Having my way with Ulysses

Is he in love with that one, Marion?

I am almost afraid to confess it, even to these secret pages. The man has interested me, has attracted me, has forced me to like him. In two short days, he has made his way straight into my favourable estimation – and how he has worked the miracle, is more than I can tell.

I need to find something new to read.  This public domain stuff I’m digging up has too much mystery business in it.  Maybe I’ll start reading blogs?  Except they all suck.  Every dumbass with a computer thinks there’s something new to say.  But there’s nothing new anywhere, just recombination of old ideas.  01010011011010010111100000100000011101110110000101101110011101000111001100100000011101000110111100100000011011110110011101101100011001010010000001111001011011110111010100100000011000100110000101100010011110010010110000100000010010010010011101101101001000000100001001101111011110010110110001100001011011100010000001110111011010010111010001101000001000000110100101101101011100000110000101110100011010010110010101101110011000110110010100101110
Maybe I should just start a blog myself.  Mix it up a little.  Can’t be hard, right?  How much time could it possibly take?  Oh Christ I hope he doesn’t make me stay late.  I’ll miss seeing Shannon tonight before Susy Nagle gets to him first.  None of the guys can keep their eyes off her.  Or their hands.  I need a new look.  Not like that poster of Lady Gaga I have to stare at all day with the mustard hair and dauby cheeks.  She’s not nice looking is she?  Under all the makeup and hair and everything.  Pretty ordinary looking without the performance art wardrobe. Human directionals, former sign twirlers (some more attractive than others) having recently become a distraction to drivers now walk past the fruit stand instead of twirl in stationary position to avoid litigation.  I suppose everybody is.  Need better clothes.  And luck and talent.  And money.  And no pants.  Doesn’t she ever put on pants?  Hm.  I don’t think he’ll be back in.  Maybe I can get out of here early.  I have to wait until at least 5:00 in case he calls in.  I think I might have double booked him for 4:00, so there’ll be fallout from that.  Whoops.  Oh well.

Navel gazing

For I feel like an experiment, I feel exactly like an experiment; it would be impossible for a person to feel more like an experiment than I do, and so I am coming to feel that that is what I am -- an experiment; just an experiment, and nothing more.8:27 am

Yes this is a blog.  Omphaloskeptics  unite; we are a society of navel gazers.  You read these words and trust my voice to speak the truth, from a first person.  Read on pastfacingwise and you skip. You’re scanning. And you trust me maybe.  So I speak what has been written for me to think according to the will of the creator, that writer of the great book into which we are all recorded.  Or at least into which I am recorded and a few others.  I don’t know what you believe.  I don’t believe it in the slightest but I am telling you that I do.  Some believe, like Phillip Gosse whose book Omphalos (written last  thursday) that all the world was created with past intact and fossils of dinosaurs were created to be found, but the dinosaurs themselves never were: effect without cause.  Sometime after last thursday Borges wondered if he had ever heard an ancient (that is to say, written around last thursday) sentence quoted by Rafael Cansinos Assens’ Talmudic anthology: “It was only the first night, but a number of centuries had already preceded it.”