Having my way with Ulysses

Let her speak. Look straight in her eyes. I believe you. Trust me.

• Lestrygonians

Sons of the sun, mother of living creatures. Fiercely met and loved, with all the hypocrisy of longing: importation, exchange, and tourists. In the country of the big snake. 1:16 pm

Ran into Josie Powell today.  Breen.  Still beautiful eyes.  Womaneyes.  How are you, How’s Molly, Milly at a photographer’s, yours?  Not sure how many.  I didn’t ask.  Sad to lose old friends she said when I told her about Dignam.  Was once Molly’s closest and mine too, well that’s quite enough about that.  Asked about her lunatic husband.  Hard to get around to that.  Just: quietly: husband?  She answered by looking in her purse, chipped rattlesnake.  He’s a caution to them she said.  Women’s purses.  Rummaging, wide open.  Money, change, credit cards, used tissues, tampon, lipstick, lipstick, lipstick, phone charger, clean diaper, altoid that was: fell, receipts, hair clips, wrappers, take a number: D26, phone, checkbook, who carries those around anymore, medicine bottle, postcard.  Up?  U.P.  U.P: up.  Somebody taking a rise out of him.  He went to oyster eyes Menton wearing slippers on his feet; sue for libel.  Well he has kids, so there’s the proof of that particular pudding.  If that’s what, I don’t know.  Up?  Meshuggah.  The guy is nuts.  Not as nuts as Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell who swung past us on the outside of the lampposts.  That rat fell into a brewer’s vat and never recovered.  Can say the same for Josie Powell.  Breen.  Shabby, old clothes.  Used to be a tasty dresser.  Beautiful eyes that night at Luke Doyle’s.  Only a year or so older than Molly.  Lines around her mouth.  Lunch on her shirt.  Smells, maybe from her, of butter, flour, demerera sugar.  A rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior.  I could still eat her up.

Every Friday eats a Thursday

• Lestrygonians

I asked a man what the Law was. He answered that it was the guarantee of the exercise of possibility. That man was named Galli Mathias. I ate him.1:06 pm

Fed gulls today, like that time out with Milly.  Food tastes like what it eats.  Feed pigs lots of stout and they come out tasting of it.  Robinson Crusoe ate swan meat, what do swans eat?  What would I taste like?  Well, no accounting for it.  And no need to know what’s in it, just eat it.  Every morsel.   I tried to fool the gulls with the throwaway given me.  Look out below, Elijah is coming!  What goes up must come down, at 32 feet per second per second bombs away!  That’s the law.  Did he get lifted up in a tornado?  He left his clothes behind so he’ll be coming back down naked.  If I threw myself down?  Likely to swallow lots of water like Reuben J.’s son.  Elijah will be hungry after his splashdown but plenty are well prepared to feed him.  Birds wouldn’t touch the paper I threw away for them.  Not a bit of it.  They know what’s good for them.  Spread foot and mouth disease though.  Mouth and foot, foot and mouth.  Mouth south.  That’s how writers write.  The flow of language.  The stream of it.  Write it and send it into the stream of life, doomed like Hamlet’s father to walk the earth.