Having my way with Ulysses

I am doing good to others.

Good boy11:47 pm

Come here.  Come here.  Come on now.  Here you go.  You want this? I bet you do. I’ll bet you do.  Come on now.  Come here. Oooh this looks good.  I know you want it.  I know you. Ew. No. No. Don’t do that. Roll back over boy.  Go on now.  Get. Ew. Here. Here. Take it. Take this one too. Whatever. Just take it.  Now go.

5 Responses to I am doing good to others.

  1. It’s funny, I went to save this picture in my files because I had a dog of 15 pass last year that this reminded me of and the name of the photo came up ‘circe-dog1’ and tjhat’s what her name was. Of course I don’t have much of any merit to comment on your blog. I wish I did, at times I find them so interesting, even if your object is to be obtuse as something to humor yourself with. But I will continue to read them. Quite frankjly of all those that I fllow yours tend to be the more interesting. KB

    PS: I don’t ever hear back from you. I wonder if you read anything I write eitjher as commentary or on my blog ?

    • Oh hell, darling, if you can type with fingers toes teeth whatever then you have merit to comment on anything here. Don’t worry about that ever. And that goes for the rest of you too. You know who you are. If I don’t reply it is because I set for myself this ridiculous ill-conceived god forsaken and likely deity despised task of writing a daily piece riffing on this infernal book Ulysses god help me. I spend hours reading, researching, writing, searching for just the right image, often photographing said image, then tweaking said image and captioning said image until I am haunted at night by the faces of them all in the dark. The blessed relief of being done comes but then the world spins, the next day comes and here I am again. Onward. Until New Years Day. Sick, I’m writing. Family vacation, I’m writing. Birthday, writing. Head injury, writing. For free. And life keeps happening as I knew it would. This is what happens when you say what would happen if. I dedicated a year, my family with me, and the year itself is filled with itself. I have children, two small ones. They have needs ever flowing onward. But I made a commitment to do this and I haven’t missed a day yet. I have come to brinks of edges of beetling over the base of. But I keep going. Who the hell knows why. I read everything you say and others too, but if I don’t respond it is because somebody has poopy pants and food needs to be made and somebody fell down and this one needs and that one can’t find and that one wants and this and then that and then and then.

      Why? I don’t have time to remember why. Not to be obtuse. I never wanted that. I do humor myself. I don’t see my readers. I don’t know who you are. I talk to you ever day, but I’m alone in here. And I’m having a blast. I giggle to myself every day writing. I love every god damned second of it. It’s Joyce. He’s hysterical. And I like playing with his humor and adding my own. I always think you don’t have to read Joyce to get what I’m doing, but maybe you do. I have no idea. I’m in my head and the usual criticism of my work is that I forget my reader is not in my head. I have a bewildering number of people reading me god bless them every one. A deeply eccentric and quixotic group of glorious misunderstoods I imagine. You are all welcome in my head and write to me because I like peeking into yours.

      Why? I remember why. I wanted to write and I wanted to be happy at the same time. I was teaching literature and theory and writing, and then I became a mother. Paused it all. I waited. My littlest found his legs, my oldest isn’t in school full time yet. I saw a sweet spot where maybe I could what if I did might I? So what would I like to spend a year doing? How about making it a daily event. A performance art even. Put something out there every day, unfussed over. See what it will be. If I didn’t have a daily deadline I would futz and mess and backspace and stare at the blinking cursor and endless nothing. What has happened is naked and there. There are themes. There are threads. Some of it is beautiful. Some of it is shit. All of it is. I am on pleasure bent. I am in a grave predicament. And I’m not stopping until polly and paulie temporal have their say at the end. And then, and then. The enormity of the burden demands I stop. The enormity of the pleasure demands I keep going. Though going forward I’ll take breaks. Good god yes.

      So yeah, if I don’t write back, although often I do, it is not because I don’t want to. As it is, it is 7:45 am and I am already behind where I should be today.

Intercourse, eyeball to eyeball.