A big wind today, feel it through the doors. They always put doors one opposite the other for the wind to. Way in. Way out. Let the building breathe. Choke otherwise. No, air has to circulate, breeze around. Door whispers. Ee: cree. Putting together an ad deal for Alexander Keyes and needed a bit of a cut and paste from Red Murray. Think I know his nephew. Have to ask another time. Stately Brayden came barreling statelily through before I could bump the words out of my head. Simon Dedalus says he keeps all his brains in the nape of his neck. Red thinks Neck looks like Jesus and he does, although hard to imagine Jesus at that size. I think he looks a bit like the guy who sang co-ome thou lost one, co-ome thou dear one. Jesuslooking with a beardframed face. Nice to imagine. Jesus talking in the dusk with Mary at his feet. And Martha content, joyful, serving food. The passive and the active, loving sisters.
The Active: Loving, my ass! News flash: I had to take the train from Bethany, then a bus, then a cab to the airport, change planes at JFK that stinking bunghole, then Seatac, train, bus just to tell you personally: Mary the cheapest whore in the world will suck your balls for ten bucks in any alley or back seat you like. In any alley or back seat you like for ten bucks Mary the cheapest whore in the world will suck your balls.
That’s twice I forgot to take slips off the library counter. Remember it now. Try. Comes and goes. How did I start it? The sounds. Moomb woomb allwoombing toomb. Mouth to her kiss. No, two mouths. Glue them together. Gluey. Mouth to her mouth’s kiss. Wayawayawayawayaway. Ooeeehah. huh. Where? To evening lands. Omnis caro ad te veniet. His bat sails. Her bat shawl. On swift sail flaming. From storm and south. He comes, pale vampire. Mouth to my mouth. I am set naked on your kingdom. Oh, thy kingdom come! A winedark sea. Behold the handmaid of the moon. The moist star. Unto thee all flesh shall come. What is her burying grave, that is her womb? Tomb. Mouth to her womb. allwombing tomb. Oomb. Thou’rt my Mother from the Womb, Wife, Sister, Daughter to the Tomb. Trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines. Across the sands of all the world. Is that what I wrote? Bridebed, childbed, bed of death, ghostcandled. Tides myriadislanded, within her. A tide westering, moondrawn. In sleep the wet sign calls her hour, bids her rise. Followed by the sun’s flaming sword. to the west. Trekking to evening lands. Pale vampire, through storm his eyes. Bloodying the sea. The winedark sea. O shit give it up. Who ever anywhere will read these written words?
Pimander is coming and how sweetly delicious he will be. I see you, you man shepherd, I have my eye on you. We will be yokefellows in arms. We shall go to Paris and from the bed of your lover’s wife we will make a meal of it, our mouths yellowed with the pus and the taste of acetic acid so sweet and I shall thrust my fang between your lips. Oh Pimander, I see a Vision limitless, all things turned into Light, sweet, joyous Light. Transport me, appear in visions with me, I see you. And you will show me the darkness coiling in my sinuous folds and the darkness will change into moist nature ineffable. Drink and belch smoke and wail with the voice of fire. Hang with me in the air, rise up and hang on the fire and mingle together. Drink me. I will wash you lacivious Pimander and bathe you in my most private green liquids. I will rub your malefemale nakedness in the bath and like horseleeches oh to suck to suck the very blood to suck.
He looks a bit like Shakespeare, or so they say. I see it. He’s an intelligent man, doesn’t deserve his cyclical life. Drunk wife, dancing around in a kimono with an umbrella that time, pawns furniture, he buys it back. She sells it again Friday and he starts again Monday. Sisyphus without the rock. Would wear the heart out of a stone. It was just after we saw the tiny coffin, white, Martin tried to turn the talk away from. Poor little thing in that coffin. Well out of it as Dedalus said. In the midst of life we are in death. And we all understand what that means perfectly well. Don’t we? I mean, I always believe. At least for me. Take Rudy for example. Sweet little dwarf body weak as putty. They say a mistake of nature. Meant nothing, better luck next time. He doesn’t have to. Or at least he will never. Hell with this, what was I saying? Death in the midst of life. Yes. Nabokov said the cradle rocks above an abyss. You see? Life is a pinpoint of light surrounded by eternitites of darkness. Where we came from, where we are going: the same place. Oh they look on suicide badly enough, greatest disgrace to have in a family, cowardly, temporary insanity was Cunningham’s charitable view. But I don’t know. It is a route at least. It’s one way to get there. Poor Papa. He was in a room with hunting pictures on the walls. At his hotel. The bottle was there and they said they thought he was asleep at first. But then saw the yellow streaks on his face. I didn’t want to look and see him differ from. And the letter. For my son Leopold. No more pain. Rattle his bones. Over the stones. He’s only a pauper whom nobody owns. Nobody owns.
Somebody drowned in the Sound nine days ago. Got dealt a bad hand. The death card. Wait, that’s a good card. The happy squirrel card. I overheard a businessman and a boatman talking about it. They were guessing when the body will surface. The water is about 45 degrees so the boatman said that means it will be 14 days, shave off a day or two for salt water. The businessman knew that the man was overweight and went in alive. That’s worth a couple of days easy. He was drunk and beer means gas, so that will float him another day. They think he will come up today during the high tide. His fate. Bloated. Rolling, face to the clouds. Here I am.