I didn't get much sleep the night before, so I had extra coffee to compensate, but this meant I spent the day zipping through tasks, then crashing, and I wasn't sure what state I'd be in for Riverrun, Olwen Fouéré's adaptation of Finnegan's Wake, no less, and for which I'd bought tickets months before. I only knew that that Fintan O'Toole had said of it that we 'do not comprehend but we do apprehend'.
What to say about it? Every ounce of Fouéré, body and soul, went into that hour. Fading in and out of focus, in and out of comprehension, catching batt on tarf for the Battle of Clontarf in a tide of sound and motion, for example, but having not a clue what was afoot more often. It seeped in somehow - apprehended more than comprehended? - and in the end it was if it was all a dream, my own, not Fouéré's or Joyces. Crossing the East Link Bridge this morning I looked at the river beneath with a new appreciation.