Y Geiriau
'My lines, all my lines, are of the tenth intensity. They are not the words that express what I want to express; they are the only words I can find that come near to expressing a half.'
The Dylan Thomas Centre is all I know in Swansea other than the (OK, not so) many blocks I walked from the train station (while eating awful Linda McCartney's vegetarian sausages) because a taxi driver refused, politely, that's true, to take me there, claiming it wasn't worth the ride, it was just down there, round the corner. He was, I was soon to find out, mistaken. Oh, well, it was a nice walk, even though I wouldn't say that particular part of the city was particularly pleasant. It wasn't unpleasant, either; it even reminded me of other cities, generic cities, even South American ones. Apart from the castle, of course. That's something I'd love to do if I ever go back there, to have a proper look at the castle. Hunt down the city's world-renowned poet as well. And, leaving the city, go to Mumbles, yes.
I've finished reading Thomas's love letters as published by Phoenix, so I thought I might as well try to finish this post. Facebook has also reminded me that, one year ago, I was having cake, champagne cake, and champagne with my friend Liz, who'd done the baking and was keeping me company at the hostel till it was time to go to the coach station. She actually went along and helped me drag my suitcase down Sophia Gardens and waited till I'd got on the bus though it was three in the morning and she'd walk all the way back to her place by herself. Diolch yn fawr, Liz, I'll always remember that, Facebook or no Facebook reminder. But what's Liz got to do with Dylan Thomas? More than would suit this particular post, so I'll leave that for another, and yet another, one.
I believe this post was supposed to serve as a review of sorts to the Dylan Thomas Centre in his hometown. I'm not into football, so that's the Swansea (Abertawe, yn Gymraeg) which interests me (nothing against football stadiums, dad and I had a lot of fun at La Bombonera ages ago - wish I could take him to Wales as well, he seems to be growing fond of it out of his fondness for me, it's beautiful, he's now convinced it's a beautiful country. It is, dad, it is). And The Centre, the poet's centre, I mean, is well worth a visit - if you, like me, would like to learn more about Mr Thomas, that is. I must have spent (*searches emails for train tickets online booking confirmation*) two and a half hours there, and I'd gladly have stayed there for at least half an hour longer, had to rush back to the station, it was a shame. Not enough time spent on the last section of the exhibition, virtually no time at all for the Famous Poem video installation.
Perhaps, if I weren't such a souvenir maniac (yes, there's a little, too little for my taste, souvenir shop there) - I had to get that tote bag ('Milk Wood? What's Milk Wood? I've been trying to translate that sentence for a while, but it doesn't make sense,' a woman said at the canteen the other day this week, in a tone I didn't quite like, but she was likely a student, a customer, so I smiled and explained, as politely as I could) and that postcard which I bought for my collection but will be mailed to a former student (once a student, always a student, they're all my students, will always be, whether they like it or not, whether I like it or not as well, let's be honest, let's make a joke). 'Love the words,' Chrystian, love them, for you (past actor, future lawyer?), for me (once a teacher, forever a teacher?), for us both (but I won't claim to be a writer), do me a favour (for I won't claim to be a writer) and love them.
That's the name of the Centre's permanent exhibition on the city's most famous poet, 'Love the Words' - and, if my memory serves me correctly, that, and not, I assume, 'Break a leg!', is what he would tell the actors before they went on stage to perform his plays. Maybe both, but it's nice to romanticise him and imagine he'd simply refuse to go with the cliché. I also found the exhibition very non-obvious, however (fortunately) unpretentious, with its touch of modernity (for want of a better word), which, I can only imagine (having read but a few of his letters and too few of his poems), suits the author's style - details are as follows:
- the displays are in chronological order (which, as I see it, is a sign of organisation and altruism - they were in order, and it still took me a while to realise that: I started from his death; you can only imagine how lost I'd have been, how much of the precious little time I had there would've been wasted had it not all been so clearly arranged!... - rather than old-fashioned stiffness) and yet so intriguing (yes, you've noticed, I lack words), with their Touch Me Please look, which went beyond a simple look and into an intention in many, if not most, cases (no, I didn't mean to add a pun here, I didn't mean 'glass cases', I meant - whatever);
- it is, as I was saying, interactive, the exhibition, and not only for the lil ones running and screaming around during a break (they suddenly, oh, the silence!, disappeared into a room with small tables, crayons and toys) from their Holiday-Activity-Day-in-Welsh-at-the-DTC (the Centre, yes)*, but also for us bigger ones, with the 'Put that orange back!' basket full of plastic oranges which the kids kept pulling up to hear the different recorded scoldings at Dylan boy, the animal-shaped plaques strategically placed at a children-friendly height (I was too self-conscious to bend down and lift them all, but then, when I got to the dog, I just couldn't help myself, a doggie, it was a doggie! lol), the computerised tables (how do you like my neologisms?) with all sorts, probably, I can't remember now, of information about the poet and about his most Famous Poem, a recording of which (in the writer's voice?) could be played for everyone to hear, the people-named plaques strategically placed at an adults-friendly height (what nice little shots I took of Henry Miller and a ridiculously stylish woman I'd never seen before and whose name I obviously can't recall), the cosy armchairs in one of which I (unashamedly and yet respectfully and as discreetly as possible had the last bit of the devilishly chocolatey cake Liz had bought and taken to Laugharne for us to celebrate my birthday the previous day, and) listened to recordings by and about Dylan Thomas (and even tried, with some success, to record onto my mobile - Caitlin describing her visit to her comatose unfaithful husband on his deathbed, 'I lit a cigarette. What was I supposed to do? I knew he wasn't there.'), that radio you can set to different 'stations' to listen to different whatever by and/or about Dylan Thomas but which I found annoyingly loud, etc.;
- it was there that I learnt that the Welsh poet is on the cover of Sgt. Pepper's, that the Dylan in Bob Dylan is there because the singer chose to name himself after him, that he served rope in a teapot at one of my once-beloved-Surrealists' meetings, that he was about to start some work with Stravinsky (portrayed by my beloved Mikkelsen in a film which is most worth watching if you, like me, love Mikkelsen, the Mads one) when disaster struck and (he died of excessive drinking, they say, including whoever was in charge of the book I've read with some of his correspondence - the Centre will explain that, while he was in no way a saint, he was being worked like hell then, as one could see, so they say, from his ill health, and, I must add, his letters, I felt so sorry for him as I read some of them, it was all too much for him, travelling to and fro across the States and then to the UK and back...), and that the suit he is wearing in one of his best-known portraits was actually borrowed (and can be seen standing-hanging, hanging-standing in a case at the exhibition).
This is a lot of 'spoilers' about the whole thing, I've just realised - sorry if you, now unlike me, very much unlike me (I'll never understand those who - comma here unwanted), feel that the 'what' is more important than the 'how' in a story. For that's what it is, this exhibition, what a wonderful exhibition - the story of The Life and Death of (Welsh Poet who Actually Wrote in English and Made it in America) Dylan Thomas. If there's one thing I can say I missed there was more of his works, to be read as he put them out and we followed him around (there is, that's true, a lovely display of his first published poems, too lovely to be fully appreciated, if I remember well, floating above our heads, dangling from the ceiling - another spoiler, oops). That was fortunate, though: I might have missed my train if there had been more reading material there. It was a delightful late morning/early afternoon, the one I still can't believe I managed to spend in Swansea between birthday in Laugharne and concert in Dublin.
I shall go back to Swansea next year, if I make it to Cardiff, that is (a fifty-something-minute train ride from Caerdydd, the journey to Abertawe is), and then I'll do the castle, I'll do the Thomas Hunting and I'll do the Words, I'll love the words, all over again. Go to Swansea, go to the Centre, see it for yourself (for there's no 'spoiler', there's no such thing as a 'spoiler', there's nothing that could spoil such a thing, chrissake). The area surrounding it also seems to be worth a stroll, if I'm not mistaken (right, I may need to spend the night in Swansea next time).
*I may joke about that, but I do like the fact that this is a kids-welcome museum (my love for them - museums, I mean, not children, lol; will you believe me now if I say I do like them as well? Perhaps just not as much. OK, I'd better shut up, it's not funny any longer -, and for words, may not even exist if I hadn't been taken to museums, and theatres, and libraries, as often as my poor kid in a poor country situation would allow it myself).
I've finished reading Thomas's love letters as published by Phoenix, so I thought I might as well try to finish this post. Facebook has also reminded me that, one year ago, I was having cake, champagne cake, and champagne with my friend Liz, who'd done the baking and was keeping me company at the hostel till it was time to go to the coach station. She actually went along and helped me drag my suitcase down Sophia Gardens and waited till I'd got on the bus though it was three in the morning and she'd walk all the way back to her place by herself. Diolch yn fawr, Liz, I'll always remember that, Facebook or no Facebook reminder. But what's Liz got to do with Dylan Thomas? More than would suit this particular post, so I'll leave that for another, and yet another, one.
I believe this post was supposed to serve as a review of sorts to the Dylan Thomas Centre in his hometown. I'm not into football, so that's the Swansea (Abertawe, yn Gymraeg) which interests me (nothing against football stadiums, dad and I had a lot of fun at La Bombonera ages ago - wish I could take him to Wales as well, he seems to be growing fond of it out of his fondness for me, it's beautiful, he's now convinced it's a beautiful country. It is, dad, it is). And The Centre, the poet's centre, I mean, is well worth a visit - if you, like me, would like to learn more about Mr Thomas, that is. I must have spent (*searches emails for train tickets online booking confirmation*) two and a half hours there, and I'd gladly have stayed there for at least half an hour longer, had to rush back to the station, it was a shame. Not enough time spent on the last section of the exhibition, virtually no time at all for the Famous Poem video installation.
'mystery' unintentional
(can't upload the photo of the poem -
and this, however cool, is not part of the video installation)
Perhaps, if I weren't such a souvenir maniac (yes, there's a little, too little for my taste, souvenir shop there) - I had to get that tote bag ('Milk Wood? What's Milk Wood? I've been trying to translate that sentence for a while, but it doesn't make sense,' a woman said at the canteen the other day this week, in a tone I didn't quite like, but she was likely a student, a customer, so I smiled and explained, as politely as I could) and that postcard which I bought for my collection but will be mailed to a former student (once a student, always a student, they're all my students, will always be, whether they like it or not, whether I like it or not as well, let's be honest, let's make a joke). 'Love the words,' Chrystian, love them, for you (past actor, future lawyer?), for me (once a teacher, forever a teacher?), for us both (but I won't claim to be a writer), do me a favour (for I won't claim to be a writer) and love them.
That's the name of the Centre's permanent exhibition on the city's most famous poet, 'Love the Words' - and, if my memory serves me correctly, that, and not, I assume, 'Break a leg!', is what he would tell the actors before they went on stage to perform his plays. Maybe both, but it's nice to romanticise him and imagine he'd simply refuse to go with the cliché. I also found the exhibition very non-obvious, however (fortunately) unpretentious, with its touch of modernity (for want of a better word), which, I can only imagine (having read but a few of his letters and too few of his poems), suits the author's style - details are as follows:
- the displays are in chronological order (which, as I see it, is a sign of organisation and altruism - they were in order, and it still took me a while to realise that: I started from his death; you can only imagine how lost I'd have been, how much of the precious little time I had there would've been wasted had it not all been so clearly arranged!... - rather than old-fashioned stiffness) and yet so intriguing (yes, you've noticed, I lack words), with their Touch Me Please look, which went beyond a simple look and into an intention in many, if not most, cases (no, I didn't mean to add a pun here, I didn't mean 'glass cases', I meant - whatever);
(oh, with a Touch Me Please look, ain't she?),
the (he still insisted in his Letters) love of his life
- it is, as I was saying, interactive, the exhibition, and not only for the lil ones running and screaming around during a break (they suddenly, oh, the silence!, disappeared into a room with small tables, crayons and toys) from their Holiday-Activity-Day-in-Welsh-at-the-DTC (the Centre, yes)*, but also for us bigger ones, with the 'Put that orange back!' basket full of plastic oranges which the kids kept pulling up to hear the different recorded scoldings at Dylan boy, the animal-shaped plaques strategically placed at a children-friendly height (I was too self-conscious to bend down and lift them all, but then, when I got to the dog, I just couldn't help myself, a doggie, it was a doggie! lol), the computerised tables (how do you like my neologisms?) with all sorts, probably, I can't remember now, of information about the poet and about his most Famous Poem, a recording of which (in the writer's voice?) could be played for everyone to hear, the people-named plaques strategically placed at an adults-friendly height (what nice little shots I took of Henry Miller and a ridiculously stylish woman I'd never seen before and whose name I obviously can't recall), the cosy armchairs in one of which I (unashamedly and yet respectfully and as discreetly as possible had the last bit of the devilishly chocolatey cake Liz had bought and taken to Laugharne for us to celebrate my birthday the previous day, and) listened to recordings by and about Dylan Thomas (and even tried, with some success, to record onto my mobile - Caitlin describing her visit to her comatose unfaithful husband on his deathbed, 'I lit a cigarette. What was I supposed to do? I knew he wasn't there.'), that radio you can set to different 'stations' to listen to different whatever by and/or about Dylan Thomas but which I found annoyingly loud, etc.;
y ci
(how do you say 'fairy' in Welsh?)
she's in the Love Letters
(but I think she was just a patron,
think he was just showing gratitude)
- it was there that I learnt that the Welsh poet is on the cover of Sgt. Pepper's, that the Dylan in Bob Dylan is there because the singer chose to name himself after him, that he served rope in a teapot at one of my once-beloved-Surrealists' meetings, that he was about to start some work with Stravinsky (portrayed by my beloved Mikkelsen in a film which is most worth watching if you, like me, love Mikkelsen, the Mads one) when disaster struck and (he died of excessive drinking, they say, including whoever was in charge of the book I've read with some of his correspondence - the Centre will explain that, while he was in no way a saint, he was being worked like hell then, as one could see, so they say, from his ill health, and, I must add, his letters, I felt so sorry for him as I read some of them, it was all too much for him, travelling to and fro across the States and then to the UK and back...), and that the suit he is wearing in one of his best-known portraits was actually borrowed (and can be seen standing-hanging, hanging-standing in a case at the exhibition).
This is a lot of 'spoilers' about the whole thing, I've just realised - sorry if you, now unlike me, very much unlike me (I'll never understand those who - comma here unwanted), feel that the 'what' is more important than the 'how' in a story. For that's what it is, this exhibition, what a wonderful exhibition - the story of The Life and Death of (Welsh Poet who Actually Wrote in English and Made it in America) Dylan Thomas. If there's one thing I can say I missed there was more of his works, to be read as he put them out and we followed him around (there is, that's true, a lovely display of his first published poems, too lovely to be fully appreciated, if I remember well, floating above our heads, dangling from the ceiling - another spoiler, oops). That was fortunate, though: I might have missed my train if there had been more reading material there. It was a delightful late morning/early afternoon, the one I still can't believe I managed to spend in Swansea between birthday in Laugharne and concert in Dublin.
I shall go back to Swansea next year, if I make it to Cardiff, that is (a fifty-something-minute train ride from Caerdydd, the journey to Abertawe is), and then I'll do the castle, I'll do the Thomas Hunting and I'll do the Words, I'll love the words, all over again. Go to Swansea, go to the Centre, see it for yourself (for there's no 'spoiler', there's no such thing as a 'spoiler', there's nothing that could spoil such a thing, chrissake). The area surrounding it also seems to be worth a stroll, if I'm not mistaken (right, I may need to spend the night in Swansea next time).
*I may joke about that, but I do like the fact that this is a kids-welcome museum (my love for them - museums, I mean, not children, lol; will you believe me now if I say I do like them as well? Perhaps just not as much. OK, I'd better shut up, it's not funny any longer -, and for words, may not even exist if I hadn't been taken to museums, and theatres, and libraries, as often as my poor kid in a poor country situation would allow it myself).
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