In a bus from Dublin, 2 hours to Tyrone Guthrie’s estate, by way of London and New Orleans. Hearing we’ll be jumping another (bloody) hour ahead next week. Sleepstrewn through a highway bus astride cowflecked Irish country patch. Rachel is reading Marx.
The Irish gent across the aisle is speaking about clever insanity in the form of a megalomaniac to make something political happen – anything political can happen – in the wake of the political collapse. He is talking about personal power being transferred to the state and cheap labor and immigrants and whatever might be the next religion.
Last week, in New Orleans, we saw Brad Pitt’s green houses staggerring with sober Easter exhaustion through the still very vacant, and abandoned , now fields, of the lower ninth. We shoveled a back yard of glass shards, concrete bricks, and clay, and removed pigeon shot and complete bird carcasses stripped of meat, ensconced in their own fecal dust, from the walls.
Many people have not painted over the now political graffiti on the pastel dinosaur exteriors of their dying homes: dog food, SPCA, dog in back, 14 09, 0 (bodies), home- this was home.
I can’t tell if it’s a highway.