New Adventures & An Ode to Oscar Wilde

Monday, February 27th, 11:30pm, Somewhere in the West of Ireland, 2017

Dear Reader,

It’s easy to write about my hometown.

It’s the place I’ve lived in for my entire life, with the exception of last year; A year I spent writing a novel in Paris, knowing then that travelling to new places to write would become a recurring decision of mine.

This is the town,

where I often pass by a stone statue of Oscar Wilde. I greet him with what I hope is a low whisper. I thank him for writing ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’ and for making me laugh at times when I’ve been rattled with stress. 

Unfortunately, my voice is audible, even over the droning music of the street, so I raise an eyebrow to the puzzled faces and the quizzical pigeons around me; I am void of embarrassment because these daily interactions always make me smile.

I mutter a goodbye. It is always my native Irish goodbye (Slán Oscar, a stór, a dhil) and I’ve never truly understood why I’d choose to speak Irish to a wizard of the English language. Maybe it’s because the lyrical language of my childhood offers the most comfort. The poetry I’ve written in this language seems most endearing to wish someone well with.

These interactions often leave me with the will to write. I have always noticed that being in a certain place at a certain time can make me want to do nothing but write. Short stories have spun from the sunset over Mount Viso in Northern Italy, from the ‘o’ shaped mouths of tourists as they see the approaching Notre Dame cathedral of Paris, and from the poorly placed goats in the desert trees outside Marrakesh, Morocco.

Sometimes I wish I could sit inside someone else’s mind and peer out through their forehead  as if it were a window, because I would like to see how they see the world. I know that it would be completely different from anything I could ever imagine. No two people have ever read the same book, in the same way that no two people have ever seen the same city because we notice different things and we regard them in opposing ways. The work-shopping structure of a masters’ degree in creative writing would be perfectly satisfying to me, as there is something quite magical about the thought of someone who is willing to share a fragment of their mind with you, despite the barricades that might frame it.

Recently, I’ve been contemplating.

(Pfft… no way.)

I know! Who would’ve guessed it that I, the girl who’d illustrate snow in fifty different ways before settling on an adequate word to describe its magic, would’ve contemplated anything at all to begin with.

I’m joking, of course, because a writer has no fleeting thoughts.

This is simultaneously a gift and a peril. There is nothing sweeter than mentally painting fifty different feelings for snow to pass the time on a long bus journey, but such imagery can instantly turn your mind to a blizzard, especially when you’re supposed to be doing something else, like tidying your room or studying for a test.

            Nevertheless, I’ve been contemplating.

At first, I had thought about the deadlines. (Of course)

There are five weeks left until the end of this semester and my final year in University, so my mind is at its snowiest of storms, with exams to study for and essays to complete.

There are only five weeks left.

            But now, after I’ve applied for a job in Canada, and as I wrap up the last of my masters applications (because who knows which path I might take next year) I can’t stop thinking about how

there are only five weeks left.

There are five weeks left to think about what I’m going to miss most. I’ll miss the constant coffee scent; my boots clacking on the concourse; the rolling sound of suitcases on Friday evenings; pigeons cooing crescendo overhead; teachers who teach with enthusiasm; my friends’ cherry laughter; my battered school bag on one shoulder and a musical instrument on the other as I canter from class to class, living the year out of my locker.

            These memories form an image in my mind – The typical picture of immigration in Ireland in the 1950’s; A young lady gazing over the sea, definitely wearing a bonnet; Possibly sobbing into a doily; Definitely not talking on the phone (because how would that fit in with an authentic art work like this?) But, sometimes, I imagine that she is phoning a friend, so that she can talk about her options for next year. And, although the phone might be out of place, the girl is like my vision of a Paul Henry painting. Together, the frosty colours and the flickering brush strokes spell out ‘goodbye’.

            ‘Promise we’ll always be friends?’ she says, ‘Even if I move to Canada?’

Then, sometimes, my Paul Henry painting melts into the scene from Disney’s ‘Moana’, where Moana sings about travelling across the sea for a new and exciting adventure; hoping that that further shore is reachable from here, to quote Séamus Heaney. This tropical image spells ‘hello’, reminding me that leaving University behind is not a ‘goodbye’.

University is like the road trip before reaching your destination, or the pre-drinks before going into town for a night out. It seems like it might be the better part of the bigger picture, when in reality, adventures are ongoing. They will continue as I shuffle from masters applications to year long working contracts, even if I’m no longer cantering down the concourse and listening to the pigeons as they sing their Sunday songs.

To anyone who has not yet reached this point in their final year, cherish every moment that comes. I know that this is the clichéd wish that every older relative grants you at a family gathering right after they’ve told you how tall you’ve gotten since you were a baby, and after you’ve just spent the last ten minutes trying to remember who they are. But, even if you have know idea whether your relative’s name is Luke or John, listen to this John fellow. This Luke guy knows what he’s talking about.

Cherish every moment that comes, but then, cherish every moment that comes afterwards too. I like to think that it’s best to fall somewhere in between Moana and the girl in the Paul Henry painting. 

What might I say when I return home?

If I attend a year’s worth of classes, will I return with more words learned and new things to say?

What will I say to Oscar Wilde’s humble statue; the one I’ve spoken to all these years?

            I realise now, that I’ve already written about my home town. Moving to a new place, under new instruction, is what I need for my writing to improve.

Oh, but of course, it’s easy to write about my home town.

So, maybe I could write about somewhere new.

Ciao.

- Madame Mayreed x