Tag: Oscar Wilde

Wilde YES, Liffey NO

I like to think I have a good sense of direction, but about three of the ten miles I walked today tell me I’m wrong. To be fair, I’m not nearly as familiar with Dublin as I am with NYC and London… that still doesn’t excuse the many times today I went the opposite direction of my intended goal.

I’m staying relatively close to where I stayed the last time I was here, which is south of the River Liffey. I’m a little closer to the city center now than I was two summers ago, but both times I’ve had myself all turned around. Today, I wanted to get to the Liffey if not across it. Simple, right? It’s almost like all I had to do was walk due north on a street that runs north-south. Except it’s not a grid like NYC and I don’t know all the twists and turns like I do in central London. Every time I had a choice, I made the one that took me further from my goal. Maybe I can blame Samuel Beckett for this, as it was initially his bridge I wanted to cross. I hate Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. I understand it; I just hate it. I also had to do set and costume designs for it in IB Theatre. I thought I was pretty inventive doing an all white set, including the one tree, but I guess my teacher didn’t like my artistic choices.

Anyway, what I was able to find like a homing signal was the Oscar Wilde statue. No thought or decisions required to have me standing in front of my dead, gay, Irish, giant lover (and a tour group of German teenagers). Bolstered by my innate sense of where literary landmarks are, I consulted a map to reorient myself. Like my last visit, I was a bit upside down, thinking I was north when I was south, thereby messing up east and west. I *think* I have a handle on it now. At least I did this afternoon. when I made it to the banks of the Liffey for a stroll and some writing before continuing north of the river (and walking by the James Joyce statue, don’t worry).

Writing? I said writing. I wrote quite a bit today, starting in the Insomnia Coffee shop (great name, greater logo). Here are a few snippets that probably don’t make sense… mainly because very little of any of it is cohesive. (and because I’m still waiting for the hot water heater to do its thing so I can shower)

Yesterday doesn’t count. Tomorrow doesn’t matter. Only now.

(Remember when Helen chastised me for misspelling tomorrow? “Yesterday” is more straight forward.)

Life stripped down – maybe it’s what I need.

Old bruises fade, new ones appear; am I ever without them?

It’s not true, so I’m not writing it. Crossing the street or crossing the ocean, you would see me coming long before I’d recognize you. (I’m not shaking; it’s the bridge!)

Identities

I have something in the ol’ brain baker (no one has ever referred to a thought that way, have they?) for later this week, but one of my goals is to write something every day. I’ve already fucked up because I didn’t think anyone wanted to read about the menstrual woes of a 35 year old woman. Maybe I’m wrong. Anyway, today I’m explaining things because one of my identities is EXPLAINER.

That picture up there? That’s the Cliff’s of Moher in Ireland. It is, appropriately, followed by a Joyce quote about aesthetics that makes reference to the Cliff’s of Moher. Stephen Daedalus, the protagonist of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, has been my literary lover since I was introduced to him at seventeen. In fact, he inspired my second as yet unwritten novel (stay tuned in the coming months for how that comes to fruition). Stephen has a lot of questions for the world, and in the quote, one of his professors is pointing out how dangerous it can be to delve into all the questions he has. I’ve always been right beside Stephen, asking similar, if not identical, questions. Stephen also fueled the fires of my passion for Ireland, so when I was able to go for the first time at twenty, it was … spiritual. When I went again last summer, it was something even more. So another identity is IRISH.

This blog is kind of like Stephen asking the questions, diving off the Cliffs. I’m searching, and I’m worried that I’m not well trained enough to come up from the depths. I immediately think of another Dubliner I am in love with – Oscar Wilde – and his “De Profundis.” But I’m also reminded of John Mayer saying, “Yeah, I’m really deep except for when I’m watching porn and lighting fire crackers.” (That may not be a completely accurate quote, but you get the idea.) Identity: BOOK WORM.

Which leads me to explain (see, I like to explain e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g.) the name I’ve given myself here. Frail phrases comes from a poem I wrote in 2002 about John. I chronicled that part of my life in a blog too (lauritajd.livejournal.com) and as silly as you might think I am, I don’t regret being a soupah fan because it brought some wonderful people into my life and certainly got me into some awesome music. Identity: FAN GIRL.

All of these identities spring from times when I was prolific as a writer. When I was twenty. When I travel. When I read. When I listen to music. It leads me to an identity I am reluctant to embrace now but would have absolutely accepted as a teenager: POET.

So, here’s an excerpt:

No title
~LJD, September 30, 2002

…
The same hope for you filled my heart.
You stood before me, full of sound,
Never failing to play your part.
I spoke, again, some frail phrases
Handing you a piece of my soul.
You placed in me a grain of joy,
Taking me in, becoming full.
…

Yeah, it’s not good. I was working with rhyme and meter because I was taking a Nineteenth Century British Poetry and Prose class while I lived in Central London. 2002 was a magical time.

Nowadays, I don’t write a lot of poetry. The products of my time in Ireland last summer are prose poetry, reflections, uncategorized pieces. I teach about poetry more than I write it. One prompt this year was simply a poem titled “I Am.” My inspiration for the prompt was a professional development workshop at a publisher where I came up with what is still unformatted but has to do with identities. Here it is in full.

“I Am”
~LJD, December 13, 2016

I am a clumsy progression of chords
rising to the clouds.
I am a unicorn,
Unique,
Mythical,
Marks on my haunches,
Hair that shimmers.
I am full of love undiscovered,
Searching and fearless,
My mother’s daughter.
I am crazy smart, emphasis on crazy.
I am inimitable, irreplaceable,
No one can do what I do.
I am indomitable, except by my own doubt.
I am breakable but fixable.
I am the glue.
I need the glue!
I need to be who I am, full of love for who I am.

Like I said, I’m still working with the formatting. Very clearly rhyme and meter were not a consideration, but that’s part of what’s fun about poetry – it can be so stringent or fluid. It’s why I have trouble labeling some of what I’ve written over the last two years. Is it a poem? A prose poem? Prose? Drivel?

To recap: Explainer, Irish, Book Worm, Fan Girl, Poet.