The filth and the fury.

Even though Dublin is kind of a dirty city (I hope you aren't reading this, Dublin, but if you are, no offense!), I came home and now I feel that my house is even dirtier. My god. My mom asked if this was because of the teenage boys who stayed at our house with Bruiser and I was forced to admit that no, it was pretty much me, who spent the hours before leaving the country sending poetry out to the void.

In these dark times, one is forced to get it together and at least think about vacuuming up a dust bunny or five hundred, do the dishes, and start a load of laundry or ten. In these dark times, one must fend off the rising panic one feels when one is confronted with one's own . . . oh, hell, I just feel overwhelmed by it all and I have to make a dent in it or else feel like fleeing my own house. And that will not do, not in these dark times.

However, in such dark times, I have taken inspiration from W.B. Yeats, and not just because he wrote a poem that began "Things fall apart." That line is one of my many mottos (others: how hard can that be?, what the hell?, and I've had just about enough of your shenanigans.) (also, I am considering, Bitch, you trippin'! Does anyone have any thoughts on this as a motto? Let me know.). However, I am mainly inspired these days by W.B. Yeats because he was tirelessly making stuff and taking inspiration from the most amazingly dubious stuff, including crazy spiritualism of all sorts. In other words, his mind was full of nonsense and he still made beautiful, sublime art just about until the end of his life. In the collection of his papers exhibited at the National Gallery of Ireland, they had all sorts of his notebooks (comforting to me, a notebook keeper of the most random kind), including notebooks that showed some of the automatic writing done by his longsuffering and beautiful wife. It was a wonderful exhibit that you can get a sense of by looking here.

I am also currently taking inspiration from Francis Bacon's studio, which was originally located at 7 Reece Mews in South Kensington in London, but which, after his death, was moved, part and parcel, and then reassembled just as he worked in it, at a gallery in Dublin on Parnell Square, the Hugh Lane Gallery. The most polite word--in fact, the word Bacon himself used--for this gallery is chaos. When I saw this space, I saw my very own soul, and it was (for once) one of the most comforting things I ever saw: so messy! so much stuff! Bacon was not a minimalist. Not! a minimalist, and an extraordinarily productive and powerful artist. Voilá:














And finally, some more pictures from our Ireland trip, for those of you still interested:

Open letter to an enigma.

Dear Bruiser,

Just about an hour ago, I came home from a meeting with Dr. Write, wherein we worked on the curriculum for a new course, perused Amazon for possible books, and also discussed the political future of our great nation. As you know, before I left home for that meeting, I took you for a brisk walk. You may recall that you nearly spun me off my feet when you expressed vigorous interest in a cat crossing our paths. I was a little unnerved by this. Perhaps I spoke a little too hastily, possibly even harshly, at that moment. I apologize.

But that's not the subject of this letter, Bruiser. It's about the bag of bread I found in our bed. I had to leave in a bit of a hurry this morning, so I didn't get to make the bed before I left, but I came home prepared to rectify the situation, and there, on my pillow, was a quarter of a loaf of bread, tied fast with its little twisty tie. I'm sure you know it is good bread. Very good bread. But you hadn't eaten any of it, not even a crumb.

I am 98% certain that you conveyed the bread to our bed. Because, while I may occasionally eat a little popcorn on or near the bed, and maybe sometimes I bring a slice of toast into the bedroom, in general, neither the historian nor I bring food with all its packaging into the bed, for purposes of consumption or for any purpose, really. We just don't. And there's no one else but the cat, who, to her credit, has never taken the slightest interest in human food. Except for butter, and the less said about that, the better.

So Bruiser, that leaves you. And I am curious as to what you mean by this. What are you trying to communicate to me with the bread-in-the-bed message? Is it proverbial, such as "Cast thy bread upon the bed and it shall return unto thee twofold"? Are you, too, trying to tell me, by means of an ancient metaphor, that I should return to the study of the word of God? Or, more colloquially, do you think you deserve an allowance, to be spent upon dog toys and bacon? Perhaps you feel it's time I took up my long-planned sourdough bread baking project. I am flummoxed.

As I write this, you lie upon the bed, now made, where once you planted this little possibly metaphorical communication of bread in a bag. I shall continue to contemplate it. And perhaps that is your purpose, for you are nothing if not zen-like.

Thank you, Bruiser, for the koan: what is the sound of sliced bread sleeping?

Sincerely your friend, compatriot, and comrade,

&c. & c.

My sincere apologies to all herbivores.

It's possible that you, my dear reader, have already viewed this hilarious clip about bacon. But I think it's also possible that many of you have not. I found it on dooce (essential reading, by the way), but it was my Scotland daughter who kept nagging me to watch it. I thought I felt too low to laugh. She was right, I was wrong. I laughed, and so will you.