I admit, to leave the lax countryside behind and take any part in the taut city streets is somewhat demanding. I just have to be in the mood and the moment can’t be sprung upon me – I need time to adjust to the thought. My own quirk, my own failing. It just doesn’t appeal until I’m there, until I’m in the swim.
Still, today, lovingly forced to take adventure, I finally advanced towards Oscar Wilde’s memorial at Merrion Square where he sits alone and aloft a stone with a wry smile forever etched on his pale face. Thought is not catching.
A boy, a man, a something, jumped into the Liffey. He resurfaced, or so I overheard some onlookers say, and was met by three police cars and three fire engines (all for a desperate swimmer). There were the drunkards who even with smiles fail to bring about comfort in me. The presence of suffocating mortification with every product I (somehow) accidentally let fall to the floor in the company of others. All plastic or food based so avoiding the ‘you break, you buy’ ruling. I had a Chinese food buffet (for the first time): I enjoyed it.
All the while I could not remove Glen Miller from my mind. My very own pressed soundtrack.
[Woody Allen and music from his must-see movies.]