[In 2019, to celebrate Bloomsday and the 10th anniversary of my trip to Ireland, I decided to spend some time retracing my footsteps in Dublin, and collecting some additional notes and commentary. Numerous fragments emerged after the style of Finnegans Wake, which seemed worthy of developing into a short proem, but then I abandoned it. This year, I decided to take it on again, and surprise! I actually finished it.]
Dublin Revisited.
A Shameless Pastiche and Tribute Dedicated
To James Joyce, the World's Greatest Twisted Mind.
Ever! I bow and scrape.
However! No non-ASCII characters need apply here.
April 23, 2009: The Intra'nce.
~Dublin Airport to Dublin~
--mineiffeyedoo (doon the nuthatch!), thoasayewanderthroo the hairport, frough the dooty-three ear-lickher shop whas is akshually for outer-bounders, passed the traffic-signal colours of the local customs and out fruff the green gate for shose of us who care not to declare themshelves cheatizens or veeyodellers, and mount the scuttle into the sooty, I fanstastically foreshee as lively a barrel of Monkees as hasna rarely redd (thank pott!), sho he would shedd to me, as he leaned and preened befoul the shields of labbrywhether.
Grey, green, grey (ah-ah-ah! my spleen!), green, intensiloovely baleen with cloudy rainy grainy grey overtones, pass me by in my stashunairy point on the scuttle, interroopted only by the recollection of my entrance, or more acuralexustoyotahondajaguarly, my exitus from the toorminal enmeshed in such unroolery a set of desctructional improvements that I dredd my own return. Then shingles, cobbles, greystones, and drabbles, tack and bland, as I dingily inmerseybeat, and I cannot help but meditate upon yoolissees and his travails. And roam dud he afoot and in a frackless carriage, weaffin' the chessboard of Doubling, alwhats bless 'im throo lyfe a naffigator (ho! tho they neffer cot him at it, except for his wifi, dearest).
Dreary me. Thunder we. Trinity be chia pet. Out the window. Like a banjo. Ha, a level stage? Drooling out both corners. Here I bee at the intrinitydooblinhostile, and mooch to doo afore I sleepen. Inn my roam, my eyes encounter the baff-and-ballroom of the Spanish Uncruishon (Nobody!, etc.). Furthermorrister, the lights only aspirate via the room key, the wi-fi (sans ring finger) comes at the costing of euroharpbacks, and I find the infrarediometricdispensuppositoritator of heat to be nutting loess than cryptophreniologistically impossible to cipher. Fortunata shines, however, on the lukshooriatingly foine featherydownybed. Before I sheep, whoever, I must needs trotter about and shites the nearest shees.
Fust, the map! Aye, mappies! A paper mnappie in my lappie, on know Gee,Pee,Sss do I rely, butt I studyums my housework, babs. [Toothful interflection: in this Refusitation of Dibblin the autoor in question does retrospectfully relie upon Goooooooooogle Lapps to retrace his pashat footshteps.]
~Pearse Street to College Street to Trinity College -- West Entrance (into Parliament Square)~
Nunne, thee lass, aefter a wee rest, venture I forth, and passing by, fail to take a picture of the world's most famous men's urinal, since removed for sanctioned use. Ah, Tommy Moore, only pigeons and dogs now dare where once (you ain't seen nothing like) the Poldy Bloom hermanhesself most likely unbuttoned. Tip.
[Note: the Thomas Moore statue was removed in 2014 and the public toilets were demolished in 2016 for a public transit development; the statue has since been restored.]
Und sew the graound with which I inter They Call Me Trinity Collage, Ex-Hume of the Bilk of Cauls. No footiegramps avowed, though funnds abund, for multilinguistical signs a'warning uv pickpockets plaister the walleyes. Nexus the libris. O'Carolan may never have seen a harp, but by gottfreed, the musty old tipplebrery deflatus the umpression. The famookse artefahrt eire not even hi-hi-hie enuff to reach me T'ais. Tip.
~Nassau Street to Kildare Street to National Museum of Ireland -- Archaeology~
Then passed me by la dulce Molly Malome (also no picture)--
[Note: The Molly Malone statue was relocated in 2014.]
--and it's downe to doktor Kildare-if-you-will. Snide by shied, twa corbies, wing-in-caw loik brooders and shysters. On the one hand, the long way to libberrary, on the other the mosqueeum of noahsark, and in the bacchus the leinster cheese-press of the most pussilaminously pugilistical payload of blarney as ever slipped from masser joysses pen: I means the pearlo'mint. Foosh! Forthoosh! Frowthing and Flushing! Rowr-bazzle! We have elected the Eminem, and his is ours!
At the Mookshpie's oleom of solerian arcology, I see mummificated corpusculars and longladydresses recovered from bog-sinkers, a longlonglonger canoo hyoowyn from a log, roman goblets (all hail to the Gripes!) and sundries, viking side-blown horns that go p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b-p-b like a howdoodyeridoo, and all the neopithicalmythicalgistical gohold you could eat (falsetto: then he once having his way with me had... voom! like a rat out of an aqueduct). Tip.
~Westland Row to Pearse St and back to Trinity Hotel~
Raows of bricks, tickeny ticks of syphilisation, but nobbut milch elfs tie sey.
April 24, 2009: The Oddcity.
Finn again! I nearly fall (aaaaaaaashlipheelslipperysoapygrabbracegirdlehurdlelifebeforemeorbsinspacebutterclutchjestintome) in an auldbefashionable bafftub the walls o'sandwitch are so eggsspactackalalularly alooft that oos aye clombed in all I coo fink of whas fat the ohl dweevil knievel himself could tickle mee walnuts from shnake canhyon.
And in the bright early mourning, as for the ersh brekky, how cood it be verse? Eggie-weggs (I'd like to smash 'em) cooked upside the 'ead by the hold goodyear hisself until they were voolcanized, un the lamest o'wakey bakey un bangers (why moost they dr-r-r-r-rench perfecktly good meats, fat only need a bit o'shalt and smoke, in mitrates and mite-rights oontil whee see only the roodness what is an imitayshun o'wat was a'livin' oond not what is ack-shually a'dyin' in our own pierssens). The mooshrums, wiffout even smiffinem, proved to be the only fings bearizona edibiddible.
But papers! Noose papers, loose papers, bird papers, puppy turd papers, oliver north to alaska papers, inky blinky scrawlers bemoaning the inevitable lackalearning that comes with purchoosing defective, infective, elective of fin-de-sickles doddering, votytingled machines of capitalist creams, everything filled out for you, filed down for you, gerrymandered for you, computer-hacked for you, macadamed for you, sosorrysammed for you, move on for you, nothing to see for you, exit frou-frou-through the graft shop.
~Pearse St to College St to D'Olier St to O'Donnel Bridge to Bachelors Walk etc. to Lincoln Lane / Bow Street to Old Jameson Distillery~
I wander upstream the river Livffwy (beligh that order, Claudius!) and appuander the quay, hearsay, of sum that is fey, chum and foam, incribed on loan, foreclosed, pierdunne, the lid upon many, till the idea be groan in the dust, whilst dey fisssss-h (gollum) on the banks. And then, mestands before the ingrate of barley and brass, coopper and glass, and into the mouth of Olympus I pass to the horns and hymns with all the solemnity of a Riemannian chairch surface.
Take that water away from me sire!
It struck me with Rhea so Dire!
'Tis beer is divine
And cider and wine
And whiskey to add to me fire
For Mann dusty not live on brett and butter aloam, but on jammyson and the turfs of bog. But it's all in good fun. Mash tuns and pashtuns, bot pots and trippel bestilluns, till the final tasking. Shall we refuse the liquid muse? And must we choose? Apollo may become gelatinous.
~Bow St to Arran Quay etc. to National Museum of Ireland -- Decorative Arts~
Shtaggerina-a bit be I -- to the mooseum of decorsetted artyfacticayshuns. As I conumberate the event postportebellumushroom, a stung climes to me, though it be from the Welch, but it's all still Garlic if you leek.
Old Humpty, he wove a Persse, ladies --
Embroidery sourcing from Hades!
But blenketly yarning in woofwarp,
To tune of a microscope br@ss!
Enamel close-orders a pill box,
But never embraces a tooth?
The coins and stamps
Of kings and tramps
Will bite us all boys in the sassyous, gaseous,
(tough, the coughs, as he ploughs the dough)
a fascious, trashious, youth!
~Across Rory O'More Bridge, Watling Street, to Thomas St to Echlin St to Grand Canal Pl / Pin St to Market St to Guinness Storehouse~
She peaking of whoof and wharf, across the river encounter sich whafts (whoosh!) to me the draughts of a hideandseekery. Whoof! And wharp! Rue the creational vehicular blackwater militarishional terminatlatl dumpstation: loik a Trumpt, erumpt into a volcano of fecesibullity. Sheep be-adipt, a cheery song on the lipt, we crawl into the effluvial crypt.
[Note: the tannery on Watling St near Victoria Quay is now gone, victim of a Guinness Brewery expansion circa 2012. After some Googling, I found a 1915 Kelly's Directory listing for Central Hide & Skin Company Limited, and following that lead, I found this photo and article of the remaining entrance. Here's a Google Maps street view.]
But ah, St. James! It shies in the gate goth brook, that Good, she created the whirls in sex days, or was it shirty? and rested upon the shabby. Thus was bourne guinnesses beer. I doddie around the tankery gardens, and arrive by me Pilgrimp's Prospectus, to the veiled, and shielded, whshtorehouse.
Inside: Splaints presairve us!!!!!!!!!!!!! A winkering, blinkering, lightening, frightening, neon and freon, gheshtaltuberminstergoldivervolcanusmcmanusafrothing fission of splendour, six stories of squanderous Wome (Hail, Biggus!), shapely and curvy for dhrinking. And up on the tippety whippety yes massa top (Tip), a pint and purview, a scenic askew, of Rubblin a-robbinlyround.
~Market / Bellevue / School St to Meath St to Thomas St etc. to Fishamble St to Essex St to Temple Bar and back to Trinity Hotel~
--gobblerun, past Longjohns and Odins, from swerve of lorry to bend of fender, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to rainy, drizzly, grizzly, pizzly ranks of folgers of solitune, popups inflated, storefronts ungrated, mairchants of penance, offenders of fruits, suits, meats, treats, detergents emergant, gewgaws and gimcracks to fill up a house. But wet, kolsch'd, tyred, and laggin, my feats I be dragon.
Fen through a grass widow a promise appear, meekly the Buttles deranged on a wall, "off-license" a signage proclaiming to all, and vinylly into my hands I do cradle, a Power (sans cider) to comfort instable,
Reprise "Arts Domestick:"
and clouds lift skirts,
a sun dog flirts,
and rainbows ascend to the sky.
Aye!
(Later that evening)
Begone ye, fashinashihashinobble urchins looking for places to dress up, hooke up, and smookshe! I'll have me sooper here in piece. Yet eggregate, congregate, watergate, slaughtergate, obfuscate, ye Mallow rakes do infist, the pilling shields of card games in Troy. Witness:
He: Hoahh! -- izzit me lassie, douche you phlash yurt wellttouerniquet uncle, yet here's where I fall apart un ashpire to the willow of the willingtree slash brush y branshies yet the wind up me matchmakers lussifer smoakes. Inkleweevul innto the foldher. In alldudderer words, I'm mostmust allfracted t'a yee! Whoo hue!
She: Whoof!
Exeunt All, tooking selfffffff-fffotograffs.
April 25, 2009: The Eggsodus.
Then brekkie, weggs and... skoosh@! Let us hear a pater noasher. A tater toaster. Our papa frita who art (tiste!) in Leavenworth. Five and ten for repreventing the Doanald (ack-ack-acksept no imitaciones!). A satchmo trumpet l'oeil, buryd under the Doones (Trudeau seeks, but lovely Rita fines, she Breathed). Dirty Harry's Magnum Opus. Is there a descent of man breakfast in the house? Non, non, non, sil vou plates you on-dish reeking rubher muck-eggs that would'a Gaga talking franchois-ise goat. Ba!
What is Roam with our Country's powdered feet? Finn come treat!
~Pearse St to Lombard St to car rental~
Porque te quiero, te quiero, te amo, te adoro,
Alas, no te puedo decir:
Begorrah, be gone!
Shine those loess papeles, and be Donne con the doughnuts!
~Pearse St to College St to Dame St and R137 out of Dublin~
Nerds Abroad!
The feel of the wheel, centerline is fine as lone ranger I give it the guide. Traffic flows, and glows, where I'll never knows, but I follow the sines and tangents till they lead me out.
Greene of grass (puff!) and redd of brick (cuff!) pass by. Monsantospatricios dangle the promise of a silent springinging mattress, a gimmee buffett of soylent green. Round-up giddy-cancer-kaiyyo! It was buckaroo bonsai, beleeme. Or bonzo dog doo-dah, slimey. (Ah, Sham, but indeed yoo are nun udder than old Mean Misteer Mustered Zyklon Be-Gaassed hisself!)
Yet soil we through a life of rosy-no-shows, as the cat's a-whisky-ered land a-gin on their peddypaws, until at last the faital glassy beer, attrackking well-washers by the none, and den comes the creamery and the puttersmobilexxonloshusmiralagogulfcoarse, un' whatch the swatch where yoo shoovvel me bacon-and-cabbage hashes.
Thus arrive we at the sentience that returneth us to the yellow front. Ye know that I'm only fuming, but I give out my trippute to jayjay all the same. O, dearie, so ballyfree resteth he, a refugee from the black-shirted trumpetty panty-waists filtching theyr shirken underhandywear from the jewlry and muslins, in hellveeshee o'the banshee, and dieth he and lieth she all stoned and statued, ignobbly unhomed and unrepartrificated. Alack, alass, aladdie, agave. Finn. Drink! And don't--
June 12, 2021.