July 17, 2017
Number 21, The Sea Road, Crescent Close, Galway. Turns out I have rented an apartment, with two bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room. The livingroom window looks out on the big gray Catholic church where Pat Jourdan used to exhibit her devotions. The bedroom window looks over a neighborhood, where a few minutes ago a brother and sister were playing basketball in a back yard. The flight from JFK was not very eventful, because I was asleep nearly every second of it. My legs were in pain–so swollen my pant legs cut into them-- and the angle of the First Class seats was blessed and soporific relief. Drowsed off nevertheless on the bus between here and Shannon. The land between Shannon and Galway is known to me. Even the shapes of trees were familiar, and the distant gray of the Burren, and the little shops in Ennis and Gort. My left foot sole is blistered for some reason, and my legs are engorged, so going around the town was hard this afternoon, but go I did, until I almost literally could not take another step. And then there were the several narrow flights of stairs leading to my room. . . but I DID make it, and napped, and think I am ready to set out again. .
10:30. Walked–not at all happily–to the Black Box Theater and saw Woyzeck in Winter , a remarkable conflation of Die Winterreise and Woyzeck. It was quite wonderful in every aspect of concept and realization, as one has come to expect from Irish participants in the Arts Festival. I kept thinking, “who would have THOUGHT of this?” Boys slept spread-eagled behind the hedges I passed on my way to the theater, at peace in their own environment.
Stopped at the bar that was the Pump House fifteen years ago, where I had joyful nights. This night was joyful enough.
Legs, hip, foot in agony. Will I make it through tis adventure?