Having my way with Ulysses

You might pick up a young widow here

11:45 am

Molly caught me writing to Martha.  Almost killed the whole thing.  I wrote the wrong address on the envelope I used to cover the letter.  I hope it’s not in a dead letter office somewhere.  In the midst of life we are in death.  Like John O’Connell.  Life among the tombs.  Keeps it well, trimmed edges, nice grass.  Corpse manure best for plants.  Mastiansky said Chinese cemetery poppies make the best opium.  Could be a decent trade.  Carcasses for gardens.  Dig them under when they are green and pink still, decomposing.  Then they become a kind of a tallowy kind of a cheesy.  Then black treacle oozing.  This must be what the plants like.  Then dried up deathmoths.  How did O’Connell get a woman to marry him, come live at the graveyard?  Try dangling that in front of somebody.  Courting death.  Is thrilling I expect.  Love among the tombs.  Tantalizing for the poor dead, though, like smell of grilling meat for the starving.  Fields of them out there, ground honeycombed with them.  More room if buried standing up.  Except wouldn’t want a mudslide, head might come up with pointing hands.


Eve likes citrons too.8:27 am

Not going to fill out the application for the Ravenna Kibbutz, but still an idea behind it.  Rent is reasonable and then there are the movie nights, workshops, bonfires, gardens.  Pruning things.  Ripening cherry tries.  Not exactly citrons in the Levant but urban kibbuitzniks can’t be expected to reproduce precisely the kibbuitzim of their grandfathers.  This is a simulacral situation.  Nice fruit the citron, can’t find them here.  Forbidden fruit.  Heavy sweet waxy perfume they have.  Wonder if Citron is still working in the movie business.  Rusty he was, marketing.  Gatherings with him and Mastiansky too with his cither, Molly singing.  Bohemian nights those were.