Somehow, in between office and bar work and a wedding, I managed to write a commissioned text for a two-person exhibition opening in September, finishing it on Tuesday.

The text is, I think, competent: it discussed the work without relying on theory or jargon. I used to have a tendency for lyricism, but now I prefer to write as plainly as possible. Sometimes lyricism disguises a lack of understanding or sensitivity toward the examined object. I want to be completely honest, even ruthless, with myself.

One of the artists emailed me: “Oh your essay is something else - really surprised at your extraordinary agility and profundity of thought blended into such poetry and precision. I'm  absolutely mind boggled. Thank you so much. It produced tears and keening.” Poetic and precise, I’ll take that.

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Yesterday, as a post-assignment treat, I accompanied Chris on a trip to the National Botanic Gardens in Dublin, which are said to be a miniature version of the Kew Gardens. She went into the herbarium to take photographs of specimens, and I wandered around the grounds, into greenhouses and orangeries and walled gardens.

Magpies and bold grey squirrels hopped under trees and across paths. Turtles and moorhens sunbathed at the edge of a pool. A grey heron waited patiently in the river Tolka. I encountered a rag tree: a hawthorn tree with boughs weighed down with offerings, hopes in ribbons, scarves, paperclips, friendship bracelets, hair ties, etc. I got coffee in Glasnevin cemetery, among the ladies who lunch and the dead. Do gardens dream? They dream in flowers and small animals and memories of sunlight and rain.

I was light of step and mind. My pockets contained only a pen, a wee notebook, phone, and lighter. I wasn’t responsible for anything but my curiousity. I was happy.

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