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Thinking inside a box Wednesday June 29, Dublin I don't know if this is really a 'travelblog' any more, now that I have decided to stay here for a while, so I have removed that reference from the header. I'm not sure, either, if I should still keep bothering to write 'Dublin' at the beginning of each new entry. I don't think that I am quite 'travelling' in the sense that most people use the term - more like 'searching'. Travelling is an exotic activity that one undertakes as a temporary respite from the usual task of 'living'. When I meet other Australians they often comment, 'So, ya doing the whole travelling thing eh?' Or if I talk of plans to go to London , it's: 'Yeah, do the whole London thing eh?' I get stuck trying to explain that I'm not doing any whole thing. Nothing could be more repulsive for me than to follow a course so conventional that it could be referred to as a 'whole thing'. I am not travelling in that sense; I am living. This is not a respite; this, for me, is all there is. And even if all that is just a frame of mind, I still value the distinction. * * * I am becoming a little concerned about the publicity job. Not panicked. (Breathe deep now, it's only four months, it's just a job.) Just a little concerned. I have been reading some of the Directors' promotional writing, and I think it is shit. They write waffle - line upon meaningless line of vague phrases about 'commitment to quality', 'excellence', 'leading provider of...' - just any super-positive corporate cliche that doesn't actually have any explicit meaning. Have you ever noticed that about corporate language? Like politicians, what they specialise in is words that can't be pinned down, words that avoid making any clear or verifiable statement. Oh, I almost forgot 'unique' ... I hate it when marketing spiels call something 'unique' without explaining why it qualifies as such. For me, the low point of our existent promotional materials here at the academy is the paragraph on the page introducing the company, which begins: 'The year 2000 was the start of a new millennium, and it was also the year that ____ Academy burst onto the scene.' That really appalled me. So does this mean that I will be expected to write shit too? There doesn't have to be a conflict, as long as they don't expect me to write like they do. I like to think that marketing can actually be a noble job, since there isn't any good reason why promotional writing must intrinsically be crap. I think I just need to stay calm, and be a good negotiator. I should be able to come up with material that satisfies us both. What I can't decide is whether I should try to talk with the Directors about what I think is wrong with thie previous promos. I should mention that they are amiable and reasonable people. But are they going to be offended? Or is it best to lay everything on the table? So far my job has consisted mostly of internet research, and I have enjoyed getting to know the Beast a little more deeply. Over the last four days, two sites in particular have attracted my recommendation:
Monday June 20 (Summer Solstice), Dublin I started my new job today, as Temporary Marketing Executive / PR Assistant at the design academy. I had no idea that there was any such thing as a 'Temporary Executive'; neither did I realise how little executives get paid. I had always thought I would be raking in the cash, and driving one of those extra-big Commodore 'Executive' models. Damn! As can only be expected, within a couple of hours of being offered this job my phone started ringing with other offers coming through (this after two weeks of 'radio silence', dead man's land, pissing in the wind), so I now work not just as a Temporary Executive but as a Bar Service Executive in a nightclub also. The place is called Club M (God that is so lame - I mean, what is that?) and it is one of those completely characterless, overpriced places that every Western city seems to have at least one of: commercial house music ('handbag house', my favoured term), catwalks with railings voyeuristically overlooking a central dancefloor, girls in crop-tops and guys in deadly clouds of aftershave. Nothing that offensive really, just so... so... cliched. On the positive side, thanks to asinine Dublin licensing laws I get out of work at 4am (earlier than I would expect for club work), and get to ride home in the first blue glow of morning. With the summer solstice upon us, the night here now lasts only from about 11pm until about 4am. I love this. On Friday and Saturday nights people have not even had the chance to get tired, so the light comes up with the inner-city streets still busy with drunken crowds, bumping into each other and flirting fearlessly. As I ride home down Rathmines at 4:15, there is a slow stream of people, every nationality, walking or stumbling home arm-in-arm, talking too loudly, pashing impatiently by the roadside. As dusk and dawn get closer, they begin to unfold more slowly, so that each transition pauses at its cusp for about an hour of deep blue half-light. People seem to respond to this, and capture something from the apparent stillness of the diurnal cycle. Or maybe that's just how I see things... how I want to see things.
Thursday June 16, Dublin Yesterday I was in the city about 8pm , and very hungry. Not wanting to spend too much money, I went into a supermarket, where the best thing I could find was a lone blueberry muffin sitting loose in the 'bakery' section. I grabbed it and headed for the checkout. At the checkout there was a long queue, and since I was hungry, I started nibbling as I waited. This nibbling was allowed some five minutes to develop, so that by the time I got to the cash register I was left holding the paper wrapper containing about half a mangled, crummy ex-muffin. I said to the young man on the register: 'Um, I wanted to buy this muffin, but I think someone might have been eating it.' He became embarrassed and turned quite red, mumbling some vague agreement that yes, it did certainly appear to have been half-eaten. 'So they don't normally look like this?' I asked. 'No. Do you still want to buy it?' 'Yes, why not? I'm sure it will still taste fine.' He looked even more embarrassed. 'Is there any discount on it, since it's been half-eaten?' He looked around him in confusion, and said no, there was no discount. He typed in a code to the cash register, and told me it would cost €1.59. He told me that if I bought it, then took it to management they might be able to organise some sort of refund. 'So if I buy this half-eaten muffin, then take it to management, I can get a refund on it.' I clarified. 'Yes, I think so,' he said, obviously wanting me to go away. I did. * * * I feel that accepting the marketing job is a turning point for me. I think it may actually be my first ever engagement with salaried full-time work. It runs counter to some of my beliefs about money, society and the urban environment. I am definitely making a compromise with some things that I wish were otherwise, but I am making this compromise consciously and deliberately, after much meditation. I have experimented with alternatives. Basically, I don't think that people spending most of their lives engaged in wage labour while immersed in urban drudgery is a good thing. I don't think it is very conducive to happiness, mutual care or depth of experience. What is more, the property system, which to me is nothing but exploitation and theft, forces people to resort to mortgages that will in turn keep them bonded to their urban wage labour for decades. The overriding concern for money grows beyond its practical roots as a useful tool of barter, and begins to blunten the many other possible directions for human potential. None of these are original ideas. But if I believe in them, why the compromise? I have been listening to this Jamaican rap recently. This fellow, calling himself 'The Rastabomba', speaks about living in a hut in the hills, growing vegetables, setting up solar panels. But I ain't got no hut, and if I built one, whoever 'owned' the land would be sure to kick me off sooner or later. But The Rastabomba then adds:
He also says that 'The Great Equaliser is coming to equalise mankind, and all the money in the world won't buy dem a cup of water', which I am not so sure about, though I would love to believe.
Tuesday June 14, Dublin Finally I have been offered a decent job - working on a publicity campaign for a design academy that is trying to recruit new students from the UK . This, after I had spent the last couple of days applying for jobs in bars, laundries, hotels, even a stinky kebab shop. Supersticiously, perhaps, I believe that I was ultimately offered the publicity job because I did not think I had any hope of being offered it. They had plenty of reasons not to offer me the job, plenty of ways to question my credentials, but for some reason I inspired confidence. I think I said some lucky things in the interview. I have applied for so many jobs over the last couple of months for which I thought I was perfectly qualified, and would probably be offered the position - and I failed to capture any of them, picking up only short temporary positions instead. When I feel confident, people seem to doubt me. When I feel sceptical, people seem to be convinced. Since things generally don't seem to work out how I hope they will, I have employed the strategy of deliberatley not hoping, and in this case it has proved to be successful. In the news: An Oxford undergraduate has been fined, after a most peculiar run-in with the constabulary: the young man approached a mounted policeman and asked him if he was aware that his horse was gay. When the officer failed to respond, the undergrad pressed his point, questioning whether the policeman was comfortable with his mount's sexuality. At this point the policeman radioed for reinforcements, and two patrol cars arrived on the scene, with a group of officers cornering the student and arresting him. He was later fined £80 for one of those vaguely-worded offences that can clearly be applied to any person or situation.
Sunday June 12, Dublin After hitching back from Ennis last Sunday (I missed the last bus but then beat it back here anyway by the power of the raised thumb), I have spent a full week back in the world of unemployment. Horrible. There has been a sudden flood of college students looking for work after finishing their year's study, and this has made my unpleasant task all the more so. I hate the uncertainty of it, the waiting for the phone to ring, the sense of looming economic doom. The way you start off by applying for jobs you would actually like, and which might pay decently, but then gradually lower your standards until you will take anything . Some relief then to have a nice sprawling Saturday night. I started off the evening drinking beer alone in my room. My housemate had invited me to a party, but since I wouldn't know many people I thought I would wait a while to let them get a bit more drunk and sociable before I turned up. Also, I had plans to go to a techno club on my own later on, and, conversely, didn't want myself to be too drunk before doing this. So I sat in my room until 10pm , drinking a can of lager slowly. I was working on a short story, entitled Jefferson Wears a Tie. It is about a man, Jefferson, who wears a tie. With two pages written I think it is very promising, although my character hasn't actually got the tie on yet. I ventured to the party rather timidly. This was the second time I have been to a party since coming to Ireland , and it makes me a little nervous only knowing one person - my flatmate Steve. Going to a party in Adelaide, where I am bound to know most of the people is a very casual affair (and this can even make it a bit unexciting, predictable); going to a party in Melbourne I would usually know a significant minority - maybe a quarter of the people. But here it is a sea of unfamiliarity. I get a little worried, wondering before hand if it will be awkward, if I will have nothing to say for myself, if people will decide that I am an arsehole for one reason or another. Maybe I worry just a bit whether I am in fact an arsehole. Anyway, the 'do' last night was fine - lots of people, very drunk, most of them from assorted faraway nations, and many newly arrived - so most of them were in the same boat as me. To extend a rather pointless metaphor, we were sharing a boat on the sea of unfamiliarity. Whatever.
French people
A sly fellow
I left the party about 1am and went to a specific club in the city centre, host to a techno night I had heard about that sounded like it would be my kind of thing. I had been meaning to go to this for weeks. And indeed, it was great. It was nicely set in a downstairs blackened vault, people were there to dance, and not to look cool or try and find an easy root, and the music was exactly what I had hoped for: deep, pulsing, lush, subtle, foot-sliding, shoulder-shrugging type techno (the sound always makes me shrug my shoulders forwards). This brand of music seems to me to be like a cult, only really known of by a few. You hardly ever hear it outside of the clubs that specifically devote a night to it. I was pretty much in a reverential ecstasy of total audio-physical engagement, when the bloody music stopped. At first I thought this must be a power failure, but no, there's some ridiculous law here making the club finish at 2:30am. I'd only been there an hour! This is completely absurd for a techno club, which is of its essence a very late-night music. I would like to hereby lodge a complaint with the Irish Government, who I know read my blog on a regular basis, alleging that they are insane fools and should immediately retract all and every law that might have a detrimental effect on the world of lush techno, which they of course do not and may never understand, and should therefore leave to its own devices. I went back to the party. It was still going strong. I drank punch slowly and sat smoking a nargilah (one of those Turkish apple-tobacco bong things) with some Frenchies. I managed to get one of them to exclaim, 'But this is not bread! ', which I believe to be the archetypal statement of French cultural angst. Some others had been doing coke and had got so high that they started smashing up furniture in the backyard, leading to a fight as they were forcibly ejected by the hosts. What a fine drug. For some reason (not a chemical reason anyway) I did not feel any tiredness, and sat up until the morning, which just about takes me through until now.
Me, unawares
Gabriel seems regretful
If I don't get a job tomorrow I am considering becoming a coke dealer. I think I would get to wear sunglasses.
Me and flatmate, Steve, looking sprightly at 6am .
Sunday June 5, Ennis (Republic of Ireland) I am on my first trip into the Irish countryside - 'the Real Ireland', as everyone calls it, but hopefully nothing to do with 'the Real IRA'. I am on the West coast, in County Clare , the capital of which is a large town called Ennis. Almost any county on the West coast of Ireland comes with high recommendations, but I chose Clare specifically because some of my ancestors reputedly came from this neck of the woods. Just as everyone says, it is very very green out here; green of land and grey of sky, misty, and it has so far rained non-stop - but a light misty rain. It is not really cold, just cool. It is 'summer'. The people are very friendly out here, and kind of provincial, in a good way. Some of them speak in an accent so thick that I really struggle to understand - and this is after six weeks in Dublin, acclimatising myself to the milder dialect of the capital. The provincial accents in Ireland are all different, and all beautiful. Out here, it is like a whimsical murmuring. Many sentences are prefaced with a quick sure: 'Sure you'll be able to...' etc. I find this idiom very comforting. This morning I hitched from Ennis to a village called Killadysert, or Kildysert, or Chill an Disirt, depending on which sign you read. This is where one branch of my ancestry, the Clearys, are said to have come from. So I set out in the continuous fine rain, and made my way there quite easily in a couple of lifts - there weren't many cars around, but of those that did come by only a few passed me before one would stop. One driver told me that there is quite a strong hitching culture out here, due to the lack of public transport (Killadysert for instance has none). The village itself was pleasant - not the prettiest I have ever seen, but by no means ugly. A worthy enough place in which to imbue some sense of belonging. At first there weren't many people around, but each one that I saw I asked about the Clearys, and looked into their faces searchingly, testing how much they looked like my aunts and grandparents. I can satisfactorily say that a number of the local people looked not unlike my aunts and grandparents. As for the Clearys, there are many around that village, and I met none of them. I went to mass, which was presided over by a particularly intense young priest, Father Neil Dargan. As he gave each person the Eucharist, he seemed to have 'a moment' with each, looking the parishioner in the eye meaningfully and pronouncing: 'This is the body of Christ'. It becomes quite a gory ritual, when you bother to put that much meaning into it. After mass I chatted with Father Dargan, asking him about the parish register, and if by any chance it would hold information about emigrations from the parish. Our conversation was periodically interrupted by old men leaving the church, stopping by to greet the priest. They all had names like Mick Keown and Ryan Fitzpatrick. One thing that continues to amaze me (illogically) in Ireland is how everyone has such incredibly Irish names. There are also quite a few names that never really seemed to make it into the export market - like Padraig, and Ciaran - and these as a rule are all pronounced completely differently from how you'd expect. Other Gaelic words are all pronounced, as a rule, in such a way that they are not quite distinguishable from a very drunk hobo saying 'fuck'. (I don't believe that this thesis is inconsistent with my sister's interpretation of Gaelic as the sound a dog would make if it could talk.) Killadysert, like Ennis, is on the banks of the dark and churing Shannon river. Father Dargan told me that there is a ruined monastery on an island out in the river. Once a year, parishioners from Killadysert and parishioners from a town on the other side of the river all go out in little boats and hold a mass in the ruins. He said it is a wonder to behold. The Clearys from Killadysert went out to South Australia some time around the middle of the Nineteenth Century, fleeing the ravages of the Great Famine, I presume. The capital of South Australia is Adelaide, where the Cleary-derived branch of my family now live. And in Adelaide there is a football team, the Crows, who raise great passion among many Adelaideans. My aunts and grandparents are among the passionate; they are supporters of the sort who might have tears brought to their eyes by the fortunes of the game. And I am not immune to these feelings: I sure was happy when the Crows won their back-to-back premierships in the 1990s (heretic that I am for not being able to quote the years!) This too, I suppose, is about finding a sense of belonging. Now, one of the pubs in K- is called the Crow's Nest, and I went in for a beer. When you arrive in an Irish town, there really is nothing else to do except select a pub and go for a beer. Behind the counter of this particular pub they displayed a plaque pledging allegiance to the Adelaide Crows. This was just coincidence - the plaque was brought back by the owner after a holiday, and not because he knew anything about the Clearys from K- emigrating to South Australia. But isn't it strange how coherently symbols link things together! Sometimes I feel as if Sigmund Freud has a guiding hand behind the universe, dropping in place all the symbols my head needs to make a story, not unlike a coded dream. I think Freud essentially discovered narrative in our mental lives - he refused to let anything be random; rather, everything we do, think, notice, remember, forget, became the fragmentary expressions of a narrative which exists in completeness in our subconscious. And that is why he has had such an enduring influence on literary theory: because he set an example for reading hidden narratives into everything. * * * Father Dargan wasn't able to help me trace any ancestors, but I was glad enough to have made the pilgrimmage, and realise, for once, that some time in the distant past I did actually come from somewhere. I think it has only really hit me recently how we Australians lack cultural continuity. Over here in Europe it is quite normal to live where your family have lived, more or less, for hundreds, if not thousands of years. In Australia, of course, none of us have that, except for the Indigenous people who are now like exiles in their own land anyway. The discontinuity of Australian heritage reminds me again of the Joyce's dictum: silence, exile and cunning . Now that is something I can relate to.
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