Having my way with Ulysses

Noble art of selfpretence.

A fox invites a stork to dinner. After some entertainment, the fox gives the stork broth in a wide marble bowl, which the hungry stork could not taste with his long beak. The stork invited the fox to dinner and provided broth in narrow flagons. The stork could insert his beak and be very satisfied, but his guest vainly licked the neck of the flask and went hungry. The bird spoke: our own examples we should contentedly suffer.
12:54 am

Now? What, now? You want to talk now? Ok fine then, but I’m in a hurry, you understand, unless you want to shelter me a bit? No? Then run with me. Come on, keep up. You want me to end up wrapped around somebody’s neck? A lucky foot maybe? Go on then, ask your question. What’s that?  I’m running from bloodhounds and whodoyoucallhim strangeface sawhimbefore and this is what you ask? Who are you again? Who invited you? I didn’t catch your? What is this exactly? Fine. Wash ashore. There’s your answer. I’ll bury my mother but don’t let me be caught dead in the water.

Dreams go by contraries.

For a Spectre has no Emanation but what he imbibes from deceiving A Victim! Then he becomes her Priest & she his Tabernacle. And his Oak Grove, till the Victim rend the woven Veil. 12:50 am

Follow me. Come on, follow. Follow follow follow. You know me, yes? Remember? Almost it.  There you go, you saw me in your dream.  I held up a watermelon for you to smell.  Now follow, come away from that badger hole, nothing buried dead buried in there. Now. Is it guilt or shame today? What do you regret, action or inaction? I know that answer. They both have a face and you will see who. Look. I say, look. Lapwing you are. As am I. So a lapwing be. Let us bury your agenbite of inwit in a nice deep grave and lead each other away.  I’ll teach you. I’ll show you how my sweet buzzard scavenger darling, you’ll fly and your foes will be beneath you as they every shall be. Word without end. Listen now. Don’t be Polonius standing behind a curtain, everybody can see your feet sticking out the bottom. You do remember what happened to him, don’t you? You think that bit of rag hanging over your conscience will protect you? Don’t you know anything about hiding? Listen. You’ve done things. We all know it. We see your clay feet. Your actions we all witnessed birthed reactions and those reactions reproduced.  You bury the grandmother deeds all you like, and lead us all away. Hop hop away, little bird, follow me this way. Pay no attention to that world behind the curtain. But the things you didn’t do. Came to a whole lot of nothing, no? Well mark my words babylove, that nothing will be the something that buries you.

To have or not to have that is the question.

To be born again . . . first you have to die. Ho ji! Ho ji! To land upon the bosomy earth, first one needs to fly. Tat-taa! Takathun! How ever to smile again, if first you won't cry? How to wind the darling's love, mister, without a sigh? Baba, if you want to get born again . . . 12:45 am

Her cunt crew, the fox flew
The bells are striking thirty-two.
Every moment since eleven
Shall be the next to fall from heaven.

And on the heath behind winking stars a fox

But for her the race of the world would have trampled him underfoot.10:16 am

Look at the snail.  Lean neck, thick.  Ugly.  This is one of my students, Sargent.  He waited after class for a usual reason.  His weak eyes blind to the futility of his academic career.  He can copy but not create.  Still, somebody had loved him.  Had borne him in her womb; two souls in the same body like the Nestorian Jesus.  And she had borne him in her heart. This boneless snail, protected by amor matris from being trampled underfoot by the world.  Well, all in good time.  Still, she had loved his weak watery blood.  Is that what Cranley meant?  Is what she feels the most real thing in this stinking dunghill of a world?  What would we ever know about what she feels?  I see a white dove standing on a broken calculator.  Beautiful.  Horrible it is enlarging.  White feathers are turning to fur, changing color, darkening, bristling.  Brown.  A bear standing on its back legs regarding me, calculating his path.  He gives me sight, and he multiplies my bread and my beer.  Now he is falling forward and catching himself with his front legs and with an intent I fear to place he moves.  His haunches, his breath, he is closer now.  He runs.  He leaps over a protective female form my mother lying prostrate before the door.  She is like the skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire and he is closer.  I see his eyes even with mine, yellow now and the fur around them reddening.  He strikes.  He shrinks.  He is shrinking.  His largeness, his roundness melts into  points, his ears and nose.  I see him now small and slender.  Merciless.  I smell his thievery.  The door and walls are gone and he scrapes the earth and listens.  The stars wink.  Complicit.  At least they know why.  And he scrapes the earth.  I can hear him, I know what he is doing.  And I know what he has done.  Scrape.  Listen.