I could almost keel over from pleasure! I am back in the Cafe Kylemore – my instant favorite lunch spot – having just had a huge meal of curry and tea and yogurt. Both the curry and the famed Müller yogurt were mediocre but pleasant. The REAL reason for my near post-coital glow is the huge pile of rice that came with the curry from a jar. I haven’t had rice, except crisped in a chocolate bar (which is very odd if you think about it) SINCE I HAVE ARRIVED! Praise Allah, I had almost forgotten HOW MUCH I LOVE RICE! I couldn’t eat it fast enough! Each moist, firm grain was an absolute reunion with a long lost lover. Maybe THAT is why I’ve felt ill – I’ve been denying myself the grain of the Gods. The succulent cereal of sensuality! The world’s MOST PERFECT FOOD!
This gray, frigid isle denies me all my loves. Women. Meatless meat. My family. And even my most staple of foods due to that ridiculous oven we have. You know how they cook rice? They boil an assload of water and dump the rice in and boil it for a while then pour the excess out! They strain rice, through a colander! The celtic barbarians! Has it been but days since they’ve stopped painting their naked bodies blue and charging the Romans? I, for one, will not dishonor the most noble of all grains that way.
In other news, I would like to audition for that play I noted on the top of the other page [Eruption Theatre Company, Diane Son, Stop Kiss, Nicola]. I called the number but simply got voicemail. Does anyone in theatre here answer their phone? I want to do it but the more difficult, the more effort needs to go into it, the less inclined I feel. However, as I have no doubt rhapsodized in prior pages, I miss theatre. However! New to this is a feeling of confidence! I want to audition and I will do well. Probably won’t be cast due to the incestuous nature of theatre, but that good ego I have so often talked about seems to have reared its big, beautiful, fuck-you head! I actually think I might try to be an actor when I return. But shhh. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t jinx it. Don’t let me get my hopes up only to be dashed again as is my want and course in life recently. However, but for the fear of failure, etc.
Oh, I saw Black Chain from the other night at Roisin’s going into a tobacconist across from Trinity in his black outfit cloaked in a long wool coat (black) with a long, rolled up umbrella (black again). Ah, what an amusing and patently affected little parody of a gentleman with his little strip of hair. That sort of shit must be gold with younger chicks fresh to college, new to drugs and dying to get laid. The absolute artificiality and intent to elicit reaction drives me crazy. You just want to smack those people and say, “Hey! It’s been done before! And better! You’re not that clever!” Probably, “Hello, my good man”s the staff in stores and finds himself quite the wit.
Plus he doesn’t carry it off with HALF the elegance of the true Goth kid all vampired out – a scene which still flourishes here (surprise, surprise) in backwards Dublin. A true imperial capital – hopelessly behind the times, full of poseurs, supported by the tourism of the stronger nations, and somehow missing the something that would make the complete. But the goth kid I saw the other day on Dorset St. was in full velvet, ruffled, bejeweled splendour. With black under his eyes and permed shoulder-length black hair over half his face, loping (I’m sure he thinks of it as “stalking”) down the street, making sure to stay in the shadows of the over-looking buildings. You’ve gotta respect someone who so fully commits to something like that. Can’t just whip it off if it gets warm or pretend you had no idea you assembled the components that way in the haze of morning dressing. Unlike little Lord Black Chain who, in the event of scorn, could do either. No real commitment. Just a story of a boy looking for identity. And I weep for him.
Off to Irish ferries to see about getting to France!