Having my way with Ulysses

Squeezed up with the laughing

Weeping shouldst not thou be when man falls but that divine scheming ever adoring be. So you be either man or mouse and you be neither fish nor flesh.5:10 pm

I tell you I don’t think anything could have beat it for entertainment, I swear to Christ. You should have seen it.  I still can’t stop laughing what with Breen running all over hell like a lunatic idiot in his slippers and his wife chasing after, and Doran drunk and blubbering about God and dead Dignam and Christ and one eyed Moses I’m still not sure he’s dead or they’re just busting my balls, and then the citizen wanting to crucify Bloom dancing around bizarre outside just give him a reason and he gave him one.  Jesus H. Christ where do I start!  My sides.  Oh I can’t breathe.  I’m sorry.  I can’t.  It’s just too funny.  You had to be there.  Give me a minute.  I’ll tell you.  Give me a minute. Where do I.  Holy Christ.  I’ll be needing another beer for this.  So.  So.  Shit I can’t breathe.  Breen.  O hell!  Breen wants to sue for lib.  I can’t.  Libel.  He waited outside John Henry Menton’s empty office half the morning then went to Goulding’s to see if somebody there wouldn’t piss themselves laughing in his face.  O God I can’t.  It’s just too.  And then.  And then.  Hoo.  Ok.  Ok.  Let me drink this.  Yeah.  And then Tom Rochford sent him to Long John Fanning and holy Jesus you can imagine how that went!  Whooo.  Tears in my fucking eyes.  I haven’t laughed this hard.  And now he’s looking for a cop.  What a dumb ass!  Such a douche.   And all because somebody sent him a postcard.  God it’s beautiful.  U.P.: Up!  Can you just?  I swear to God.  People think I’d done it but damnit I wish I had.  Beyond funny.  There’s more.  I’ll tell you the story but I.  I.  I gotta stop laughing first.  Give me a minute.

And what star is that, Poldy?

Money is indeterminate, it is everything, a kind of general equivalent, it is nothing, a kind of blank meaning. Information, as blank meaning, is in the process of taking its place, as a general equivalent.Rochford is Boylan with impatience for me to show Blazes his bit of code when I see him later.  I’ll sound him out.  This is it, whatever sense you want to make out of it:  010101000111010101110010011011100010000001001110011011110111011100100000010011110110111000100000001010000111000001100001011110010010000001100001011101000111010001100101011011100111010001101001011011110110111000100000011101000110111100100000011101000110100001100101001000000110111001101111011101110010111000101001 Richie Goulding on financial business for Goulding, Collis and Ward walked blindly toward a woman no longer young, smiling, as she rushed, fully absorbed, toward him, on her way from superior courtroom W-331 to courtroom E-173.  Money to be made, Tom says, telling people what they see now.  Label the now and they’ll enjoy it more.  Augment that reality.  From Boeing Field, a string of stretch suv’s, one bearing flags, made its way toward the freeway.   Maybe money there but I’ll get mine some other how.  I have my methods.  He’s a hero, Tom, you know that?  Saved somebody stuck down a manhole, the one just down there under the poster of that dauby chick with the yellow hair.  Poor devil stuck halfway to hell choking to death on sewer fumes and down went Tom, tied a rope around him and up they hauled them both.  The act of a real hero.  Ambulance.  Can’t hear myself type.  Anyway, the race is on soon.  Bantam Lyons is putting everything he’s got on a horse somebody gave him that hasn’t an ice cube’s chance in hell.  McCoy kept himself out of it.  I can take my time; she doesn’t need these steaks yet.  I don’t think he appreciated my story about that dinner at Glencree either; he has some kind of feeling for Bloom maybe.  Says his wife sang there but did she?  Come on.  She a star?  Please.  The bright stars fade. Anyway, it was blue o’clock in the morning when we left with the car top down and I sat next to Bloom’s wife trying to get her top down.  Unfurnished Apartments, picked up and placed again on the window sash.  Bloom playing the astronomer pointing out this comet and that comet and stars and stars.  Left me to pay attention to his wife’s moon.  What star is that Poldy, she said.  Just a pinprick, needle dick.  He’s all right, though, Bloom.

See things in their forehead perhaps: kind of sense of volume.

He is divested of the diverse world, of faces, which still stay as once they were, of the adjoining streets, now far away, and of the concave sky, once infinite. Of books, he keeps no more than what is left him by memory, that brother of forgetting, which keeps the formula but not the feeling and which reflects no more than tag and name. Traps lie in wait for me. My every step might be a fall. I am a prisoner shuffling through a time that feels like dream, taking no note of mornings or of sunsets.

1:56 pm

Blindness.  I wonder what they see?  Can do things we can’t.  Read with their fingers.  Senses heightened.  Nose like a dog’s.  Why then do dogs eat their vomit?  Must smell good.  Fingers feel things the rest of us miss.  Feel a fingerprint.  Feel colors.  Maybe they really can smell fear?  What would that?  Smell hope.  Smelling into the future for that, for fear too.  Whiffs of things to come.  That’s one way out.  Smell your way.  Taste.  Better with eyes closed?  Helped that blind kid cross the street.  Piano tuner.  Sizing me up by the feel of my hand.  Pious looking face.  Penrose!  That’s the name I couldn’t.  Penrose.  Wished I could have sniffed that one out back when I.  Smell coming events.  What do blind people dream?  Smells and tastes?  Dream the feel of a woman, this curve, that hip bone.  Taste and feel together.  All of life, every part of every now would be a dream.  Maybe a nightmare.  Next step could be your last.  Could fall into a manhole and need Tom Rochford to fish you back out of sewer vapors, smell heightened.  Choked.  Breathing your own death.  Fall from the dark into blacker than dark.  A waking nightmare.  And yet, we all.  More or less all.  A waking dream for us all.

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

What he does feel is the hard iron of the nails. He is not a Roman, not a Greek. He wimpers. He has left us some splendid metaphors and a doctrine of forgiveness that can do away with the past. (That phrase was written by an Irishman in prison.) The soul searches for its end, hurriedly. Night has fallen. He has died now. A fly crawls over the still flesh. Of what use is it to me that this man has suffered if I am suffering now?1:53 pm

Zzzzzzzzzzzzz insuranzz?  No, advertizzzing.  Zzzzzz.  Zzz. Zzzzzz.  Lizzzziningzzz.   Troubuzzzzle?  Humanzzzz.  Zzzdairyzzcreamzzzzz!  Creamzzzzz!  Zzz.  Zzzz.  Bzzzzzz.  Creamzzzz?  Elzzzewherezzzz.  Tooz buzzzzad.  Zzzzafe manzzz?  No zzzafe manzzzz.  Zwat!  Mayzz the catzzz eatzzz zzhem andzz zhe devvvilzzzz eatzzz the catzzzz.  Nevvvvver zzzzign namezzzzz.  Humanzzzz.  Ezzztrazzz.   Zzzzmell.  Zzztale drinkzzzz on thatzzz.  Thizzz onezz drunkzzzzz.  Zzzzewerzzz!! Zzewerzz!  Thatzz humanzzz in zzewerzzz!  Nizzze.  Zzz. Zzzzz.  Zzore legzz?  Zorezzz?  Nozz.  Zzz.  Horzzze?  Horzzze?  Zzzz.  Razzezz.  Zzzinfandelzzz?  Zzzz.  Dyzzpepzziazzz?  Diezz zzoon!  Hopezzzz.   Duckzzz!  Duckzzzz!  Lordzzz Lovvvzzz uzzz, Duckzzzz!  Zzz!  Zz!  Zz!  Zzz!  Zz!