I walked in the rain. In the Irish National Library, I met WB Yeats. Yeats had a promoter, Sylvia Beach. She gathered the greatest literary minds of her age under the name of the Bard. Sinead O'Connor read "No Second Troy" to me. Sailing to Byzantium, I found the title of this year's Oscar winner.
This tall, unpopular man invited me to join the Hermetic Society of the Golden Dawn. We had to find the Lake Isle of Innisfree, using interactive touch screens, and audio clues in Gaelacht.
Across a courtyard, sat the Archaelogy Museum. Cameras verboten, the sketchbook collected an evangelical symbol from the 10th century, a railing mermaid, a Viking's head, and a Dragon's cane.
Dead Bog men, twisted and contorted, told me how they died. Violence. Axes to head and chests, nipples removed, and torsoes staked to the bottom of a bog. That way, we could find them, and hear their stories.
The Epicurean Foodhall fed me an All Day Cure, complete with tomato relish. I walked home.
The rain came down, harder.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment