Bored In Work 614 (1 Viewer)

I once saw Dublin this way. I occasionally still do but not enough to make me stay.

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I've never seen Dublin as that, but it is the greatest small city on earth.


I'm going to use quotes from men greater than myself to describe Dublin. Because I am no man to do it successfully or succinctly. I will stand on the shoulders of giants here to profess my love for Dublin because as one of it's exiles my life and where I call home is always shrouded in the shadow that Dublin lays upon it.

This saying is that "He who is tired of London is tired of life" which may have been true at some stage some generation or so back when London was evidence that the philosophy that "all great things of this world flow into the city" It's not true any more. He who is tired of London now is tired of pretending . That's what is the difference between Dublin and everywhere else. There is no room for that pretence. Being the smartest, the strongest, the most affluent person in Dublin has always been akin to laying claim to being the smartest, strongest or richest person on a sinking ship. When Oscar Wilde said that "we're all in the gutter but some of us are looking at the stars , that's us, that's us Dubs. We're all too aware that we are in the gutter, that we do live in the grime, and sure we get too familiar with the grime, too comfortable with it, apathetic towards it and ignorant but rarely insular and that's what makes us great. We're small. We're concentrated and as much as the scum, the grime the filth, the idiocy and the violence and the violence is always close - so too is family and warmth and friendship and a communal urge to keep going. From time to time we can look at the stars and each other and talk honestly about who we are where we're from and what it means to us. In short he who is tired of Dublin is tired of people.

I can understand why one might tire of people.
 
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It's shit but we have each other?
It will never be shit as long as we have each other.

I live in a city where the credo is "do not make eye contact, do not speak to strangers, become a rock, become and island, pass each other by, do not stop or expect to be stopped for, keep left, mind the gap because no one will notice or care if you slip between the cracks and disappear completely and never be found, hide your gaze in your iphone, your kindle, your copy of Neverwhere or 1984, your palms, your eyelids, your's, your's, stare into the middle distance no matter what, no laughter, no craic, nothing. Move swiftly and without deviation. You you you you !!! empty yourself out and fill the void with Chuck fucking Pallmanuik's idea of the future, Farmers markets, Ikea, real fucking ale, centralise your life amid this metropolis so that no journey is further than five tube stops or a single night bus and then pretend that you live in a something vast and vibrant with endless possibilities. Pretend it's all fine at all costs keep fucking calm and fucking carry on, because it says so on your lunch box and your matching umbrella"

And what's worse is that everyone seems to know that something is not right here, but they still pretend. With an upper lip so stiff that it seems grafted on using cartilage from the outer ear. It's hell on earth and I hate it.

It's so easy to imagine so many cities I've visited slipping under the wave of solipsism, egotism and malaise that London has. Berlin and Paris adopting the fixie and producing a trillion images of fucking seitan, Prague and Amsterdam waiting hours for the actor/graphic designer/author/photographer behind the fucking bar to finally take their order. It's so easy to see how arrogance and self importance can subsume a whole city. Convincing the occupants that they're blessed to be alive at that time in that city. Millions believing the hype, working every hour to make enough to steal a few seconds of an experience from the city they should be so glad to be in in the first place.

And then there is Dublin. And even if god it's self if god did exist and even if it stuck a tentacle down from heaven (if that existed) and that exalted tentacle set fire to the spire, a fire which shot straight upwards in one single magnificent flame, through the clouds, thousands of feet into the sky so that airliners had to deviate course and the weather services across the world all stopped in their tracks and stared at the sheer vastness of the data of it. And like a burning bush the flame explained to the world in tongues that Dublin was the centre of the fucking universe and that everything "cool" and righteous and exciting and good would hence forth spring from Dublin forever and ever til the end of time.

We, the Dubs, would still find something to complain about. Something to moan and bitch about. We'd still be united in our scepticism, our distrust, our apathy our need for imperfection. Still taking each other down a peg or two so that we all play in the mud, but fuck it so long as we're all playing together in the same mud.


Maybe you can fool yourself in other cities. Convince yourself of your own importance. Not so in Dublin. It's too fucking small. It's too close to the earth - at times so close that it feels subterranean and claustrophobic. In Dublin you can't "find yourself" nor is it possible to lose yourself either. Give thanks for small mercies.

We grow thick skin there, like avocados. And like avocados occasionally - for a fleeting moment - we're ripe for plucking, for enjoyment, for those fleeting seconds, like all the irish, we're soft and yielding and usually fucking drunk, at the centre there's a hard fucking stone, always. And we know this.

And "what is a city if not its people ?"
 

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21 Day Calendar

Matana Roberts (Constellation Records) with special guest Sean Clancy
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Matana Roberts (Constellation Records) with special guest Sean Clancy
The Workman's Cellar
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Jim White & Marisa Anderson (Thrill Jockey)
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