping up with me, you'll realize that that means I'm almost 40% done with my term. But, if you're following, you'll soon realize that this post has little to do with it being fourth week and more to do with the music that I've been jamming to in the libray because it's fourth week. 

I recently discovered that you can create playlists on Spotify. Late to the game, I know. I've created quite the playlist and now I'm inspired to give you a list of the some of the songs that have stuck with me throughout my life. That means there won't be a song that's my favorite song right now because let's be honest in a week I'll be tired of it. They aren't the best songs. They just click. I jam to these. They are linked in no particular order. 

1. "I'll Be Missing You" by Diddy/P. Diddy/Puff Daddy/Sean Combs
2. "A Thousand Miles" by Vanessa Carl(e)ton 
3. "Changes" by Tupac
4. "Fast Car" by Tracy Chapman

'Til next time!

p.s. Happy Birthday, Dad! 

Reading and Writing

I have realized that there are too many books to read. I didn't read too much at school last year—maybe two non-school books a term. But I watched Scrubs and Scandal and other shows when I could have been reading. Now, I just don't have time to read or watch TV. Of course, now is the time that I have amassed quite a list of books I want to read. Which is funny because over the summer I commonly complained to my mom that I didn't have anything to read and did she have any suggestions. When I had the time, there were no books I wanted to read (okay, that's not true, I read more than 10 books over the summer). Now, I have no time and my list is growing longer. By the time I'm ready for bed, I'm too lazy to go to Netflix and choose a show, much less read a book. Not to mention that I just read Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded, a 500 page 18th century novel in two weeks for my English class. So I have been reading, just not what I want to read. That's college I guess. 

The Running List 
This Is How You Lose Her by Junot Díaz
The Polysyllabic Spree by Nick Hornby 

A Visit from the Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan 
Well that's all I can think of right now. 

I'm in a creative writing class which means two things for you. 
1. We read a lot of short fiction and eventually we will read non-fiction. I'll be posting stories I like—many of which are from The New Yorker. Read, don't read, whatever, I know you all have too much you want to read each day. But, if you have a strong reaction to something, let me know. 
My first recommendation: "The Cheater's Guide to Love" by Junot Díaz. 

2. I might be posting some of the short fiction I have written. So far I have only been working on one piece. Once I clean up some stuff I'll probably be posting that. Fiction isn't my thing but I maybe you'll like some of my stories. 

-Leah 

Tennis, Tennis, Tennis

It's been a tennis couple of weeks for me. I've played more tennis this week than I played in the last year and I've watched more of the U.S. Open than I'm proud of. I even ordered a pair of tennis shoes from Zappos. It all began when, as you read in detail in my long post, I read Andre Agassi's Open a few weeks ago. As an athlete, it was a fascinating look into "the loneliest sport." It re-opened my eyes to the game that I played recreationally as a child and into my teens but never seriously. And then the U.S. Open began and I was still riding the Open-high. I was quickly captivated. Serena's resurgence, Cece Bellis' run, Federer's Federer-ness, Wozniaki's post McIlroy break-up victories. I even got to see all these characters that I read about in Open: Brad Gilbert, Boris Becker, Darren Cahill, Michael Chang - all these people that I already liked or disliked because of Agassi.

I couldn't watch enough of the tennis... and I watched too much of it. In a few weeks I'll be back to caring little about tennis I'm sure but for now I've got the Women's final and the Men's semis and final. 

I'm taking Serena over Wozniaki, although (I think) I'm rooting for Wozniaki. It's an improbable run for a former number 1 who's only other Grand Slam final appearance was 5 years ago in the U.S. Open final where she lost. And Rory McIlroy dumped her in May - something that the commentators don't want us to forget. Hopefully it goes to 3 sets. As for the men's, I'm hoping for and betting on a Federer - Djokovic final. It's difficult to root against Federer but I feel the same about Djokovic. There's really nothing not to like about them. Federer is polite, humble, talented and getting older. Djokovic is enthusiastic, polite and only 27. He has perfectly groomed hair. But Boris Becker is his coach. Hoping for 5 sets with a Federer victory.

A quick rant: It's ridiculous that tennis (and golf) crowds have to be quiet during serves and points. When a batter is awaiting a 95 mph pitch in the batter's box, the crowd can scream and scream. The same is true for a shooter at the free throw line. I know it's tradition, but it's dumb and tennis players (and golfers) should be able to play even if spectators are yelling and cheering. 

And in typical NYT sports section fashion, writer Harvey Araton wrote a fascinating piece that wasn't actually about a match or game (because no one goes to the NYT to see what happened in a sporting event). In his article, "Weary of Pro Tennis Delays? Cry Into the Towel," Araton looks at the trend of the sweat towel in today's tennis and it's a great read. 

Watch on.