Annotated Dublin

Thankyou father, for when you sat near to me at the door to Trinity, I felt your heavy hand on my shoulder. Thankyou. I knew that you were giving me a tip-off. As if to say, 'I have walked with you for all these years and now you are free to go in. Find the Book of Kells and the heavenly illuminated texts. Let your eyes feast on them.'

After many years, I wanted to return to those streets. The sandy walls of Trinity. The box set of dreams. Re-packaged. I touched the tea-set, yes the one with the figures of Bloom on the side, dressed in blue. Bloom. I did not follow dressy Ulysses crowds of pretend-to-be. I did not follow walking tours and Davy Byrnes open sandwich fillers. I wanted to see Gerty and dive into Night-town. I dressed up as a dripping, snorting pig and cantered through soft hoof-hound-holes. I ripped up and down and knocked small children legs flying. Weeeeeee. Snort. Garuf. And that kind of thing. I went into hide-outs and under the pebbles where Gerty left a tiny wet patch on the shore.

I pushed cyclists, rollerskater bois out of the way. Joyce would have loved that whizzing, fizzing sound that they make on the lonely pathways on Sandymount. I like to trace the Polly loves Davvy on the seat-graves we make. Shoddy days with make-believes. Climb to the top of the tower and dive into the sea with naked men, aged seventy-four. I am a mermaid. Goosebump and shiver, naked among thieves, old men peeping a gawy mouth under the water. Wide, wide, wide. Your tendons, aged, tightening in the freezing, lusty air. I dive downwards. Slip-holes and blow-holes, right through the white air. It's like the centre of a snow-drop. Even maybe grey-green. I look through old age and see eyes. Hold my hand, old man and dive, dive, dive. Old eel man, your heels on my shoulders.