Dublin 3

October 7, 2013

Rose late yesterday but still early enough to hike to Saint Patrick’s for sung mass. The men and boys’ choir was magnificent, but made the same mistakes we do, coming in late on a verse, losing their places, though the sound was so magnificent it hardly mattered.  The great building was holy and gloomy, exactly as I wanted it. The sermon was on faith, springing from Christ’s odd comment that if the apostles had any faith at all they could cause yon mulberry tree to uproot and plant itself in the sea. I have a deficiency of faith, or a perpetually disappointed faith, so I listened, but got smiling Anglican wit rather than succor. Ugly thoughts, unresolved memories were in my head as I sat in the space before the service began. Certain moments of coming to rest let all that slosh out like bilge water. At the coffee hour I met Paul, a very tall man, a priest who left his parish last week and meets his new one next week, and filled in the gap with Saint Patrick’s. His new post is St Patrick’s, Trim, where he will be installed Friday. We chatted about American and Irish politics. Him I filed away into my could-be-friends-when-I-move-to-Ireland box. Made my slow way–eating salad and tea on Lord Edward Street-- to Trinity, where I had tickets to Ground and Floor. There I met Linda, a theater fan from New York, who is about to open a website called theaterhound.org. Linda knew everything about the avant garde theater scene in New York, and was willing to share. She asked me who my favorite contemporary playwrights were, “besides yourself,” and, by God, I couldn’t name a one. She recited a list of those to whom I should pay better attention, and I will. Ground and Floor turned out to be ten minutes of matter stretched out over an hour and a half. I kept falling asleep and dreaming what was happening onstage, except that my script was way, way better. The actors were very pleased with themselves at the end. They did have excellent balance. Helped Linda find an address she has a meeting at this morning. Came home, soaked my aching legs, went out for a quick one at Foley’s, was early to bed. At Foleys I shared a table with an English girl who has two children, Olivia and Alfie, and she’s over here with her boyfriend, but after 4 hours of watching football the boyfriend went to bed, and she, desperate to see some of the real Ireland, drifted to the pub where the excellent singer could be heard in the street.

Bought a tiny watercolor of Lough Corrib from Edward Thomas of Village Weir, Lucan.