On the 6th of February I arrived late to the Irish Writers Centre in the fear that I’d missed the fortune cookies. The event in question was a night of Chinese and Irish literature and traditional music from both countries. Wandering through the crowd with the only recognizable face being that of Mr. Hayden (one of the organizers), I began to pass an increasing amount of empty food plates and glasses. Worried I’d arrived too late and would now be forced to wait in a graveyard of free food and drink, my heart began to sink. That was, until a guest moved to the table and took a previously thought empty bottle and poured himself a glass.

Armed now with wine, I ventured back into the crowd to talk to… no one. As I camouflaged myself behind a red lantern – the room came alive with trays of food. Tall shot-glasses filled to the brim with Chinese shrimp and noodles. Chicken and salmon satay sticks and other strange things on biscuits. With a belly fairly well equipped with free food and a large wine glass as full as I could get it without breaking into the hidden camelbag I wore to events with free booze. I retired to the doorstep to have a cigarette I hoped would steel myself for whatever lay ahead. Quietly musing on how impressed I was with the spread, I found myself talking to the kind people who run the Irish Writers Centre. Having initially been suspicious that they might present a cliquish superiority you find amongst so many writers, I was pleasantly surprised with how warm and friendly they are.

The focus of the evening was on culture and music – explicitly the sharing and preservation of such. I discovered we were leaving the year of the ‘Golden Pig’. Which happens once every six hundred years and apparently is quite auspicious and lucky

“A person born this year is likely to be a good parent. He may be easy to anger, but he is intelligent, honest, courageous, completes projects, gallant, and sincere. People born in these years are honest and straightforward. They can be relied on to see things through. They tend to be popular and make lasting friendship and are good neighbors.”

I also discovered we were entering the year of the ‘Brown Earth Rat’ (the last one was in 1948) and that in a year of the Earth Rat we cannot possibly anticipate what might happen yet. It is a year marked by the slow and steady accumulation of wealth, of change and it ends on the 25th of January 2009.

The proceedings were opened by Declan Hayden, one of the main organizers from the side of the Dublin Corporation (Dublin branch of the Irish civil service – sounds ominous doesn’t it?). Having watched and spoken to Mr. Hayden over the course of the events, you already get the sense that he is a tireless worker and that he fervently believes in his task as intercultural relations officer. His speeches were both honest and heartfelt; while at the same time managing to deliver the needed information succinctly.

We were then treated to a pieced played on the Yangqin (traditional Chinese hammered dulcimer), which was, I have to say, beautiful but painfully short. Frankly, as a lover of traditional Chinese music, I really only came to hear this and the lady who was supposed to play the Pipa, who sadly cancelled and moved her performance to a date and location I couldn’t attend.

As we moved on to the Irish poet Dermot Bolger and as he informed us that it was his birthday, I couldn’t help but find my mind wandering in thinking about the estimated fifteen million Chinese who would be trying to make their way home in time for New Year. The bus journeys they’d have to take to get from one side of China to the next sounding particularly painful. Before beginning the story of Police Chief Francis O’Neil, the man who is said to have saved Irish music (see links), the poet Bolger managed to throw in a little egotism with regard to how close his birthday was to Joyce’s.

Outside of the event, I can’t say I’m much of a fan of Bolger’s work, but I did find some things of worth within his words. In particular, his drawing a parallel to his childhood family pastime of counting the Christmas tree lights in windows around Dublin to the red lanterns around China, particularly apt. The rest of his spot seemed to rattle on around himself, giving the slight impression he may just have missed some of the point of intercultural relations. Lightly entertaining, I still feel that regardless of his birthday dinner with family, he could have either refrained from speeding through his portion like a man possessed or just declined the invitation to speak.

Next we had a four woman Irish traditional band; violin, flute, bodhrán and squeezebox, playing reels. While the bodhrán was excellent, I found myself thankful there was no bloody harp yet at the same time righteously indignant they hadn’t managed to get a piper. This little music group would reappear throughout the evening and it is at this point that the notes I had been making begin to take on a sort of irritated drunken growl.

“Irish music again – bloody squeezeboxes – feels like I’m drunk in a pub in Dingle. Out of step – butchered – fuck’s sake girls get it together – are they dropping the flutist in and out of rhythm just to piss her off? Planxty tracks I think; Smeceno Horo, Cold blow or Well below the valley…”

A Chinese woman then treated us to a piece called ‘Farewell Cambridge’ written by a fellow Chinese student who was writing a happy yet forlorn goodbye to the university they’d spend so many years studying abroad in. Obviously I must have been paying far too much attention to her words as my notes trail off here, returning only to write;

“…followed by a reading in Chinese of the 1948 no wait she said 1947 – masterpiece – ‘Fortress Besieged’ a comedy of misadventures about a bumbling everyman.”

The reading was in Chinese and I’d be lying to you if I said I could understand her, but there was a clear audible rhythm to her words and as the gap in my notes from when she was speaking in English shows, the lady whose name I have so dreadfully neglected to make note of, was an excellent speaking. Declan Hayden followed her to read the translation of the piece and once again the evening benefited from Mr. Hayden’s ability to orate as from the translation, I can only suspect that were I to read the book, I may well find myself in agreement with its label as a masterpiece.

After some more wonderful Yangqin, we were then treated to more Irish music accompanied this time by a male Irish dancer. By treated, I should probably say, subjected to. My notes now, although running off into a sentence that appears to slew off into guttural swearing, do however sum it up in the beginning,

“…the fuck? Irish dancing is just bloody pointless when you can’t see the feet. Just a man with straight arms and an odd expression, jiggling. Hm he looks vaguely like a sex offender leaning against a dryer on spin cycle in the launderette.”

All in all I enjoyed the night and wish more were done to both host and publicize such events in Dublin. I am at the same time thankful to the powers that be who organized an invitation for me to attend this night of free booze cultural exchange. At this point though, my notes seem to segue off into the sort of ramble you hear from tramps where only the last sentence makes any real sense. But, I guess if you made it this far and weren’t pissed off by my starting a sentence with but – I’ll round this piece and the mountain’s coverage of Chinese New Year in Dublin off with them.

“Marriage is like a fortress besieged. ? Am I the only one who got the point? Why are we talking about marriage? What was that poet fucker talking about his childhood stammer for? What the fuck does all this have to do with Chinese New Year and intercultural dialogue?”

“More bloody dancing. Some fucker with an accordion too.”

“No Pipa? How many times will I let them trick me with the promise of live Pipa performances before I learn?”

“Red Panda!!”

“Closing with the Yangqin dulcimer and that fucker on the accordion playing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ was a stroke of crazed genius. Sounds amazing. Thankfully the rest of the musicians are just mumbling along, if that tart with the squeezebox fucked this one up I’d have to burn her house down.”

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