Having my way with Ulysses

Shrouded in the piteous vesture of the past

• Oxen of the Sun

We are reminded of that difference between genuine memory, and mere haphazard recollection, noted by Plato in the story he tells so well of the invention of writing in ancient Egypt.— It might be doubted, he thinks, whether genuine memory was encouraged by that invention. The note on the margin by the inattentive reader to "remind himself," is, as we know, often his final good-bye to what it should remind him of.

10:47 pm

I’ve seen that look before.  Rememory.  I’m almosting it.  Must have been fifteen seventeen years ago.  He looked to be about five then, sweet little boy standing on the urn.  Held up with hands around the urn.  The urn filled with wetted ashes and the Dillon girls and Molly holding him up.  Eating cherries.  He knew he liked it. He knew his mother would not like him standing on that urn.  He looked at her watching, her mother eyes on him to call him down.  Reproachful mother eyes speaking him to come down with mute secret words.  Sweet boy looking at his silent mother remote with the pain that was not yet the pain of love.

Pure fluke of mine

• Hades

Let us swop hats and excheck a few strong verbs weak oach eather yapyazzard abast the blooty creeks.11:56 am

John Henry Menton, how grand we are this morning.  He might have said thank you instead of nothing.  As if I turned him into stone.  Hates me.  Hate at first sight.  A guy doesn’t like to be beaten spectacularly at anything.  But in front of women, well.  And Molly and Floey Dillon laughing under the lilac tree didn’t help.  The root of his dislike.  Mortified him.  He did nothing but stare with those oyster eyes until Martin, helpful, also told him your hat is a little crushed.  He thanked Martin.  Never mind.  He’ll be sorry when it dawns on him.  Get the pull over him that way.  Leave him under an obligation: costs little.