The night’s dream: The whole Board, plus people from my past, all traveling around metropolitain Groton/New London in a huge van/cube van/camper van thing, drinking, doing drugs, having sex, and fighting cops.

My god! On the train to Dublin after flooding night morning rain sitting reading thinking lonling the Sun Almighty Sun busts out and the clouds grow white and blue sky and to my right is an Irish pot o’gold rainbow. I have seen the sun! I know that the world still lives on but the further north I roll the darker and greyer and uglier it gets. But that few scant moments of light sky blue sun rainbow lift me up up up and beyond these storm clouds from Hell!

(Letter to Megen, 1:40PM)
God fucking damn I’m lonely and bored on this train to Dublin. I’m bored of reading and logging my thoughts and writing and the batteries in my piece of shit Walkman just died, like my soul. She’s lost controooolll. Before I slip into obliv-Ian, I would kill to give you one more long, deep kiss. I miss you and see you everywhere.
I just left my relatives in this tiny backwards pissant backroad not even on the map town. One of my “cousins” owns a pub and they got me hammered. I look like shit and feel it, too, so no one will even ever talk to me unless it is travel questions, like the latest “Is this the Dublin train?” because I guess I look like a traveler.
I wrote this poem, if you will, in a pub in Galway, alone. {Reader, see Quays poem on 11/17/1989, if you want. I am not writing it here again.} Murphy’s is another kind of stout.
Everything is so green here and I finally caught glimpse of blue sky and sun, as it is always grey.
When my relatives started getting drunk, they talked much faster and it did not sound like English and I could not understand them, so they stopped talking.
I dream of home and can see everyone. I am about three days ahead of where I should be because I have to see my friend Maura in London real soon or I’ll go fuckin’ to pieces.
Rich gave me some crazy stone and his crystal neck-hanger-holder-whammyshamalammy to hold it in and it keeps me relatively sane. I am 5 hours ahead of you guys so I have to wait to figure out where people are and then I grab the stone thru my shirts and layers and just hold on a picture them and I can actually see them, like I saw Relics in the basement last night.
Come get me.
In Galway, I hooked up with some potheads and they got me baked on hash. I thought it was resin at the time. They roll jibbers that are like three papers long and pretty thick because the shit is so shitty it takes that much to get you high.
I eat once a day, dinner, and that usually is not much.
By the time this reaches you, I should be in Manchester, England.
See you soon.
PS…Dublin sucks. I’m already waiting for a bus to a ferry to Liverpool, putting me six days ahead of schedule.

Dublin could not be any lamer if it tried. Changed cheque into cash and straightaway to the ferry people. Two pints in The Harp and small talk with some normal-type young guy. I actually saw a mirror. Oh man, I’m looking pretty sick.

Into the ferry bus train station and a pumped up postcard to Dolph. In walks a 19 year old girl with a white kindda bridal wedding type hat on. Not a veil, but, a strangely formal hat. Compliment the hat and we are instant friends, sharing smokes and complaints about the Republic. Crystal blue perfectly rounds eyes and short hair, overalls and Doc Martins. She lives in Belfast and compares the two cities. No comparison. Smokers cough of Hell passed off as pneumonia, she reads poetry and listens to Cocteau Twins and Pink Floyd. Smoke head? I don’t dare ask. Brown leather jacket, beat to shit and old is all she has to keep her warm and she reads poetry and buys my last stamps from e to mail postcards to her friends back home, where she is bound.

What seems like days and weeks and years is only two and a half hours and I am on the top layer of 2x layer bus, front left seat and the adventure continues. Man and son sit very rear. Son is having a lesson on money. “90 and a half.” But soon Pops grows bored and asks if the kid wants to go to sleep but like all kids, no.

This is so sick! 40’ in the air on roads of city design! Every bump is exaggerated. I hope the boat isn’t like this.

All the crazy professional traveling youngsters are here. They search kicks and I search Truth. The difference.

From what I have seen, these boats are no Cross Island Sound Cape Henlopen toys. These things mean business. Aircraft carrier size!

Trendy fuckers. “Daddy, send more cash. We make friends everywhere”, said with dizzy smile and eyes slightly out of focus and head swaying back and forth.

Luxury Liner comfort barge. Not Love, but Stranger Boat. This thing is incredible and for only £20! Large safety zone buffer areas surround each person or clique. Walkmen breakout and books amongst the singles and I am the only one writing. Pub rug, comfortable seats and couches around the walls and tables and a pleasant lighting, and warm! Hanging like loop-de-loop curtains mark the outside wall and pleasant voiced lady calling “Tommy Such and So, telephone call. Please report to the information desk.” Shiny like mirror metal stainless on ceiling for décor.

Holy shit! Jack just walked by! I am getting closer by the day to finding it, smoking butt like JK on way to just opened ship bar.

Irish women come in three flavors: Beautiful, cute, and stone ugly.

Meeting older people is easier than meeting the Youth because age brings Truth.

Watching the Irish-French 4-year old cute little spoiled girl go nuts on sugar and the already tired parents drinking pints grow even more tired but by god they keep giving her more sugar and wonder why they can’t control her.

The Youth safety margins filled in with older folks as time passed and we are under way.

Mother daughter and her son speak of dead relatives and eldest goes off when she hears I’m from CT. Long drawn out story of other daughter in Fairfield County w/ husband landscaping for Paul Newman and the Irish mother of the young sugar daughter visited Uncasville. All from spreading joy in the form of 20 free smokes to the daughter of the elder mother and even as far as matches to a cigar smoking horny father groping the mother while the son tries to remain blind to it. Oh, what that must be doing to his young head. Elder mother just gave me a sandwich and, joy! Truth and all comes full circle.

The boat begins to reel and I can’t wait to see the drunk’s reaction!

Bitter. What is this bitter feeling I have for people involved in living their own lives? Where did it come from and why? Loneliness? Spend spend spend on beer and things they can’t afford and video games even worse and more violent than those in America and drawn to the telly and food if it is available but why? £2.50 on a cheeseburger for a stuffed 10 year old, who, by the way, took two bites and threw it out! He told me he’s been smoking since he was 5 but changed his story and said that he had a cigarette which he showed me and said it was for a 17 year old friend who was stowed away upstairs. Bad, bad kids.

3:40AM and JK and party just got fresh pints of lager. I, eating a sandwich, realize that I do not need sleep. Christ, if Kerouac was Irish I would swear that this guy in front of me was him! Slumped over on couch and you would swear Ginsberg was sitting next to him, but isn’t.

In Wales, en route to Liverpool! 4AM. Bus driver is very skinny youngerish guy drinking tea. How did I with drug helmet get thru customs without a glance and innocent old man gets stopped? Kerouac and Ginsbergette are on this bus. All other backpacker trendies are going to London. Fuckers. Lame-os.

The Moon! I can see stars!! My god, am I happy.

Holyhead is the same as Ireland.

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