2005-04-07 - 10:12 p.m.
I'm sitting here behind a Guinness and a newly repaired laptop - one of my major victories on this vacation.
I once wrote a paper about a glass of Guinness for an English class - it really sucked. The class was among the things that started me on the path to a growing interest in writing and it helped me improve my skills greatly.
But the paper still sucked.
I've been thinking about what I would write now, if I were to write about a glass of Guinness, but haven't had enough time to really give it thought, so I'm still not sure.
The best pint I have ever had was in a little pub in Cambridge, England. I'm sure I could top it, if I could get to a pint in Dublin, but that probably won't happen for a while.
It's best off the tap; no bottle or can will ever do the quality of a Guinness justice. I love to watch it just after it's been poured - it's like watching a dark snowstorm in a glass.
The taste is bitter, but feels right to me; within the bitterness there is a smooth quality that has to be patiently waited upon.
Something about holding the pint takes me back to a time before my life began. I imagine hearty Irish warriors, ripe with sweat, quaffing great draughts of Guinness and swapping tales loudly in their roguish tongue. They were men who did not fear death and lived by the sword.
Ah ha! Finally, I come to something I can write about. Have you ever thought about how you would prefer to die, given the choice? I was asked this question in Anthropology class, by the professor, and at the time I thought I had a pretty good answer though it was off the cuff. And then, the professor floored me and made me feel stupid and passionless - not that he intended to, it just happened that way.
He said, "I would choose to die in battle."
No shit.
I said something about dying peacefully after having achieved my life's goals, but...boy was I wrong. His statement hit me hard, right in the balls and I sat breathless for just a moment.
Yes...this is how I wanted to go too.
On a field of battle, torn and battered, covered in blood and sweat, beneath the hot sun I'd be standing with sword in hand. My last moments would be spent in a desperate struggle, steel to steel, muscle against muscle and the clash of two wills - fighting for life. I would die because my enemy found that one opening or had that ounce more of strength and as I went, he would salute my effort and I his.
I would die knowing that I had fought to cling to life, with every ounce of my being.
I need to explore this further and write it fully...by Crom.
