Bloomsday on Broadway

At Symphony Space, on 95th and Broadway. Organized and run by Isaiah Sheffer – this was their 26th year.

Yesterday was exhilarating, hysterical, interesting, sometimes boring, fun, challenging, and at times revelatory. It was also an awesome escape. So needed. I am so glad I did it. It was like we were all in this Outward Bound project together, or something. It was a test of endurance at times. Other times, it was so fun you were like, “Did 3 hours just pass? It felt like 20 minutes.” Those of us who had all-day tickets got to know each other by sight, and we would smile encouragingly at each other, as we got another beer, or stepped outside to make a phone call, or stood up to stretch our legs. There were many who came and went … You could buy tickets for part of the day, for one section, for two sections – whatever worked for you. The newbies would be ushered in at the breaks between sections. And as people flooded down the aisles, other people flooded UP the aisles – a constant flow. The theatre was the most packed in the late afternoon. I stood in the back then, because I needed to stretch my legs, and have a bite. But other times I was in the front row. Or the 5th row center. Or the 8th row aisle. Or in the balcony. It was general seating, so if you got up to go get a bite to eat, or go to the bathroom, you gave up your seat. But that was no big deal, there were always seats to be had.

Over to the side of the lobby is a small backstage corridor where they had a cafe set up – with food going on all day, which was a godsend. It was Bloomsday-inspired food, with pears (in honor of Molly), and gorgonzola, and Irish soda bread, and Irish stew, tea – and also beer. Thank God. To paraphrase Jo at the beginning of Little Women: “Bloomsday wouldn’t be Bloomsday without a bit of alcohol!”

There were people there – Irish luminaries – Frank McCourt, Frank Delaney, Fiona Walsh, Colum MacCann (who organized my favorite Bloomsday celebration I ever went to – I had forgotten about the random Wall Street dude, who wandered in to what he thought was a normal Happy Hour – only to find a bunch of drunk people singing the entire score to Oliver – we had been drinking all day, and the Bloomsday festivities had wound down … anyway, I had forgotten about that dude, and his beautiful response to what we were all doing. I’m laughing out loud!! Ha!) Anyway – Colum MacCann was there yesterday, he read Buck Mulligan in the first chapter – and Stephen Bloom in a couple others. There was a rotating cast. David Marguiles was there – he read Bloom, he also read the unnamed narrator in the Cyclops section (“says I, says I, says I …”) – just wonderful!! He just took huge BITES off the language – terrific.

Joe Grifasi was there – he apparently has participated in Bloomsday on Broadway for years. I befriended him. Or he befriended me. I recognized him instantly – but didn’t know his name, and now obviously I will never forget it. I laughed, as we shook hands – “I totally know your face – but what’s your name now??” Very nice man. We had a long conversation about Ullysses, and also New Jersey, and also regional theatre (focusing on Trinity – since I grew up going to Trinity – we actually had some people in common, small world) – and Richard Jenkins – and lots of other things. He loved my name. I kept running into him at the bar. “Hello again …” “Hi, Joe!” “Hey, Sheila, how’s it going …” Then, 25 minutes later, I’d see him up onstage, reading Mr. Power, or Martin Cunningham. He also played “The Citizen” in The Cyclops episode. The event had that kind of casual energy to it – it was lovely. How often does THAT happen?

After the Eumeus episode – there was a break in the Ulysses action. This was at around 7 or 8 pm. Two more episodes to go – Ithaka, and then of course – Penelope, with Fionnula Flanagan reading the entirety of Molly Bloom’s monologue. There were still hours to go. But there was a break – and many letters of James Joyce’s were read. Actually – letters to and from Joyce. We heard from Nora, we heard from Ezra Pound – we heard from Yeats – and there is also that fantastic letter by George Bernard Shaw – not to Joyce, but to someone else … and one gentleman – I’ll have to look up his name because he was goosebump-worthy – my GOD – he read all of Joyce’s jealous sexy letters to Nora, in 1909. Joyce was back in Ireland, and became convinced that Giorgio was not his son, and that Nora had been a whore. The letters are crazy. But so beautiful, too. Absolute raw passion. These jealous letters led to the infamous “dirty” letters – which are basically an early 20th century version of phone sex. Nora wrote Jim sexy letters – he wrote sexy letters back – Nora, I think, wanted to keep him from going to whores, while he was away from her – so she sent him panties thru the mail, stuff like that … But leading up to that are these letters of a tormented Joyce, thinking that he was getting “the leavings” of other men, with Nora. (This was all pretty much unfounded). His love for her, his need for her – is palpable when you read these letters – it’s almost painful – and this actor – what was his name?? My God, he just WENT there. It took my breath away. There’s a point during one of these letters when Jim starts to tell Nora how much he loves her, and he starts to cry as he writes – he says, “I am sobbing now as I write this …” This actor, whoever he was, had so followed Joyce’s emotional thruline of the letter – without seeming manufactured, or actor-y – he was just embodying what Joyce had written – and at that point, as Joyce said, “I am sobbing now as I write this …” this man just filled up with emotion. It was heart-wrenching. I have tears in my eyes now remembering. I was in the 9th or 10th row – and I felt his emotion grasp through my skin. He was a gentleman in his 50s, white hair, a suit, glasses … It was marvelous. One of my favorite parts of the whole day. His imagination so flexible and fluid he could just flow into Joyce’s point of view … he let himself “go there” and I was moved to tears. He finished that letter – and we all spontaneously burst into applause and cheers.

I am not sure what time Fionnula Flanagan took the stage. She was supposed to go on at 9 – but I think it was more like 11. It takes her 3 hours to read Molly Bloom’s monologue – and I got out of there at 2 a.m. Those of us left in the theatre were the true die-hards. There were maybe 40 of us there, sitting scattered throughout the Symphony Space. Up in the balconies, over on the sides, the middle. A man was snoring behind me – which was so hilarious because Molly Bloom’s whole monologue takes place with Leopold snoring at her feet. So it was perfect. I nodded off at a couple points – not due to boredom, but due to sheer exhaustion – and then I would wake up, and it would still be going on – and I would dip into it, like a river. Doze off … her voice in my ears … wake up … her voice … laughter … It was quite a profound experience, and I havent’ figured out how to talk about it yet. It has something to do with the subconscious. People weren’t sitting there politely, and academically by that point. We were lying all over the seats. We leaned forward. People had their shoes off, and were lolling their legs over the seats in front of them. And Fionnula – with her thick thick shining shock of white hair … and her deep navy blue gown with the spangles … sat in a big armchair on the dark stage, with her feet up – bare feet – a bottle of water beside her – the script in loose pages in her hand (she would drop the pages off to the side of the chair when she was done with each one) … and a microphone bent gently to her mouth … It was one of the most riveting three-dimensional performances – embodiments – I have ever seen. She was with us – she was talking to us – and yet she was also completely private. You felt the darkness of her bedroom, the chamber pot, the soiled sheets, the snoring husband … Molly ruminates on her breasts for a while – “what are these lines here …” and how she thinks Leopold might have forever shaped her breasts from how hard he sucked on them … Fionnula, in a tired meandering way, just like you would when you were alone – ran her fingers over her breasts, staring down at them, shrugging, confiding in us, feeling herself up again, like: really doing it. That’s privacy. No shame, no embarrassment … because why would you be ashamed when you were alone in your bedroom? The part about farting was hilarious – she has some rhyme about letting your “wind go free” – but Molly is afraid of waking up her husband with it … and Fionnula had what I think of as the quintessential Molly Bloom energy – humorous, exhausted, a bit disheartened, lonely, and with a deep private pain. Something that she normally laughs or fucks away. When Fionnula said, “It’s 11 years to the day …” and you know what she’s referring to – the look that flashed acros her face, the grief, the loss that is still sharp and fresh …. I didn’t know what time it was, I forgot my exhaustion, or – no, that’s not it. I was exhausted, but I was still PRESENT- a strange energy that comes with intense tiredness, a vivid-ness of perception – yet with blurry edges – things coming quick and sharp and strong, like a dream … Yet you’re not sure what the sequence is, or where you are in time and space … What time is it … 12:30? 1:00? Doesn’t matter. We were in Molly’s time and space. A space with no punctuation, or light – except that which is in her memory.

And when she said the line, “and the sun shines for you he said” – I felt a rush … I knew where we were in that 40 page run-on sentence … I knew we were a page from the end … and all of my remaining shreds of attention poured into this moment, into her – on stage – shining in white hair and blue sparkles. Don’t miss it. Don’t miss it. This is why you’re here. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for.

And Fionnula Flanagan – through that last page – yes rhododendrons Gibraltar flower of the mountain yes Yes yes yes … was divine. Not a dry eye in the house. I was a wreck.

She ended it on a whisper. The words clear, open, alive … so so alive … Her head thrown back in abandon, staring up …

Then – silence. The moment passed … the monologue was done – and we all stood – cheering and screaming – the little old lady next to me was weeping, and screaming, “BRAVA” – and Fionnula – stood up on that stage with the white light beaming down on her – bowing – smiling – making eye contact with us – because we were right there … and there were so few of us left. Bowing, humbly, smiling – thankful … we all were in that moment together, in the wee wee hours of the morning.

Some photos below.

The day began. 11:30 a.m.

I emerged at the end of the event. It was the next day. 2 a.m. (And eventually I’ll have to tell about my cab ride back to Jersey – which was a splurge. It was another one of THOSE rides that I always seem to have, where I form a deep personal bond with the cab driver. This one was from Bangladesh originally although he is an American citizen now. As I got out of the cab, he actually said to me, “I miss you already.” Ha!! But it was true! I missed him already, too! How does this happen? It had something to do with it being way past my bedtime – so I was open, not at all guarded – but I do seem to always have these cabbie moments – like the Armenian cab driver actually hugging me when he dropped me off at Alex’s – I love it.)

The empty stage.

Cheat sheet in the back of my book.

Bloomsday playing cards … decorating the stage.

Audience – start of the day.

Came out at around 1 or 2, to stretch my legs, make a phone call, buy some water, etc. The blaring sun of morning was long-gone. Clouds lowered, thunder rumbled … I felt like I had been hovering in some alternate universe.

A papier-mache James Joyce bust out on the sidewalk – it was there all day, and every photo I took of it made me laugh. Hey Jim, what’s up.

Isaiah Sheffer: THANK YOU.