Today turned out to be a cold wintry day with an overcast sky. The Artic winds would not let up while the sun battled on for a comforting hint of spring. Several university students swung up a peaceful protest march on O'Connell street this afternoon. They blared out denunciations on Scientology and urged the rest of the strolling, window-shopping public to join them in the fray. Someone approached me too incidentally but I could only smile my disinterest. However, it was quite the spectacle.
Many dressed like Halloween creatures in long black garb and wore dark sunglasses for an added effect. Some mannequin-ed up a freeze, standing incredibly still and bowing their heads dramatically - with what may only be described as some sort of silent meditation - while their friends waved placards and banners as enthusiastically and as high up in the air as they could. The posing models playacted death and could have easily masqueraded as professional performers.
On a brighter note, you just know it's spring when Eason starts advertising its lively book and author events and I was pretty fascinated by the brightly-coloured leaflets in its store today. I bought The Observer and Sunday Tribune, adoring both papers for their indepth reviews, commentaries and detailed - no holds barred sort-of-thing - investigative reports.
I was also pleased to see 40-year old British playwright Roy Williams featured in a double-page spread in the Observer today. Known for his gritty urban plays where characters combine the roles of tough criminals with what may hopefully be, empathy and compasssion from watchful observers; Williams currently has 3 plays in performance at various spots in England. He is presently in Jamaica, conducting reseach for his next play. It was immensely gratifying to know that Williams had made his name from pure talent and not a celebrated writing course.
I had earlier bought Henrik Ibsen's famous play called A Doll's House and so look forward to devouring it as soon as I have finished Carey.
I have also gathered together, the neglected disjointed scenes of my play and have begun re-writing them. Oh...I write everywhere these days; in bed, curled up on an armchair or on the living-room rug but sadly, never at the writing table. It's nothing more than a white elephant at the moment. I like the feel of a wide space around me to see my books and literary journals scattered everywhere while I write and to feel comfy at the same time. I am also writing other things. My little library now holds such a motley mix of books thanks to my whims and fancies that I simply can't make sense of it all.