July 6, 2010
To Norwich by train. I had my feelers out for vestiges of Lady Julian, but Norwich is no more mystical today than anywhere else. Hugely long cathedral, with the usual burden of history. From what remains, the paintings on walls and ceilings must have been sublime. Hate Henry VIII; hate the Puritans. Hysterical with exhaustion by the time we got to the castle, though I did wander happy/sad through the galleries dedicated to rocks stars of th 60's and 70's. I kept muttering, “that was THAT long ago?” Marianne Faithful and Keith Richards were beautiful once, too. Pompously mediocre paintings by a local family of painters, touted as being the equals of Constable (they ain’t). Stuffed animals in the dead zoo. The tiger, paled to a kind of beige, roars when you walk by. Ruff, petrel, heron, falcon, all softening under the dust of ages.
Disturbed that there have been so few poems, and a whole section of the poets play written but not typed. I am in survival mode, imaginatively speaking, striving to carry out my duties and remain pleasant and welcoming and professional. Not expecting anything creative until the mood changes and I’m in Dublin.
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