April 2, 2024

Peach colored dawn over the pier. Early walkers and beachcombers already out. Oddly restless night last night, considering how exhausted I must have been. Couldn’t get comfortable in bed. 

Spent a happy morning writing on the hotel terrace, blown by the sea wind, chattered at by grackles and laughing gulls. Bloody Mary at Drop In (new to me, and a new floor of sleaze) and lunch practically on the sidewalk at the Bounty Bar, where the passers-by were, in a striking proportion, nubile young girls with their parents. Boys with their shirts off, enough.

Found a little art gallery upstairs on a side street. Awful stuff. I’d be the Raphael of that place. I thought about asking if I could exhibit my beach paintings– I’d even buy in– but the elaboration that lay ahead daunted me. They must pay the rent with the sale of megaladon teeth. 

Climbing the steps to the pier I suddenly was reminded of the decades when I would engage the gaze of every male I passed on the street, checking to see if he desired me, or would allow himself to be desired. It was exciting. It swelled the time with expectation. It came to something more often than modest relation would allow. For a while, that and “poet” were my definition of myself. I can’t remember when it stopped. Over time? In one night? When did I stop missing it? I was picking up men on the streets of Dublin into my middle sixties. I thought many inroads into the realm of Venus would find me a true lover for all of my life, as I thought that dedicating myself to writing would get me a life as a writer. I was misled on both accounts by poetry. 

Huge afternoon nap made up for last night’s restlessness. The sound of the sea is unfamiliar to me, and every now and then I’d almost wake and wonder what turbulence was out on the street. 

My balcony is directly above the hotel pool, so pissing or hurling things from the window is out of the question.