Tag: Finnegans Wake

Gob, he’d have a soft hand under a hen.

June 5th • Cyclops

Sucho fuffing a fifeing 'twould cut you in two! She'd bate the hen that crowed on the turrace of Babbel. What harm if she knew how to cockle her mouth!

Akasic Records Office

Foot and Mouth Disease Committee Meeting Minutes

The meeting was called to order at 5:33 pm

Secretary: Lord Chitragupta

Present: Mr Knowall, Black Liz, Good Uncle Leo, Hairy Iopas, Joseph Patrick Nannetti

The minutes of the previous meeting stand approved as corrected.

Joseph Patrick Nannetti moved to consider the motion that the proper remedy for Foot and Mouth disease and similar diseases infecting local cattle such as timber tongue, scab, hoose, kennel cough, condylomata acuminata, TBA, and acute neurocortical emphasitis, be immediate slaughter, though no medical evidence is forthcoming as to their pathological condition.

Good Uncle Leo moved to amend the motion to indicate that foul be included with the bovines in the disease eradication plan.

Black Liz raised a point of information: Ga Ga Gara?!

Mr Knowall moved to amend the motion that the committee consider shipdip for the scab and hoose drench for coughing calves, a known remedy exists for timber tongue and whatever be the case the proper course of action must include the most humane methods, because the poor animals suffer.

Hairy Iopas raised a point of information, what about condylomata acuminata, TBA, and acute neruocortical emphasitis?

Joseph Patrick Nannetti moved to amend the motion that as for CA, TBA, and ANE, they are SOL.

Black Liz moved to amend the motion that Klook Klook klook. Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Ga ga ga ga Gara. Klook Klook Klook.

Hairy Iopas raised a point of information: does anybody know what that damn hen is talking about?

Mr Knowall raised a point of information: would the committee be so kind as to indulge his translation of Black Liz’s amendment concerning a letter she had scratched out of a garbage heap being a defence of fowl as follows: Lead, kindly fowl! They always did: ask the ages. What bird has done yesterday man may do next year, be it fly, be it moult, be it hatch, be it agreement in the nest. For her socioscientific sense is sound as a bell, sir, her volucrine automutativeness right on normalcy; she knows, she just feels she was kind of born to lay and love eggs (trust her to propagate the species and hoosh her fluffballs safe through din and danger!); lastly but mostly, in her genesic field it is all game and no gammon; she is ladylike in everything she does and plays the gentleman’s part every time.

Good Uncle Leo raised a point of information: You is feeling like you was lost in the bush, boy? You says: It is a puling sample jungle of woods. You most shouts out: Bethicket me for a stump of a beech if I have the poultriest notions what the farest he all means.

Joseph Patrick Nannetti moved to amend the motion: don’t hesitate to shoot.

Hairy Iopas moved to close debate and vote immediately on the pending question. Motion carried. Aye: Mr. Knowall, Good Uncle Leo, Hairy Iopas, Joseph Patrick Nannetti. Nay: Black Liz.

Unfinished Business: A member of the committee to be selected to read the letter authored by Mr. Deasy topic: foot and mouth disease, publication pending.

He golloped it down like old boots and his tongue hanging out of him a yard long for more.

June 2nd • Cyclops

Buy bran biscuits and you'll never say dog. 5:20 pm

Ok. I get it. You can’t cure somebody of desire. A taste, they want more. Sicken them with excess of it, they want more. Train them by kindness, they want more. Teach them the evils of it with don’t you see and but on the other hand and they want more. A few bits, hungry for more. Breeding, doesn’t matter. Intelligence, doesn’t matter. More.

Greeting in Going

May 25th • Sirens

I give, a king, to me, she does, alone, up there, yes see, I double give, till the spinney all eclosed asong with them. Isn't that lovely though? I give to me alone I trouble give! I may have no mind to lamagnage the forte bits like the pianage but you can't cage me off the key.

4:51 pm

Stretto

Rose: Have you the horn?

Satiny Bosom: Bloowho?

The Fondling Hand: Better get this job over quick.

Slops: Hold that fellow with the bad trousers. Hold him now.

Empties: Empty vessels make most noise. He feels so lonely.

Popped Corks: He’s suffering the agony of the damned.

Eyes: Looks a fright in the day.

Maidenhair: Sigh. Lord we are weary.

Bronze: True men like you men.

Faintgold in Deepseashadow: I feel so lonely.

Mermaid: Everything is dear if you don’t want it. That’s what a good siren is. Make you buy what she wants to sell.

Tuning Fork: All is lost now.

Beer Pull: In cups of rocks it slops.

Shell: [With vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks] Seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos.

Passepartout: You have made a mistake of one day.

Lozgechkin: Let his epitaph be written.

Sardine Sandwich: It is the little rift within the lute that by and by will make the music mute, and ever widening slowly silence all.

(Glad I avoided.)

Like no voice of strings or reeds or whatdoyoucallthem

May 17th • Sirens

Let everie sound of a pitch keep still in resonance, jemcrow, jackdaw, prime and secund with their terce that whoe betwides them, now full theorbe, now dulcifair, and we press of pedal (sof!) pick out and vowelise your name.

4:17 pm

Appassionato

Dulcimers. Very subtle, the strings can be. Some instruments stand in the way you know. Not in the way of the strings, you know that. In the way of what’s the word? Damn the ineffable. It’s not about the music or the words, they mean nothing. It’s what’s behind it. Under it. Turtles all the way down under it. Get out of the way. Stand aside sugarstick. Not like Diogenes laying out next to his tub. Getting a little tan. You, Alexander, yeah you, Emperor of Everything and Nothing, you’re standing in my light. Shoo! Get lost wouldja. O all sorts get in front, but laying down under the music: the bleeding and the breathingness. Just as sure as you breathe on me now. Fogging up the glass. So sweet. Keeping time, listening. Anybody can play the music, say the words, listen to that. Just as anybody can make love with anybody else. You with me maybe? Could be anybody, a knock on the door. Maybe me. Last check in the mirror before opening. What perfume? Then hands on her heaving, felt for opulent. And so on and so when and so what. An ordinary duet. Laying down under that, resting itself is a whisper small. Co-ome, thou lost one. There you are baby, welcome. It’s me. It’s us. Come closer yes. Take a little bite, let’s make a new language. Then aching exhilarating poetry into the everything and the nothing. There’s a subtlety to the art of love, the approach for an embrace giving your beloved a gaze run liquid over over over the body with appreciation like a hymn to the allwhen. The crashing waves like cymbals clash against the rocks and sands. Small adjustments here and here to your lover’s movements, oh your breath. The tender embrace, like touching an infant. Or with a forcefulness, a violent passion painful but just on this side of damage. Just a touch away from harm endlessnessnessness. The dilation of blood and of when. That first night at Mat Dillon’s party. Her name. The music then, fate. Luring. Luring me! Wouldn’t expect it in the least. Her Spanishy eyes. The smell of Peru. That’s the life of it: that I’ll never know what to give her. What to promise? How to ask without words.

Is love worse living?

May 8th • The Wandering Rocks

His part should say in honour bound: So help me symethew, sammmarc, selluc and singin, I will stick to you, by gum, no matter what, bite simbum, and in case of the event coming off beforehand even so you was to release me for the sake of the other cheap girl's baby's name plaster me but I will pluckily well pull on the buckskin gloves! You’re reading me. Oh my God I feel you. Wow. Are you shitting me? I can’t believe this shit I see you. Holy freaking shit. Ok. Ok. I’m cool be cool. Um. yeah. Now this is real. I’m real. I thought about this. I was just thinking about this. No way dude. I wanted you to read me and here you are. Wow. This shit will knock you into the middle of next week. So. Right before I thought about what it would be like when you read about my dad dying and think about me how sad, I had an argument with myself. The me on the left was thinking about how damn glad I am to be the hell out of there. I can’t take any more crying, mostly without tears. Uncle Barney leaping in to take care of everything, sending me off with five bucks for pork steaks and wanting change back. Wow. I snuck some of that sherry from Tunney’s which was super gross, give me a minute. I’m still blown away. Anyway. Then the other me on the right, my left when I’m looking at you was thinking about the fight. Cinco de Mayo, I missed it. Floyd Mayweather Jr and Miguel Cotto. Mayweather is the best in the world. He’s got the brains for it even after getting head butted by Victor Ortiz. Accurate. Best technical fighter. Brutal too, going to jail for beating up his girlfriend. But they want him to fight Cotto first. Money talks then he walks. Mayweather wants it, but Cotto wants it more. He’s a bleeder, so he puts on a good show, and he’s hot for it. He had a point to prove against Margarito’s plaster hand wraps and he’s back baby. And he’s at peace and peaceful is more dangerous than angry in a fight. I should know. Dad was perfectly calm when he belted me over that picture of naked Lady Gaga. I wonder if my friends will read this too? See it online somewhere maybe. See I’m in mourning, dressed for a funeral. Did you see that guy just now with the red flower in his mouth? Smiling at that drunk he was listening to. See what he was wearing? Buttonholes on my shirt are too big. Keep slipping open. God it was brutal, the whole thing from dad drunk to his grey face with that big fly crawling on it. The big coffin. Why was that? That last night. Dad was wasted he looked so short, shouting loud for his boots so he could go out, get more drunk. He could have knocked out Mayweather that night easy. Now I’ll never see him again. His drunk red face. Death. Dad is dead. He tried to talk to me, lips moving couldn’t get it out past his teeth, but I heard him tell me to be a god son to mom. You’re a good kid, be a good son to your mother. Tried to say more. Poor dad. He was my dad. He went to Father Conroy for confession so I hope he’s in purgatory now. My father. Mr. Patrick Dignam.

Coactus Volui

May 7th • The Wandering Rocks

And they are met, face a facing. They are set, force to force. Well. Here’s something. Alexander Dowie, coming with Elijah to save my soul. God’s curse on you, bitch’s bastard. None are so blind as those who claim to see. Dowie. Are you a god or a doggone clod? I don’t need you to sense the cosmic force for me. I don’t have cold feet about the cosmos. Come and get me! Go ahead and try, I shun the light; lets see what you can make of that! Come on Cosmos, use that force on me! Come get me God damn it. Are you up for it? Do you have cold feet? I’m willing, now force me!

What the hell are you driving at? I know. Shut up. Blast you. I have reasons.

April 12th • Scylla and Charybdis

Life, he himself said once, (his biografiend, in fact, kills him verysoon, if yet not, after) is a wake, livit or krikit, and on the bunk of our breadwinning lies the cropse of our seedfather, a phrase which the establisher of the world by law might pretinately write across the chestfront of all manorwombanborn. 2:36 pm

A father is a necessary evil. Listen to me, I know. Who’s your daddy? Do you really know? You have a woman’s word for it. Ok yes, she is your mother and amor matris from whichever direction you approach it may be the only true thing in life. So why then, come on tell me, do the Roman Catholics and their spin offs base everything upon fatherhood’s rock hardness, when we are all born from the eye of the whirlpool? Why? Listen to me, I see you. Straying in your thoughts. Get back here. Come back to my theolologicophilological (I ought to be stopped) theory. Now. Where were we. Father religion. This god is all their daddies. Yes. I’m fine. The church like the world (both micro and macro cosmos) is founded upon the void, the uncertainty of which (even the unlikelihood of which) fatherhood represents. Or perhaps it happens the other way around. Yes. Pay attention. The fear of daddy we feel as children while simultaneously feeling secure in his protection from danger we ascribe by apostolic succession to God the father. Yes. Feel it. Furthermore, heretofore, once again, hereafter (are you condemned to do this?) old Nobodaddy will tell you himself that his role was a brief spurt of inspiration (expiration more like) and off he goes. And agenbite of inwit? What’s that? Oh shake it off Nobodaddy. Mingo minxi micxtum mingler. World without end amen. Oh I will be condemned. (Am I a father? If I were?) Look, this enthroned one, this everybody’s daddy, says Sabellius, was son of his own son. The man felt himself with child foetus that was himself. How’s that? Come again? One coming is sufficient; Here. Have an example. An example. Well, look at Shakespeare. Or whatever his name was. Breathe. Breathing. ~~Rutlandbaconsouthhamptonshakespeare~~marlowe wrote Hamlet. He was not the father of his own son, he was the father of all his race. He was everybody’s daddy. Am I battling against hopelessness? Fight with me. Our worst enemies are in our own house and family. Stand! Fight! Kid, your growth is my decline. Your youth is my envy. Your friend is my enemy! You brought me pain. Her too and you ruined her body. You divided her from me. Get down from there! Be careful! You increase my cares. I worry sick about you. Slow down! Look both ways! Don’t talk to that perve with the candy. Don’t impregnate before you can pay. Dont do anything stupid. Good Christ, listen to me!

No-one is anything

March 24th • Lestrygonians

1:30 pm

We die. Mors Certa, Hora Incerta. So how can we be anything? No-one is anything. From the void and to the void, and again and again. Things go on the same. One born every minute. Well more like, let’s see, carry the one. Stop a minute so I can calculate this. Women all over in their life throws. Sss. Dth, dth, dth! They won’t stop so I can count. There’s more born, washing the blood off. All are washed in the blood of the lamb. Not stillborn of course. They are not even registered. Trouble for nothing. Well, I am almosting it. So. So. So far this year there have been 30,275,000 births rounding up. 84 days so far this year. 360,417 births a day, rounding up. That’s 15,018 births an hour. 251 births a minute. Wait a second. That’s, yes, 5 births a second. No point rounding down. How long did it take your eye to move from we die to 5 births a second? Cities of people coming and coming. Lives and lives. Passing away too. In your life were you the Gracehoper or the Ondt? Doesn’t matter, back to the void with you! How many? How many. Wish I had paper. Um. 12,930,000 deaths this year, might as well round up. People die and we don’t even know. Months later somebody smells something. A drip through the ceiling from the tenant above. 153,929 deaths a day. That’s 6,414 people every hour. 107 a minute and every second 2 people die. 1.78 really. One dies and one gets 78% of the way there. Mostly dead. There’s a big difference between mostly dead and all dead. Mostly dead is slightly alive. Give it a second. You can’t be mostly dead all day. There you go. Welcome to the void. You have been unmade. It will be the making of you. You were a being. You filled space. Now you are a becoming. Not changing, no, I mean fulfilling. You took a form intended for you all along. That is, your form is gone. Your form is formlessness. I know, death is new to you. You’ll get there. Destruction and creation are simultaneous. Death and rebirth are the same thing spelled different ways. You hungry? Of course not, what am I saying. Sorry. It’s this time of day. This is the very worst hour of the day. Vitality. Dull, gloomy: hate this hour. Feel as if I had been eaten and spewed. Intended. Caught that did you? Well. Well, well.

Wheels within wheels

March 23rd • Lestrygonians

pigeony linguish 1:26 pm

[Scene: Percy Apjohn (killed in action) and Pen …? Pen something. Of course it’s years ago. Percy Apjohn and Pen Something recent graduates of metempsychosis, have taken a nice supper of human leavings and are now engaged in a little after meal frolic. Must be thrilling from the air.]

Pen Something: Who will we do it on? I pick the fellow in black.

Percy Apjohn: Hold on, I think I knew that one. What was his name? Hard to remember anything after metemwhatever.

Pen Something: Really have to squint to see him. Yeah. I think I knew his wife.

Percy Apjohn: Mack something. We called him Mackerel. Mmm, could go for one of those.

Pen Something: Well, ready for the attack. You?

Percy Apjohn: Here goes. Here’s good luck!

On to the star! Now! On. . . rats. Eh, tot? No.

March 8th • Aeolus

The first and last rittlerattle of the anniverse; when is a nam nought a nam whenas it is a. 12:21 pm

Damnit I’m mad. Arrrra! Don’t nod. No, it is opposition. Aha. In words, alas drown I. Borrow or rob? Do, God, no evil deed! Live on, do good. Never odd or even. n+(n+1)^2. I prefer pi. Is it I? It is I. Live not on evil. Drawn I sit, serene: rest is inward. Are we not drawn onward to new era? God’s dog, won’t it now? Do geese see God? History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake. I wake straightaway. Hey, Mr. Transmogrification. Hi. Ohm.