imkittymyers at hotmail dot com
Saturday, March 17, 2007
CÉAD MÍLE FÁILTE
Whenever I begin to romanticize those charming Irish cottages, I think of this ...
Above all—we were wet.
From October to April the walls of Limerick glistened with the damp. Clothes never dried: tweed and woolen coats housed living things, sometimes sprouted mysterious vegetation. In pubs, steam rose from damp bodies and garments to be inhaled with cigarette and pipe smoke laced with the stale fumes of spilled stout and whiskey and tinged with the odor of piss wafting in from the outdoor jakes where many a man puked up his week’s wages.
Angela's Ashes, by Frank McCourt
May you live as long as you want, and never want as long as you live.
Happy St. Patrick's Day!