Futbol!

This is my 21st blog post, and this Saturday, the 5th, is my 21st birthday. Special! I will write late this afternoon about the events of last week and the weekend. 

Thank You, Bill Gates.

My computer has just produced this message, which is probably the funniest warning screen that I've seen in quite some time. Apparently, I'm so bad that Microsoft lacks the ability to even calculate it. I suspect that this comes from frequent appearance of the Irish word "Taoiseach" in a document that is several hundred pages long. 

Thoughts On a Certain Pair of Shoes

Failing to forecast, as I should have, the incredible amount of rain that was to fall today, I wore my Topsiders to work. This was a poor choice. Note to self for future reference: Topsiders are not waterproof. It's beyond me why anyone would think to wear these on a boat, the purpose for which they were designed. They do not keep out the water, they become sticky when wet (and lend to my feet a rather peculiar reddish brown tint that is unlike their usual pallor) and, most conspicuously , they patently lack any traction whatsoever. The shoes were originally marketed as superior deck shoes because of their ingenious water chanelling herringbone sole pattern, but this tread is quite unequal to the task of the Ireland rain. 

The shoes were originally marketed for Sailors. It is not hard to see why they had little success. Later, they were adopted and produced by the U.S. Navy, which has an unerring sense for attractive inefficiency. Even later, they were adopted by people of a certain background who wished to give the appearance that they had just come from the yacht and couldn't tarry long, really, because they were swiftly on their way to the performance of another feat of nautical bravado. Finally, I adopted them because they appeared to be comfortable. 

And, to their credit, they are. But footwear that is well suited for Bocce on the Lawn is not ideal for navigating O'Connell street in a storm. I would commit significant funds to the purchase of a pair of Bean Boots right now, were such luxuries available to me. 

Thoughts On the Decline of Art

An unedited and moody fragment.

On my way home, I had a strange and overpowering desire to buy a copy
of "In Memoriam A.H.H" and stopped at a rather large, commercial
bookshop in what turned out to be an overly optimistic quest. I
should have known that commercial bookstores today - motivated as
they are by search of profit and beset as they are by a striking lack
of readers interested in anything more sophisticated that Nora
Roberts and Dan Brown - do not carry books such as the one I sought.
The only poetry I was able to find was the large, expensive
"Collected Works of..." Penguin Classics, which are utterly soulless
and a rather unpleasant way to read a poem. These books are much more
like Almanacs, reference books, than aesthetic experience. There is
so much to focus on that the eye, unable to settle on one thing,
gorges on it all, absorbing very little of it. At least, such has
been my experience with them. The vast majority of the poetry I own
is, of course, in these large volumes, because I seem not to have a
choice: there isn't much call for the individual printing of even
Tennyson's works, which I sought today, let alone someone talented
but generally obscure like Andrew Marvell. Individual volumes of
poetry are still published by contemporary poets, of course, but
seldom reprints of anyone volume of the ancients: it's just moor
convenient and cheaper to slap them in a shitty paperback anthology
devoid of competent editing or illuminating marginalia that has
traditionally been the only advantage that such dictionary-style
volumes. enjoy over their purer companions.

Perhaps this is because poetry, as a commercially viable profession,
no longer exists. Even Billy Collins struggles to make any money from
his books, and that's with all of Oprah's considerable heft
(literally and figuratively) thrown behind it. Most of the great
poets of the past, of course, were compelled to write more profitable
forms of literature during the day, churning out their verses at
night, but at least they were doing so, at least there was some
market. I believe that today I was searching for a flame whose last
strong leap came with Hart Crane and Robert Frost in the middle of
the century in America, and has been mostly dying since then. It's
not just that very little of what I consider to be good poetry is
being published these days (though this is true: most poetry is
artless free form published in self-referencing journals of painful
solipsism and miniscule readership), it's that people don't want to
read anything else anymore. Poets may once have been the
'unacknowledged legislators of the world' but there is no one with
that power now, because no one pays attention. At least that I have
seen. I should be quite happy to be proved wrong, because every time
I bemoan modern poetry's health, someone shows me a Maya Angelou or
Rita Dove poem, and I want to throw up. The canon is still loudly and
lavishly cultivated by the academy, but it is essentially a static
corpus because very little is being added to it. Sure, nothing
becomes classic until its creator has been dead 50 years, but is
there anyone writing at the moment whose gifts even belong in the
same library with John Donne, Milton, Pope, Wordsworth, Tennyson,
Yeats, and company? We can keep teaching the past - and we must - but
I'm worried about the present. Popular music used to be that
performed by symphonies, popular art was painted by Turner, and
popular literature used to be written by the Charles Dickens. Now we
have Britney Spears, Pollock, and Dan Browne. What has happened?

Of course "popular" used to refer to a much smaller audience. During
the times to which I refer, few people could read and even fewer
could access music. Those who could were the 'elite'. Since then,
there has been significant technological and educational
democratization of the arts, which can be much more widely
disseminated and enjoyed than even 100 years ago. Surely, this is a
good thing - but at what price? It seems, at least to me, that it is
has been a dumbing down of the faculty of appreciation of the 'good
stuff'.' There has always been a tension, of course - and perhaps a
necessary one - between the academy and the masses over the
arbitration of taste. Most 'great' art is, in the first instance,
quite inaccessible. It is only through grappling with a great poem or
symphony that its beauty and meaning is unlocked. But when this
occurs, it's a much more majestic and artful truth for having been so
difficult to attain, for this cognitive barrier can impose a
necessary sophistication and grace that would be lacking among the
easily-digestible fodder produced for the best seller lists that are
now stacked in book stores such as the one I visited today.

I realize that. I realize that there will never be millions of people
clamoring for the latest portfolio of pastoral elegies in the way
that they clamor for the Harry Potter books, and that's fine. Perhaps
that's a sign of the continuing vitality of of the critical apparatus
that it reserves its high praise and publication numbers so as not to
demean the next Paradise Lost by sending it straight to slickly
illustrated paper back.

But high art, if great art, eventually becomes popular art...or at
least semi-popularly accepted art. Every school child has read some
Robert Frost, even if it's just 'Stopping by Woods On A Snowy
Evening.' And that's almost enough, because it's something, it's a
measure of exposure to one of the greats. But who is writing today
that will be seen in the textbooks in 50 years? I'm an educated
person and I look for these things. I'm probably on the fringe
between academic and popular audiences as far as poetry is concerned:
I don't read the trade journals, but I'll spend hours with the poem
itself, I probably have a more finely-honed faculty than some, and
even I can barely tell you what's being written today that is of any
merit. And if I, who am searching, cannot find, what is the
likelihood that today's verse will touch a broader audience? Poetry
just doesn't have the same penetrating relevance that it used to.
Even educated people can barely name the Poet Laureate of the United
States because the last giant to hold that post was Robert Frost. Who
can say from memory even one of Billy Collins' poems? Perhaps you can
if you're quite special (and thankfully these people remain) but the
majority of the rest of us haven't got a clue, which isn't nearly as
alarming as the fact that we probably will /never/ have a clue.

All this is to say that today's bookstore experience was somewhat of
a frustrating one. I did not find what I sought, but I did stand,
without noticing, for 2 hours and a half reading the entirety of
introductory and biographical portions of an 'Anthology of the
Greatest Poets In the English Langauge', as compiled by the amply-
jowled Yale professor Harold Bloom. Being immersed as I was in such a
multitude of transcendent lyric, I was both inspired at the majesty
of the past and worried by the potential artistic heritage of the
future.

On the Seventh Day

I have long felt that Sunday is a day on which everyone should see something beautiful. It's a day of repose for most, of course, but it's also a day of great ritual and meaning for a number of people, religious or not. It's just something about Sunday, I suppose. 

When I awoke this Sunday morning, rain was falling. I've long since ceased being surprised at the precipitation, or even really noticing it, for the most part. Yesterday, it foiled our plans to go to Glendalough, and today it thwarted my plans to go to Howth (for the third consecutive weekend in a row). I lazed around the flat for awhile, and made a nutella sandwich. That done, I became bored. I was going to do laundry, but the thought so fatigued me that I decided to put it off and do something else. It was already into the afternoon, and the rain clouds were still menacing, so I didn't have time to range too far afield, nor did I want to be stuck too far from home when the rain inevitably began to fall. 

Several days ago, aware that my time here is passing with great rapidity, I made a list of things that I had done and still wanted to do here in Ireland so I could not lose track of time and places. Consulting the list, I settled on a destination that seemed interesting and that I knew to be relatively close: The National Botanical Gardens, in Glasnevin (a village in between Santry, where I am, and City Centre. 

I made a peanut butter sandwich to take, and out I went. The sky had assumed a rather menacing, gloomy grayblack, more ominous than its normal pall. It seemed to suck all color out of the surrounds and that, combined with the powerful gusts of wind, combined to make me feel somewhat as if I were in the beginning of 'The Wizard of Oz'. I met Jessica (one of my 'flatmates') on the corner, returning from the pool. When I told her my plans to visit the Botanical Gardens, she looked at the sky, and then down at me, skeptically, questioning the validity of my plan given the prevailing weather conditions. I can't say I blame her - the weather hardly seemed fit for a promenade through the gardens. In fact, the wind was gusting so mightily that it seemed ready to blow over everything planted in the ground. I derive a strange enjoyment, however, from walking around in terrible and challenging weather, perhaps from my Boy Scout days, and today's climate fit the bill, so I pressed on. Besides, having observed the mercurial nature of the weather in Dublin, I thought it quite likely that the storm might change to something much more pleasant. That optimistic thought in mind,  I boarded the bus. 

That is to say, I boarded the wrong bus. I thought I knew which bus went by the Gardens, but I ended up in the City Centre without having ever passed the gardens at all, dagnabbit. (There are 5 or 6 slightly different bus routes that swing by my bus stop and all eventually get to the City Centre, but only one goes by the gardens). I turned around and boarded a different bus headed back in the direction of home, this time successfully alighting at the wrought iron gates of the Botanical Gardens. 

I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I wasn't really prepared for anything on the order of the scale or beauty that I found. I suppose I was expecting something like Stephen's Green, Merrion Sqaure, or the Iveagh Gardens: beautiful parks planted with beautiful flowers. The Botanical Gardens, for one, are much bigger than any of these mid-city preserves. Also, the Botanic is designed not only as a recreational area, but as horticultural and educational resource / preserve. So there are not just flowers planted....there is every type of flower, tree, shrub, and moss that occurs naturally in Ireland. There are also a huge number of trees and flowers that are native to Europe, Asia, and the Americas and occur naturally in those places only, transplanted to Ireland as a "hey, look what we can do if we try" sort of thing. 

The Gardens were founded in 1795 by the Royal Dublin Society at the behest of the Irish Parliament. They're located on the banks of the Tolka River in the then-village of Glasnevin, which has since been incorporated into the broader Dublin Sprawl. The 50 verdant acres of the Botanic Gardens, however, remain protected and apart. Walking through them, one is quite unable to tell that he is, in fact, quite close to more than a million people. It feels much more wild than the other parks that I've visited: partly because it's so much bigger, but also because it's got so much growth and is comparatively empty. 

I was surprised to find from a bulletin board just inside the entrance that there are over 20,000 species growing in the Botanic Gardens, laid out in a number of different themed areas. I was quite taken aback by the complexity and diversity of the arrangements and quite unsure of my ability to see it all in a few hours. So I ignored the  map and walked off in a random direction. I walked through a grass field patched with many squares of little mini-gardens. I looked up the hill to see a very impressive series of  Glass House Arboretums, covered by a perhaps even more impressively stormy looking sky. I walked down the path some more, passing a painfully picturesque bench and spotting, for the first time, a minaret or tower of some sort that would continue to reappear 12 or 13 more times. I admired hedgerows and vines growing up metal supports before continuing into a stone-walled garden that had a diversity of flowers. Walking down, I found myself in what appeared to be, for all the world, a wild meadow. Turning around, I exited the walls as it began to rain and found myself in the midst of a forest of trees of numerous varieties. I walked quietly among them until I came to another walled enclosure, apparently open to the public for the first time since 1830. It turned out to be a fruit and vegetable garden that featured, most impressively, a patch of 60 or 70 varieties of lettuce, with which I imagine I could make a pretty serious salad. 

I exited the vegetable patch into a grove of cedars, which effectively blocked the sun and the rain. Leaving the grove, I followed an Ivy-covered stone wall for a while into a glen of poplars. There was a gently curving path that ran around the outside wall of the garden. I followed it for a while, eventually stopping at a hole in the wall covered by an Iron Grate. Through it, I could see a meadow sloping gently down to a stream. Were it not for the (undoubtedly expensive, given the view) town homes poking through the tops of the trees in the distance, I would not have been able to tell that I was in the middle of a city.  

Continuing my walk, I began to go down a hill. At its bottom, I discovered that the stream I had previously seen through the meadow had wended its way into the Gardens. Pleased, I followed the path along the stream for awhile before being distracted by more water on my right, this time in the form of a curvaceous lily pond. I walked along its banks for awhile. The whole experience so far had been rather an overload of beautiful scenery, but this was easily the most picturesque part. Over the pond I could see a long, upward sloping hill dotted with gracefully waving trees. Closer to me, a number of tall trees leaned over, dipping their fronds in the water, which was full of ducks and fish. Lovers lay on the banks, holding hands or eating picnics, and I missed Maria greatly. I continued along the bank of the pond, and the trail began to following a curving, low stone wall, literally right through a willow tree, whose branches canopied over the path before ending in the water. I walked through the willow and onto a nice little bridge, where I managed to get a self-timer picture of myself. The sun had, obligingly, emerged from behind the clouds to give everything the appearance of a painting by J.M.W. Turner. I was quite pleased. 

It was 6 PM, the hour of closing, so I attempted to find the exit. I rejoined the stream and began to wind back up towards the exit. I had to stop briefly, to detour towards a bit of gleaming white that I saw poking through the trees. It was a statue, the one and only in the entirety of the Botanic Gardens (which seemed unusual, considering the multitude of statues in the other gardens and parks that I have visited). The statue was of, inexplicably...Socrates. I searched the flower beds around him to see if some enterprising genius with a flair for the ironic had planted a bit of hemlock in the proximity but, alas, it was not so. Walking over to view Socrates, I saw the entrance to a rose garden but, sadly, did not have time to view it. I continued back towards the exit, making my way via a flight of stone steps that had been cut into the side of a hill, winding up through a garden of ferns. At the top of the hill was a lane flanked by boxwoods, leading to a "Rockery" through which bounced a pleasantly bubbling brook. The brook, amusingly, had a sign that said "do not dunk children". 

I made my way back along the lanes of glass houses, peering in at various exotic tropical plants that I decided to return later to view. I exited through the iron gates and, hungry, sought a place that would feed me. I settled on "The Tolka House", a large Tudor looking structure straddling the Tolka river and overlooking the gardens. The front had a swinging sign of a fat dancing man holding a frothy beer stein and saying "Good Food! with his thumb up. This, I happily decided, was the place for me. 

The inside reminded me much of the Yellow House pub in Rathfarnham Village, in John's Constituency. Walls and Low ceilings cut of dark paneled wood, several levels, and a generally dark and comfortable atmosphere. The only thing which brought the room out of the 18th century was a projector screen TV, around which a crowd of fans sporting Italian futbol jerseys were huddled, absorbed in the Italy/Spain semifinal match of the Eurocup. I collapsed into a pleasant leather couch for a few minutes, and then got up to seek food. The Tolka House, like most Pubs, does not have a menu. Instead, they have a "carvery" a sort of hot buffet from which one chooses items of his pleasing. I had a few slabs of Turkey with Gravy, stuffing (well, really it was breadcrumbs), Mashed Potatoes, Lasagna, and a Pint. Happily, I carried my bounty back to my couch and table by the fireplace and sat down, busying myself with the important work of food consumption. After dinner I lingered in the pub for a few hours, reading more of "The Count of Monte Cristo", in which I have become quite absorbed. 

A "pub" is quite different from a "bar". People were doing some serious drinking, all right...but the inside was filled not just with disgruntled grad students and saucy couples, that traditional clientele of Charlottesville watering holes,  but also...families. I was joined in my alcove by a rather loud little troupe of children, who ran around on the floor playing with cars while their mother and grandmother sat at the table doing some serious damage to a pitcher of beer. Everyone appeared to be quite happy, it was just strange to see such young children there. You would /never/ see that in the United States, and not just because of the cultural difference: most bars in the United States don't even let you in after 5 PM if you're under 21. 

When I left the Tolka House, I decided to take  the few miles home on foot instead of by bus, hoping to walk off some of the extensive turkey dinner. The walk up Ballymun was pleasant and uneventful, the sun feeling not at all strange for shining at 9:30. 

You may recall my earlier description of Albert College Park, a pleasant area close to my flat in Santry. Part of the road that I had to take to get home runs parallel to the Park, so I decided to cut into the park to cover the distance there instead of on the road. I became distracted, however, by the park, which is essentially a border of trees surrounding (and subdividing) a massive, perfectly flat, and perfectly trimmed lawn. I went to the middle of the green and stood for several minutes, admiring the blowing trees and the now-blue skies (my early afternoon predictions about the later improvement of the weather were, happily, verified). The sun began to set rather strikingly, casting shadows 350 yards in length across the green. I decided to lie down and watch the clouds. It's a special feeling, to be lying on your back and looking up at a great vaulted blue. From the edges of my vision, I could actually see the movement of the blades of wind by their progress through the grass. It was a rather tremendous feeling of open, uncrowdedness, nearly 270 degrees of unobstructed vision and open sky, much like in the American West. Again, I thought how strange it was to be experiencing such a sensation in  the biggest city in the country. I lay there for about 20 minutes before walking home. Hungry again, I stopped at the market for milk and a banana. When I got back to the flat, I made a cup of tea and uploaded some 250 pictures from the day's adventures, the best of which may be seen on my facebook page, and composed this entry.

Now, as it has suddenly and surprisingly become after midnight, I believe I shall retire. Work tomorrow. 

An Enjoyable Week: pt. II

TUESDAY AND WEDNESDAY 

The second two days of the week were significantly less eventful or remarkable than their predecessor. So much so, in fact, that I have little distinct recollection of what I did on Tuesday. The only concrete evidence I have of that day is that, apparently, early on Tuesday morning, I felt compelled to take a photograph of 30 or 40 (presumably empty) beer kegs that I found sitting on the walk outside Murphy's Pub. It was a strange sight for so early in the morning but, then again, I was barely awake. 

Jennifer and I began working on a massive research project for John that has, so far, involved the perusal of hundreds of newspaper articles from a year or two ago. Not only is interesting to read about the Irish events but, perhaps even more so, it is interesting to read about Irish coverage of American events, especially political ones. One of the more glaringly interesting facets of their coverage is that it has been rendered erroneous by the progress of actual events: several of the papers here quite confidently predicted that the general election would feature Senator Clinton contending against Governor Romney. Oops. 

(Not as bad as the famous headline "Dewey Defeats Truman" that was printed and ready to be sent out on the morning after Truman, in fact, defeated Dewey for the Presidency). 

John is one of 8 delegates from Ireland (and, strangely, given the division of the population, the only delegate from Dublin) who sits on the European Union Committee of the Regions. His duties for that body required him to be in Brussels, Belgium, on Wednesday and Thursday. I do not enjoy the taste or smell of Brussels Sprouts, so I elected not to go. Or rather, that's what I told myself in the 10 seconds that I was disappointed for not receiving an invitation to cover my grief. It almost surpasses belief that the government of Ireland would not see fit to spend the money to send me, the intern, along too. But there you have it. 

And so, on Wednesday, we worked from home. It was a rather long and tedious day of research but, given how exciting the job has been so far, I have little room to complain. I halted work around 5 PM and dove right in to my Organizational Theory text book in preparation for the completion of that night's writing for class. I did a "Discussion Item of the Week", a "Structured Journal" and "Short Essay No. 2". It was great fun. I made dinner and, for the first time ever, was disappointed by Tortellini. It was filled with a rather unsavory cheese that twinged the jolly old olfactory gland in a rather unpleasant way. 

THURSDAY 

John had received VIP tickets to several events on Thursday that, due to his commitments in Belgium, he was unable to attend. Like the obliging fellow that he is, he dispatched Jennifer and I in his stead. In the morning, I was pleased to attend the unveiling of a newly Commissioned Statue of Count John McCormack, the (evidently) legendary Irish Tenor of whom I had previously heard nothing but whose work I now wish to investigate. It was a rather pleasant affair: 50 or 100 or so people gathered in the sunny and green Iveagh Gardens, a rather obscure but delightful park behind the National Concert Hall. There were speeches memorializing the legacy of McCormack and praising the beneficence of the benefactors of his statue, and remarks from the artist on the tecnique of casting the bronze. Women were wearing hats, and men were clapping each other on tweed-covered backs (it's cool enough to wear tweed in the summer here) and taking pictures of each other clasping hands in front of the statue. The figure itself was finally unveiled in dramatic fashion by Dr. T.K. Whittaker, doyen of the Irish civil service and, according to John, the "architect of the modern Irish economy". Jennifer and I were the only ones under the age of 40 in the garden for the event. I was filled with the distinct sensation that I was surrounded by important and influential people but, as this is not my country, the faces meant nothing to me. 

After the cloth came down and photos were taken, we moved to the atrium of the Office of Public works for tea and a reception. Jennifer and I held VIP tickets to the event but, sadly, were unable to brandish them to secure any special treatment - they let all of us in without checking. The event was quite nice, though: plenty of wine, cheese, grapes, Sushi, and several unidentifiable but delicious fried items. A harpist played in the corner, and a couple of spirited girls had an ambitious go at a few arias. It was an enjoyable way to avoid paying for lunch. 

Jennifer was feeling under the weather and went home, but I wanted to explore the rest of Iveagh Gardens. Sadly, a rather tremendous downpour began I was drawing close, so I ducked inside a huge, noble-looking building made (like so much else in this city) of grey granite. I saw a sign that said "library" pointing up a flight of stairs, so I ascended them in the hopes of waiting out the storm among books. It didn't take long to discover that, though once used for Academic purposes, the building was now entirely deserted. It was painted well, and academic titles and departments were displayed over the lintels of doors, but a coating of dust touched everything, and it was clear that the building had not been used for some years. It was somewhat strange that I was able to walk right in, I thought, but I decided that it was as good a place to pass the storm as any. The building was not any less dry for its desolation, and in order to read one requires little  but a book and a chair. The former I had brought in my bag and the latter was most graciously furnished by the strange old building that was sheltering my head from the storm outside. 

I entered a space that was, according to the faded gold leaf above its door, the "Bishop O'Riordan Room".  I found a spot  under an old stained-glass window that cast interesting light over the pages of "The Count of Monte Cristo", which I have taken to reading when Ulysses causes me to enter into existential postmodernist crises of philology. Dumas is a good storyteller and his work is straightforward, refreshingly absent of any attempts to reinvent the his language or the form of the novel. In can be hard work to process ingenuity, so I can't read Ulysses for great stretches at a time, but 'Monte Cristo' flies by. Looking at my watch, I was surprised to discover an hour's passage. Looking at the window, I was pleased to discover that the storm, too, had passed. 

I descended the old grey giant (I later found, after making inquiry with John, that it was one of the buildings of University College Dublin before that school moved out of the center of the City) and gained the outdoors. I walked back to Iveagh Gardens. Like in so many green places after the abatement of heaven's falling, a quiet mist was rising from every surface, so I walked among the gardens on tiny stone pebbles surrounded by a rather fetching mist. There are many statues of figures in the gardens that, though unidentified by any sort of helpful plaque or marker, are Hellenic in posture and costume. Remarks during the McCormack statue unveiling ceremony indicated that the tenor is the first to have his likeness cast in this garden for more than 150 years, so I can only assume that the other statues I saw are from that era. They certainly betray their antiquity, too: many of them have been picturesquely decapitated or are missing limbs. The overall effect is of a place very old, in the middle of but untouched by a great and bustling city. Unlike the massively popular Steven's Green, Iveagh Gardens are relatively unknown and were very quiet. I walked several paths covered with a leafy bower. Statues hid in garlands of ivy. Fountains stood in the middle of pristinely maintained but totally empty greens. I found a circular rose garden with paths wending through it and, desirous of  securing a photograph of its pattern but unable to effectively capture the view from ground level, I scaled a nearby precipice of rock and mud so as to obtain the visual advantage that altitude's perspective affords. I had dressed for the morning's more gentle and formal activities, so I was not ideally attired for the venture that I then undertook. It was the first time I have ever climbed something wearing a bowtie, jacket, and gabardine. My shoes hardly had the gripping soles that would have been advantageous on the slick rock, but I was determined to secure the photo, so I prevailed upward to the summit of the cornice that, though modest in height, presented a challenge to me, outfitted as I was in clothes fit for more sedate activity closer to the ground. The one boon afforded to me by my kit is that my recently purchased umbrella proved to be a stalwart substitute for a mountaineer's pickaxe and an effective stabilizing device. 

Though my clothing did much to handicap the ease of my vertical ascent, it also did much to increase the satisfaction with which I surveyed the gardens from on high. The novelty and strangeness of perching atop the rugged vista, while cutting the figure I did, was most amusing and thoroughly satisfying. Dramatically, a beam of sun appeared at the opportune moment to warm me from my peak, and I captured the desired photograph. It is a nice one, but hardly reflects the effort to which I went to acquire it. I am pleased to report that I ascended and dismounted the mound without suffering any injury to myself and without soiling any of my clothing. I couldn't, you see - dry cleaning is expensive in this country. 

Having regained the firmament, I continued the exploration of the garden, making my way down a straight path towards a distant white marble object that I detected, gleaming becomingly, in the distance. As I approached, I ascertained that the marble was, in fact, a white sundial. It was located in the middle of a maze crafted through an immaculately trimmed hedgerow. It was a surprising and lovely sight and, as I was admiring it, the sky began to darken once again, foiling the light for my pictures. 

And then, as I retreated down the pebbled lane, it began, most impolitely, to rain again. The energy of the clouds exceeded even the impressing display of the earlier afternoon. I deployed my bumbershoot but, though it doubles as a swarthy mountain pickaxe, its canopy is significantly less than infinite. It was quite unequal (being of the traditional single-sided model) to the task of shielding me from rain that both fell and drove, vertically and horizontally. Beleaguered as I was, necessity compelled me to seek shelter under a tree. Imagine the situation: I was dressed formally, alone under a tree among 50 acres of perfectly and elegantly crafted English Gardens, surrounded by walls of water from above. I was alone in the middle of a large city, and feeling the strength of nature while dressed, patently, for anything but. I imagine that I would have presented a rather humorous sight to anyone who was watching. But of course, no one was. 

So situated under my arboreal steward, I was able to pass the storm in relative comfort and dryness aided by the combined protection of the umbrella and the tree's branches. The downpour was powerful but brief, and I poked my head from among the leaves after about 10 minutes. The sky was blue and there was no sign of the rain that, just 10 minutes previous, had driven me to seek what available shelter there was. 

Having twice tempted nature, in her rocky and liquid forms, and escaped each time miraculously unsullied and dry, I decided to no longer push my luck. I retreated for the less rugged district of the city. Soon, I was treading the avenues with a certain satisfaction that comes from having completed an improbable task. I felt as a country squire, having completed the rounds of his estate, dressed nattily, retiring to his fire. Lacking a fireplace, however, I found the national library. 

As I believe I mentioned several entries ago, the library is currently displaying a William Butler Yeats exhibit. The National Library of Ireland is the largest depository of Yeats' documents and originals anywhere, a portion of which comprised this rather cunning display. It was a dark room, lit dramatically, with various interactive displays and videos, corners made to resemble the Yeats home, etc. There were many glass cases filled with books, papers, photos, drawings, and notebooks, many of them original manuscripts or first copies, many of them in Yeats' own hand. The exhibit was helpfully accompanied by historical commentary, and I easily passed two hours in the exhibit before being informed, rather gruffly I thought, that the exhibit was closed and that I had to leave. Having only seen 3/4 of the exhibit (and having seen none at all of the rest of the library) I made plans to return as  I made my retreat from the building. 

I grabbed a sandwich, a salad of lentils and other healthfully crunchy legumes, and a mineral water from the cooler at the previously mentioned Marks and Spencer and went to a bench by one of the ponds in Stephen's Green to eat it. There, I enjoyed a dinner that was both lower in cost and superior in view to any that I might have enjoyed in a restaurant. The sun emerged briefly but magnificently from its customary location behind the Dublin clouds and cast the lake and the trees and the flowers in an intoxicatingly fetching light. I was so distracted by the beauty of the scene that I nearly missed my next engagement. 

John had been given two tickets to a concert that, unable to attend because of his trip to the EU Meeting, he had passed to Jennifer and myself. Jennifer was home ill, but I made my way back to the National Concert Hall. I was going to see "Alfie Boe" and, though I knew not who he was, I am seldom one to turn away free music. 

The National Concert Hall is a lavishly appointed building with lush red carpets and deep green walls with all sorts of low, curving couches and high, swooping arches and columns. Liveried staff walk about purveying beverages and charging 4 Euro for programs. I refused on principle to purchase one and thus proceded even to the downbeat of the concert in ignorance of Alfie Boe's identity. 

It turns out that he is a British Tenor of great ability and capacious lungs, accompanied in this instance by Ireland's National Symphony Orchestra, which interspersed his Opera classics with sprightly and powerfully rendered overtures and fancies of brief but exciting duration. The National Symphony Orchestra, though not performing in the majesty of Christ Church Cathedral as the Dublin Symphony was the other night and not playing a program that elicited the same sort of emotional response from me, was undeniably the superior musical organization. They were a truly professional orchestra, the equal of most that I have heard in the United States. Boe himself was a powerful and charismatic presence, gesturing and emoting as he sang, unamplified, over the entire orchestra and through the large venue. 

I found later that Alfie Boe is the Tony-Award winning tenor who has just completed a run as the lead of La Boheme on Broadway under Baz Luhrmann, and I saw him for "free". Politics Swag Last Year: Papa John's Pizza. Politics Saw This Year: Concert Tickets. Next Year: My income taxes increase. N

I walked the several miles back up to O'Connell street and caught the bus home. I returned home, tired, around 11 PM. 

FRIDAY 

This morning, I awoke with some reluctance and rode to work. I worked for a few hours in the library alone, hacking through more of the research project. John wasn't in until noon because he had clients. Shortly after he arrived, we went for lunch. Our burger and fries then turned into tea and then into an extended conversation about religion (he read theology at University), early moral philosophy, and rationality as an anatomical and metaphysical entity. We then digressed into psychology and the power of emotion, fields in which I am less familiar, at which point the  debate became much more of a listening exercise for me. It was clear that he was approaching it from a pedagogical point of view, to teach me something. He is an educated man, and more knowledgeable than I in some (and probably all) of our fields of discussion, but I believe that I acquitted myself in a manner that did not dishonor my training. Though his knowledge is superior in scope and breadth to my own, he has grown secure in the long certitude that his views are the correct ones. My knowledge, on the other hand, though smaller in volume, assumes this reduced size not just as a function of my relative youth but also a function of my attempts to cleanse my conclusions in acerbic self-doubt and merciless rational verification. I know very little for sure myself, of course, but on the other hand I am usually able to expose the flaws in the arguments of others, especially when they may not be regularly accustomed to rigorous challenge. To use a sloppy analogy, his weapons were powerful and heavier, but mine were sharper and more nimbly wielded. We were able to debate to a gratifying standstill on what points were contended, before he shared a series of anecdotes in an endearingly paternal manner to which I had no response. He was not used to seeing me speechless, and crowed a bit at having (it seemed to him) rendered me such. In actuality, his stories brooked no response, and I felt it unnecessary to talk for the sake of speaking, and held my peace. I suppose that is a rarity, in itself. Pleased, he sent me home early. 

I had a Guinness in "my" pub (total visits: 5)  and read in the cool dark for a while until the friday evening crowds became too loud for me to concentrate. I caught the bus home and here I sit. 

Tomorrow, some of the other UVa students and I are making an excursion to Glendalough, Co. Wicklow. I shall report back upon my return. 

Pictures from the events described herein may be found in the "Dublin - III" album on Facebook. 

An Enjoyable Week: pt. I

It has been, as the title of this entry indicates, a rather enjoyable several days. I have taken many pictures of the events that I describe below but - sadly - the blogspot platform is terrible for pictures: they take forever to load and are impossible to maneuver around the post. Thus, I have abandoned all attempts to post my pictures here. Most of the very few of you who read this have facebook, where photos can be more conveniently posted and viewed. This includes - miraculously - my parents. My father acquired a facebook account the other day, I suspect for the express purpose of viewing my pictures, for he certainly wouldn't have anything else to do on Facebook. 

To the events! 

MONDAY - (Bloomsday!) 

Given my rather incessant references to my turbulent passage through Ulysses, it should come as no surprise that I observed Bloomsday, or rather, I observed it to the extent that my work schedule allowed. I began the day's journey at No. 7 Eccles Street, the home of Leopold Bloom & Family. I was there around 815 AM, and already there were crowds of Joyceans gathered 'round, several of whom were in period costume. There was a reading of an early episode of the text (humorously, the performer had chosen the episode where Leopold visits the outhouse and reads the newspaper) but, sadly, I was unable to stay for long. 

And so, South I walked, as has become my custom, from O'Connell street. The length of my journey was increased because, instead of coming from Parnell Square, I was had begun at Eccles and had to traverse Upper Dorset Street. I was pleased to discover that the address that is, perhaps, the most famous in literature is located just off of a Road whose name bears a striking resemblance to my own. 

I arrived at the Light Rail stop to discover that it had the temerity to depart before I boarded. A quick glance at the screen told me that the next train was not expected for 12 minutes. I didn't want to wait that long! I resolved to race the train to the next stop. 

Unlike the Metro system in DC, the LUAS line runs above ground on the street. Its path is set by a metal groove, but it cannot fly down the road at 65 mph, as the metro does, and it must occasionally stop at lights. I took at vantage of one such event to dart through traffic, leaving the train behind. 

It soon made up lost ground, however, and gained on me rather quickly, driving down Abbey Street hot on my tail. As it grew even with me, several of the passengers inside stared at me. I must have presented a rather odd sight: sprinting down the cobblestone with coattails flying, dodging baby carriages and the carts of newspaper vendors. I know not from whence I derived the speed, but I did cover the 1/4 mile to the next stop in about the same time that the train did, and leapt on board as the doors were sliding closed. I was filled with adrenaline and pride that managed to keep up with a train, even if it wasn't a Japanese Maglev Supertrain(tm). It was a very Chariots of Fire moment and, to celebrate, I played the theme song from that great film on my iPod as soon as my breathing slowed down enough to hear, and reminisced about the days of my brief but glorious Cross Country career. 

(Incidentally, more tweed was used in the making of Chariots of Fire than any other film ever. It's a remarkable accomplishment of humanity). 

Thus filled with a sense of bracing machismo from my feat of speed, I swaggered off the train and into work. In a rather glaring contrast with the heightened mood produced by the accomplishment of the morning, much of the day was concerned with databasing and logging constituent requests. We did not, of course, neglect to take our two tea breaks - elevenses and high tea - at the appropriate time. 

After work, I returned to the City Centre to see what other Bloomsday mischief I could find. In Ulysses, Leo Bloom stops at a Pub called Davy Byrne's. It stands now, as it did in 1904, on Duke Street. Leo ordered a glass of burgundy and a gorgonzola cheese sandwich when he was at Davy's and, today, many Joyceans order the same thing in commemoration, especially on 16 June. I had plans to do the same thing, until I discovered that the Pub was charging far more than is reasonable for a slice of stinky cheese and a glass of a wine that most people don't even deign to drink anymore, preferring to boil it away in some sort of stew. Unwilling to drop 14 Euro on such literarily significant but other wise gustatorily unremarkable fare, I contented myself instead with watching some of the readings. It was also amusing to observe the rapid progress towards inebriation that some of my comrades were making at 530 in the afternoon (for 530 really is the middle of the afternoon when it doesn't get dark until 1030). There is a certain amount of self-satisfaction that comes for conspicuously celebrating a book that most commonly produces the reaction "what the...fuck?" among those who try to read it. You're getting drunk, but you're doing so for a very highbrow purpose.

All of the revelers were quite merry and sincere appearing and, to be sure, it is very fashionable to celebrate such an unashamedly erudite holiday, one that commemorates a massive and famously impossible book. I wondered, as I watched, how many of these people had actually read the book whose legacy they were celebrating. Most critics place it atop lists of "Most Important Novels of the 20th Century", which is interesting considering that no one touches the thing any more, even otherwise intelligent and well-read people. I've talked to a number of the literati in the circles in which I live, and many of them refer admiringly but ambiguously to Ulysses. A masterpiece, they say, truly....you know, great. Of the many people who attempt to evince a knowledge of the book, I have found only 4 of them to be convincing enough to convince me that they have actually read the thing...and of those,  3 are in the Jefferson Society, hardly a representation of the population at large. 

Having ruminated thusly, I decided that the best way to celebrate Bloomsday was not amid the crowds of people shelling out money for the privilege of acquiring, by means of a rather sordid sandwich, their share of the legend. Rather, the best way to celebrate Bloom's adventure and humanity was to read his book. I went to Stephen's Green and acquired a bench and, there, continue to forge ahead in the book, eventually making it to what I believe is the halfway point. I stopped at the memorial arch to observe the names of those men of this city who perished in the World Wars.  Then I walked home. 

Considering all of the posters on lamposts, all of the expensive and elaborate tributes being staged throughout the city, all of the readings, it was a thoroughly ordinary way to spend the day. If anything, though, I think that's what the book is all about: the epic in the ordinary. By superimposing the structure and, to some degree, the events of Homer's legendary Odyssey atop the events of a day in the life of a thoroughly unremarkable man, Joyce conveys the modest majesty, the sometimes dark dignity of every man's life. It's an enormous legend projected into an almost, but not quite,  improbably pedantic scale. That's what I've taken from the book so far, anyway. Given what I know from what I've read, my rather ordinary passing of the day is a more appropriate tribute to the ordinary lives of the ordinary people of this city than an elaborate festival is, fun as that festival may be. Some - though not by any means all - of those who were engaging in the festivities in a more full throated manner were displaying a rather grotesque variety of posturing that is quite antithetical to the universality at which the novel thrusts. On the whole, though, I suppose that I am happy that people are celebrating a book and a man who immortalized this city as it was 100 years ago. 

I did begin the journey of my day, as Bloom began his, day on Eccles Street, though, which was a nice bit of symmetry  between my life and the book. And my Chariots of Fire-style dash down Abbey Street alongside the train infused a bit more "epic" into my day than is usual. And that is enough.