Having my way with Ulysses

Me. And me now.

• Lestrygonians

Maybe nothing ever happens once and is finished. Maybe happen is never once but like ripples maybe on water after the pebble sinks, the ripples moving on, spreading, the pool attached by a narrow umbilical water-cord to the next pool which the first pool feeds, has fed, did feed, let this second pool contain, a different temperature of water, a different molecularity of having seen, felt, remembered, reflect in a different tone the infinite unchanging sky, it doesn't matter: 1:46 pm

Flowers, her eyes were.  Rememory a trailing navelcord stretching backward.  The cords of all link back.  I imbibe their juices with wine.  Swirl them together and heatpalm warm it.  There.  Here now.  On the grass, ferns and rhododendrons.  Nobody to see us but a goat we heard then saw laughing coming through the rhododendrons, still, no-one to see.  And the goat didn’t look.  The sky.  The colors of it.  The colors of her.  Her skin womansoft with ointments. I lay on top of her on top of my coat, her hair, my hand in her nape.  Soft hand caressed me, her eyes never looked away.  Never looked away.  Joy.  Life.  My mouth to her mouth’s kiss, she pushed a seed cake chewed into my mouth and laughed.  I ate it warm and soft and she was warm and soft.  The sun shines for you today I said.  I kissed her lips plump soft kiss her breath in my mouth.  Breathing in my mouth.  Truth in my mouth.  In my life nothing ever anywhen more true. You are a flower, a secret touch, a mountain’s secret, a flower of the mountain she was.  I told her.  Warmscented breathing flowers kissed her eyes, her lips.  Yielding.  She kissed me.  Me.

Phantasmal mirth: her secrets.

• Telemachus

Not could. Will. I want to. So it is the old meat after all, no matter how old. Because if memory exists outside of the flesh it won't be memory because it won't know what it remembers so when she became not then half of memory became not and if I become not then all of remembering will cease to be. Yes he thought between grief and nothing I will take grief. 8:36 am

Memory is more than ideas and sensations.  Yes, Buck is right.  Ok.  I give him that.  But it is also an experience, my experience and my memory of it is a feature of me with a logic internal only to me.  What am I but memory?  That’s it.  Memory of the past that was and the past that never was (but might have been was).   A growing, solid, massive, increasing expanding thing, and just over there, look there, the paltry and shapeless future.  Small.  I hope (not much) I fear (too much).  I had hoped more but that is part of the past now too, lurching away.  I remember my mother and here she is now, enormous.  She fills my now.  She’s right here, do you feel her filling the room?  Of course you don’t.  I do.  Her things, her smells, her tap water before mass, her baked apple filled with brown sugar.  You can’t smell it but I can.