Dublin 4

July 17, 2010


Continuing my reading of Keats’ letters. He exhibits Pound’s theory of Vorticism he century before it was propounded, for his brilliant observations arise from a whirling mass of private jokes, unintelligible allusions, contemporary literary gossip, like beams of moonlight shot out of roiling cloud. When he is revising a poem such as Endymion, he does not tinker with the wording and structure-- as we were taught to do and as we, alas, teach our students– but he awaits a new vision, and writes again, inspired by more perfect understanding.

Last night it was galumphing Russian warhorses by the RTE National Orchestra at the National Concert Hall. The lively and Danny Kaye-resembling conductor danced around on the podium. The Tchaikovsky 1st Piano Concerto was not well played, and even I could hear the wrong notes from the piano, but I did find myself listening to the argument of the music, to the interior narrative, in a way that is by no means inevitable at a concert. Moussorgsky, Glinka, Khachaturian filled out the rest. I was sitting quite near the cellos, and so noted cello technique as I never had before. The woman to my left lived in Holland for many years, then moved to Florida where her husband started a business, but promptly died, so she is back on home sod. Someone’s necklace broke, and I gave the woman the beads I had gathered up, as she is starting a beading class next week and wanted them. The woman to my right was a chatterbox. As I headed back to town along St. Stephen’s Green, the fat curve of the moon hung bright above the trees.

What a lucky thing to be a tree in St. Stephan’s Green.

Stopped at the George, which was livelier than it was the last time I was there. I was made to feel attractive. At length I settled down with a man I’m going to call Gary, because I forget or never heard his name, and Gary suits him in some way. Gary had that way I’ve never seen from an American of approaching one with small insults and childish abuses, an adversarial courtship that– what?– establishes dominance, prepares for the possibility of rejection-- I really never have quite figured it out. Once I tired of it and told him to go away, he changed, and what was really a touching neediness shone through, and won me for the night. Gary’s family was very rich once, and is not any more, and that seems to lie heavy on his heart, even to define things far more personal than finance. His accent is English. His appearance is like a rather over-serious Talmudic scholar, without the beard, sharp and concentrated. He didn’t interest me physically, until he did. I think I was a little cool at first, maybe cruel, because I really wasn’t interested. He assumed that was part of a battle plan on my part, and went on trying. In the event, he was a magic mirror of affection, taking anything that was offered, giving back the identical thing in what he hoped was a higher tone. The dramatist in me wants to say “and was never filled,” but how would I know if that were true or not? There was no conversation at the end, only my parting by moonlight, making my way in the small of the morning through a Temple Bar still alive with laughter, the Dublin I had known and loved of old.

I know there will be a last time this will happen, a last time I am wanted, or want to be wanted. My guess is it will be in Ireland. But not this time.

Night: Saw a powerful production of Oedipus at the Project Arts. Jocasta was magnificent. The poetry had such ancient grandeur that it seemed almost alien, though the psychological issues are fresh as tomorrow. Jocasta in particular seems a modern woman, until the ghosts catch up with her. Had a few in the Octagon Bar in the Clarence, then made my way home through the mirth of the Temple Bar. I couldn’t go further tonight. I don’t want to see Gary again, and the weariness of starting over socially each night is the toll paid by the outsider.

Gary said, “You must have a lot of experience with drugs, being American.
“None.”
“None? You never take drugs?”
“No.”
“Well, there are whole categories of human experience you’ll never know about. That could be bad for a writer.”