I was on the Skype this morning with my sweetie and I heard drums and cheering outside my window. Hold on a minute, I said, and ran to the terrace to see...these sort of gondolas racing side by side, oarsmen stroking away to the accompaniment of drums beating out the time. They raced to the bridge then began again.
I think they raced to the James Joyce Bridge...or perhaps the Sean O'Casey. I was told last night there is a Samuel Beckett Bridge under construction. If they really want it to be perfect, they should never finish it.
I had an encounter with Joyce himself last night (or a reasonable facsimile). Over on the Temple Bar, one of the "living statues" was recognizable as Joyce, and probably standing near some place that was mentioned in Ulysses.
I was rather pleased that someone chose to be a living statue of a literary figure, and stopped to watch as he slyly tapped his foot on his standing box, making a booming sound that made the tourists jump. (I am not a tourist. I am a visiting artist!) I dropped a euro in his bucket and he sprang to life and snapped open his book and said: here, take a bit of my book. And I pulled out a slip of paper and asked if I might take a picture, and he said yes, in a manner that was much more charming, I am sure, than the original.
I looked at my slip of paper and it read:
Episode 7. Aeolus (The Newspaper)
Before Nelson's pillar trams slowed, shunted, changed trolley, started for Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Conskea, Rathgar and Terenure, Palmerston Park and upper Rathmines, Sandymount Green, Rathmines, Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Harold's Cross. The hoarse Dublin United Tramway Company's timekeeper bawled them off:
- Rathgar and Terenure!
Come on, Sandymount Green!
And in a flash I saw old Dublin, with the streetcards going up and down O'Connell Street, and people climbing on and off and I heard the clanging of the bells and thought, now this is a city.
Beckett crossed my path as well yesterday. I did a tour of the Shelbourne Hotel, newly refurbished. In their reception area are two large murals on opposite walls: both of Vladimir and Estragon; both paintings of famous productions of the show...they told me the names of the actors.
Beckett also made the papers with a scheme by the Abbey to mount Godot (or GODot as they call it here, as opposed to GodOT where I'm from) in 40 towns in Ireland. The press conference was interrupted by a heckler who begged to differ from the official story of how it all began, and there it was on the second page of the newspaper this morning.
Last night's adventures included a stop at the Chester Beatty Library to look at ancient manuscripts (not that I could even make out a bit of the writing on the fragments of the earliest extant books of the Bible...my four years of Ancient Greek at UMBC was a pretty long time ago!) But I adored the illuminated manuscripts, and the huge green lawn out front behind a stone gate on the precincts of Dublin Castle.
And dinner at the aforementioned Shelbourne with Paul, where we feasted on oysters and champagne (at least I did), asparagus pistachio soup, a rack of Wicklow lamb, and accompanying wines. I had a lovely Italian pinot noir that smelled like bananas, and a strong Italian red, a blend, from le Marche (see! I edited Frommer's Italy! And MTV Italy!)
They gave us some lovely chocolates and bonbons when we told them we could not stay for coffee & dessert. I raced down Grafton Street (which I can't walk down without thinking of the Nanci Griffith song "On Grafton Street") and I was too late for the curtain of "Best Man" at the New Theatre. (I booked a matinee for Saturday so I can still see it). So that's when I had my encounter with the estimable Joyce, and handed out more postcards.
I made it back in plenty of time to see Steven Fales's Mormon Boy, It played a long run in NYC and I never got to see it there, but finally did here. Steven and I had run into each other earlier in the day (twice) and I kidded that I am his stalker. (The festival volunteer who introduced the show is the same one I've had four consecutive nights, so I'm his stalker, too).
I loved Steven's beautiful piece about growing up a 6th generation (DNA) Mormon and struggling against being gay; having a family; and finally allowing himself to be himself. And a voice still telling him that he was loved for who he was. It's a very polished and beautifully theatrical piece, and well-done. He's performed it all over, and published it as a book. The Dublin audience was alive and caring, and he reached them completely. Though there was SOMEONE to my left whose iPod was still on through the first part of the show, and constantly playing pop music at a level just loud enough to hear, until Steven said from the stage: does someone have a radio or phone on? Would you please check? We have a long journey tonight, and I'd like to be able to take you along fully. And the dude (who was sitting immediately to my left!) turned off his music. And the rest of the piece went swimmingly.
It's a journey I'm most interested in; a lot of the writers I know and care about are people who grew up in houses where the religion was strong and oppressive. (One of my favorite DCW nights was "Come to Jesus Speech" with Rich Merritt (Bob Jones U & USMC); Marty Hyatt (who grew up in a charismatic evangelical church) and Angela Himsel (Church of God). The religion can break someone, or they can see through the structure and still have some kind of faith (and artistry).
When I ran into Steven at the info center yesterday, I asked where he lives and he said Salt Lake City, and I asked why, and he said my children are there, and I said of course, and I said, but isn't it still so difficult? And he said, I feel like the creator has a purpose for us all. Which I can't disagree with. So far I've seen in this festival a reference to the Great Lesbian Goddess, a drag queen dressing up for his wedding, and a gay Marine wearing the dogtags of a dead buddy (that was in real life). Rich Merritt (who guest hosted DCW last night in NYC for me) sent word to Jeff, the Marine: Semper Fi. (I am also wearing my dogtags at the festival, given to me by the lovely Tina. They are stamped with a quote from Beckett: I can't go on. I'll go on.)
And, of course, last night at the George, where I was distributing postcards and having a conversation with an impossibly young boy and his drag queen friend (who promised to put me on their Bebo pages) they were playing George Michael's "Faith."
There's something brewing in the subconscious right now...we'll see what kind of thing grows from it. Next year in Dublin?
Oh, this is a bit of the lyrics from "On Grafton Street"
"The buskers sing by candle light
In front of Bewley's Store,
And a young nun offers me a chair
At a table by the door.
And I feel compelled to tell her
Of the sisters that we knew,
How when they lit their candles
I'd say a prayer for you."
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