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A Land Scape 

August 8, 2017

The landscape in Strandhill, County Sligo, Ireland is fantastic. This earth lives to seduce locals and visitors alike. The Marram Grass-covered mounds change overnight, every night, and all night. 

Marram Grass, the common name for Ammophila Arenaria, is the dominant species here. It is especially adapted by having deep roots that extend over a great area that help it live in such a hostile environment.  

The way the grass moves with each breath and the small changes in the mounds overnight; yes, this landscape is seductive. 

Creatures squirrel around beneath every surface. “Idiot. The creatures are the surface,” says Tiki. 

Tiki has spent the last few months lolling in the ancient mosses of Ireland. She is lazy, horny, and filled with ire. 

The pair of them wrestled inside a deep groove on the creature’s back. Their smoke and oils pressing whiskey into its moss. Following their smoke signals, I found a steaming hot gash. Immediately drunk and feeling sadly perverted, I put my hands down to capture some warmth and sandy snail smell under my nails. I went face first into the mound. I felt all its curves, indentations, and minor perturbations. The earth softened beneath me. My body sank deep into the mound creature until I was fully submerged. The creature worked slowly and diligently to cover me with a layer of rich soil, earthworms and slugs. I sensed in it an urge to keep me underground forever. 

The songbirds overhead argued among themselves about what advice to give. The bored rooks looked for surplus bread. The gulls didn’t figure into the conversation. And the crows, not quite enough for a murder, looked down tsk tsk tsk ing the scene. 

“Don’t horde the sex. Some beasts are meant to be desired forever and never touched. Leave it.”  

“But this beast is a friendly one.” 

The mound creature invites us to Benbulbin’s Spring Awakening, an annual fest that brings all of Ireland’s creatures out of hibernation and into the possibility of love. 


As always and since 1985, the only decent Smith’s tune closes out the night. Leaving half-way through how soon is now is a signature move. Always leave them wanting more. So, standing along the seaside we share a clove cigarette each remembering the last time. Before taking the penultimate drag, one question.

“Where did I leave my shell?”

I don’t remember taking it off. Did I give it to Gigajoy, that hysterical Portuguese whale? Maybe dropped it somewhere along the Grand Canal in Venice? Flipping Herv. Maybe atop Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh?

“In the grass behind the Hostel?”

There’s a club if you’d like to go. You could meet somebody who really loves you.

“You know that the snails thrive in Strandhill’s Marram Grass.”

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