the irish in me.

in preparation for the scottsdale wedding just a week and a half away, my cousin (and brother of the groom) has taken to tanning each and every day. readying himself for the arizona sun.

i, on the other hand, have taken to covering myself in copious amounts of foul-smelling self-tanner, in recognition that my fair irish skin does not like to be burned. ever. but a little glow would be nice.

happy st. patty's day!

open gates.

the amusement park whistled around them. evening closing in.

they were on the outer edge. a pavilion overlooking the parking lot.

the gate unlocked, the soda machines flowing. someone else's mistake, their good fortune.

the end of a long day.

roller coasters and laffy taffy. the carolina sun. rolling hills.

her fifteen year old legs hung over the picnic table as she sat sipping stolen coke.

she wondered if love would always be like this: an unlimited supply of free coke and a young boy's hand just inches away from her own.

we were sitting on the couch when it happened. the discussion about religion.

i've been thinking a lot about faith lately. and belief. or disbelief, maybe. spirituality. and religion. mysticism. how these things differ. and how the semantics here is vital. or is it? where is the crossover among all these things--the delineations?

i can't really speak to what it means to be a catholic. all i can do is to speak to my own experience.

in reaching into my mind--drawing the memory blanket over those countless sunday mornings i remember doughnuts paid for with quarters, advent wreaths, and the luxurious robes of priests.

i remember kneeling on the plush, green velvet, my little arms struggling to make it to the top of the pew before me. i remember countless prayers and incantations. the ringing of the bells and my mother's fist as she lightly pressed it to her chest.

i am a product of my catholic upbringing. it is where my beliefs began--where they were shaped. and in thinking over all the details there are two sermons that stand at the foreground of my mind.

1. i remember the day the priest explained why it is we read the same passages again and again. because they are metaphors, he said. because they are not meant to be taken literally, because there is always more--more to learn, more to cull, more to interpret.

in falling in love with writing i feel understand the bible and the manner in which it came to be better than ever before.

a ride uptown.

the girl with the strange glasses sits directly across from me. sandwiched between two whole food's totes and reading bill bryson.

to her right is a beautiful indian woman with a man far too old for her. is this a date? is that a faint smile of adoration or despair?

in the crook of the doorway is a man sleeping standing up. his face pressed unnaturally against the subway window. he drops his soda can. then opens it. makes no motion to wipe the fizz from his puffy winter vest. sleep resumes. now the open soda can falls. he is slow to recover and an unnatural torrent of coca-cola makes its way across the car's floor.

the indian woman nudges the woman with the strange glasses. indicates she should mover her grocery sacks. bill bryson in hand the woman with in glasses migrates further into the subway car. the indian woman and {her date?} follow suit.

the man with the coke drinks what remains in the can. he doesn't care.

and train hurtles on, all of us in tow, past 168th street.