Even the grass here is different – its not the broad, rugged grass of America, punctuated by patches of weeds and dandelions and slightly tinged with a wild blue color. This is a short, thin carpet of grass that very evenly hugs the flat featureless deep brown earth. Here and there patches of clover make a more intense green, and little tribes of daisies look like snow on the ground. A chill is blowing through the air and it slips into my hand, making me stiff and throwing my lunch trash over the ground. And the sun is shining through the heavy gray clouds as drops of rain hit my jacket with resonant thuds.
Yesterday the National Gallery was rather disappointing. A large collection of rather insignificant landscapes and portraits by anonymous Irish artists. There are a few exceptions, notably the Caravaggio featured in Ordinary, Decent Criminal a Breughel, some by Leech, and a room to the Yeats family. Not the greatest fan of Jack B. Yeats’ later work, but around the 1920’s I am delighted by his colors and subjects. Before he goes quite abstract.
Went to go see Michael Crawford’s friend Gary O’Leary at his design studio. Very pleasant but had no openings and didn’t look at my portfolio. Said he’d gather for me a list of people who might need someone, but I’m not holding my breath. Fuck ‘im. Fuck ‘em. Fuck them all. Babbled about how me not knowing Quark XPress was a major handicap that made me unhireable and it wouldn’t be worth it to teach me only to have me go. HOW LONG do people think it takes to learn a computer program? They’re not that hard and I’m not that stupid! Same with the hostel job – there is NOTHING about the running of a hostel that would take me FOUR MONTHS to learn. I’m not here four WEEKS – I’m here four MONTHS!
What a stupid fucking reason. I’m tired of hearing it.
Finally got in touch with Gregg – nice to speak to him – he told me that a friend of his is friends with the head of the Fringe Festival here and she would try to hook me up. Here’s hoping. I just want a good job. One that makes me feel important and that my brain is as valuable as the expendable units of energy contained in my little body just by rights of having woken up in the morning. And frankly, as much as I thought I wouldn’t be saying (or writing) this for at least a couple of years, I really miss theatre. Not so much the shitty wages and lunatic hours, but the people and environment of creation. Invention, imagination and creation. Where it is a taxing job, but one that actually does produce something and actually does mean something.
You must suffer for any work. Theatre is a sort of work I seem suited to suffer for.
I must try to call Chris this evening and chat with him. Try to get him over here to rail around Europe with me after summer theatre.
Every once in a while Dublin gives me a gift – just enough to keep me strung out and strung along. And it’s never unmitigated as the wind’s blowing hard and making a terrific noise in the trees. But disregarding that:
I am in Griffith Park by the stream next to the willows and the sun is shining a bright blue sky and there are ten ducks preening and splashing in the water as pigeons coo and the water ripples. And it’s true – life is in the details, just like looking at a stream. At a glance you see the water and the banks and the various colors, but never before have I noticed the tiny shadows of tadpoles as they dart along the river bed. Or the string of algae that looks like a snake slithering with the current. Or the broad, flat piece of stone that looks like some Viking axe head. There’s so much literally under the surface. And why can’t I be happy with this? Why do I have to have an incredible job to brag about, a huge salary to throw about, and a career to get excited about? Why can’t I just be happy here?