Having my way with Ulysses

The childman weary, the manchild in the womb.

The imminent is as immutable as rigid yesterday. There is no matter that rates more than a single, silent letter in the eternal and inscrutable writing whose book is time. He who believes he's left his home already has come back.

3:27 pm

Return, my darling, come back. You are a part of me. You are me. Come back my sweet, it’s only natural my baby: I am your source. Every circle comes back to the beginning. Every will be becomes is. You are tired, you try so hard, pointing every moment you can get your hands onto toward will be. East! East! Turn me towards what’s next! Oh honey, turn around, come west with me. That’s it. You are unburdened. Shhh. ┬áTensions gone. Mind free. No responsibilities. No desire. I have you. Shhh. You have me. You have everything. Be the child in my womb, my sweet baby love, you be me. No needs. No time. No time between desire and fulfillment. No distinction between demand and supply. There’s no temporality here. You are atoned with the all at onceness of the everything. You are not conscious. You don’t need to be conscious. You don’t need consciousness: fulfillment comes simultaneously with your need. Consciousness is for temporality, for attending to what’s next. You’re with momma now baby: you have everything so let it all go. No pain. No suffering. No fear. Sleep well my darling. I have you my sweetie love. Shhh. Tomorrow is a new day will be.

2 Responses to The childman weary, the manchild in the womb.

  1. I don’t think so. This is a reaction to Bloom curled in
    fetal position, Molly in the position of Gaia-Tellus on her side,
    moving westward at the end of Ithaca. But perhaps it is a reaction.
    I have a six year old child, so maybe.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.

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