Red Carpet, Irish style

Last night Daniel Day Lewis and Rebecca Miller came out to the final event of the Dublin Film Festival, a showing of their film, "The Ballad of Jack and Rose." Who was there? You guessed it. Who managed to not see himself in all his beautiful aged glory (but it doesn't matter anyway because he will always be Tomas from "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" in my mind)? That's right. I also managed to miss him at the Irish premiere of "Gangs of New York" three years ago when I was here because of all the screaming girls after Leo. Bono was there that night, too. Missed him as well. I often wonder how many times I've passed him in the street and not even noticed him. I probably brushed up against Cillian Murphy and Colin Farrell, too. Or several of their look alikes. That kind of beauty isn't a rarity around here, folks. So, I'll enjoy the eye candy, famous or otherwise.

Yes, news does seem to come to me, or at least near me; however, my absolute resistance to pack journalism will always keep me on the periphery. And that's just fine with me. I'll pay attention and evaluate everything I take in, then write novels and screenplays down the road. Memoir, too. Although, everything is memoir as far as I'm concerned. . . .

So, I ended up seeing "Capote" last night since "Ballad" was sold out. I loitered as long as I could and managed to see a few famous (although not to me) folks saunter down the makeshift runway constructed outside the Savoy theatre on O'Connell Street. Then I got shooed away and I didn't feel like fighting or playing the journalist card, so I meandered up the steps to "Capote." Interesting film. My favorite part was the epitaph at the end Capote wrote for an unfinished manuscript: "There are more tears shed for answered prayers than unanswered ones."

I had to search for a quiet drink after the movie ended at 10:30. The city was still abuzz with Welsch lunatics after the rugby match. I wandered into the Octagon Bar inside Bono's Clarence Hotel in Temple Bar and ordered myself a grey goose martini. The bartender told me it would cost 24 euros. So I switched to Ketel One and paid 12.50. $30 for a fucking drink? Gives me new appreciation for my half-off martini high five thursday nights.

During the day yesterday I hung out with Aisling and Ben and then we went to her partner Michael's family's house--a house of artists, writers, students, thinkers, performers. Great fun. Lively discussion about the riots and the state of affairs in this country. Two of Michael's sisters are journalists whose bylines I've read. I got to ask them lots of questions about practicing the craft here. Great stuff.

So now it's almost half past two here, I've slept in, bathed, had some breakfast and am now considering wandering back into town to see what kind of trouble I can get into. I'm not as good at it as I once was--either I'm not trying hard enough, or I've just fucking wised up. Dublin appears to be a much more sinister place than it ever was to me before. I think this has something to do with the ways I learned to feel safe in dangerous situations, and the closer I get to myself, to honoring my body, the more perceptive I get about danger. Don't get me wrong, I'm not fearful; I think I'm just smarter.

But I miss the trouble a bit. Perhaps if I can get past that and find joy in the calm, in the tension of great conversation (which is everywhere in this city), in the beauty of a caring word, then I'll be able to move toward something greater than my destructive love of bad boys.

I might be on to something here. . . .