Having my way with Ulysses

The point was the least conspicuous point about it.

• Eumaeus

Fate is partial to repetitions, variations, symmetries. Nineteen centuries later, in the southern part of the province of Buenos Aires, a gaucho is set upon by other gauchos, and as he falls he recognizes a godson of his, and says to him in gentle remonstrance and slow surprise (these words must be heard, not read): Pero, ¡ché! He dies, but he does not know that he has died so that a scene can be played out again.
1:26 am

Scene: [An endlessly large room once belonging to to all the infinite possibilities but now cavernously empty save for Caesar who is curled up on the floor patting his knife wounds with smooth caresses.]

Time: [On the god mic, sotto voce] Are you ready to listen?

Caesar: What’s the point?

Time: You must stop looking at the point of everything. This particular version of you has no point. Or rather, you have many points. You are legion.

Caesar: Blah blah blah.

Time: You’re tired, you’re not taking it in. Maybe some solid food? I’m a stickler for solid food. Here. [A cup of coffee appears on the floor next to Caesar. It’s over-roasted, must be Starbucks.] Now Caesar, honey, you do know that history is a tale like any other too often heard. But darling, your history, your place in Roman history, is only one manifestation of infinite possibilities. You have ousted all the others and now here we are, at a standstill until you can accept it. You are at a crucial point.

Caesar: But if I have other selves, some which did not die, then they are not to be thought away.

Time: They are, but not by you. You occupy a non-dimensional point, the stilled eternity. Move to become a line, then a plane, then a tetrahedron and you’ll gain some perspective. Trust me on this one. Your other selves did.

Caesar: I refuse to accept other selves.

Time: They are the possibilities you have ousted. You did that. Get used to it. You think you can square the circle lying there in a puddle of yourself? Stand up, man, form a line. Until then you are both center and circumference. Unless you straighten up beyond this particular singularity, that thing you call “self” to which you stubbornly cling, sweetie love, you will understand nothing, and only nothing.

Caesar: Leave me alone

Time: The point is always alone.

Stars all around suns turn roundabout. Bright midges dance on walls.

• Circe

Not because more than one unmingled semblance was in the living light on which I looked, for it is always what it was before; But through the sight, that fortified itself in me by looking, one appearance only to me was ever changing as I changed. Within the deep and luminous subsistence of the high light appeared to me three circles, of threefold colour and of one dimension, and by the second seemed the first reflected as Iris is by Iris, and the third seemed fire that equally from both is breathed. 12:50 am

Come on you nasty little devils, I know you’re dripping for a couple of rounds of it, yes? No? Oh yes so here we go. And one two three two two three three two three spin. Yes, now that’s the spirits. Let’s keep it going round round, square dance in circles, the best square lacks corners, and three two three four. Anybody here for there? Wheel whirl twirl simply swirl. And the room wants to cut in. Please, twirl right round baby. Room wind this way we’ll twine that. We’ll do a May pole dance right down the middles three four and turn and one two three. come on in snakes, your turn, and spin your partners right up that pole and fandango. Go for baroque babies, may I touch you? You may touch my, O but lightly! And three two three four and one two three two two two by two three four.

Though they stink yet they sting.

• Circe

Look and see if anything is as great as this.12:34 am

Everything’s a temporary dream. Look at the great pyramid, my creation of longest duration.  A fat triangle in the desert, eh? You think they call me thrice great for nothing? I’m still dripping with the music of mathematics from since I played at dividing flowers and sweeties. I mean listen to it and work it out like a good young idiot. You people couldn’t do the half. Are you divided from your own organs? Listen to the harmonies of proportion and ratio; what composer tell me ever moved number so well. All is lost. You think I left it looking like that fat heap it is now, squat and spreading. But do you do anything about it, no. Nothing. Renovate it. Go ahead, it needs it. You have my permission, if not my help. Put some people on the job. Choose your most, your beautiful, your delicious, and your delightfuls, force them to say coactus volui and give them my pyramid so it might sing again. Paint upon it a diabolic rictus of black luminosity. Give it phosphorescent scorpion tongues. Paint its shafts like coal black throats and shine lights through them so out of itself it would make itself a lamp. Let the shafts open their windpipes to the outside all bloodred and sing. Add a few octaves. Here and or there. I’d hum along to that. Cover it. Take the original and jazz it up. What did I do when it was mine? I divided myself with the potentiality of it. Then I made a choice and left the rest unchosen. I covered it with white limestone and polished it to a mirror. And the sides: they were two in one and one in two. You think you see a triangle there? Look again. There are eight sides and though they sink yet they sing when the sun hits dead on. On the solstice the mirrors’ split face would absorb refract no reflect a divided sun like what do you call it gossamer. Is it a dream to think there’s nothing new under the sun?

From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step.

• Circe

Swiftly she set out, with joy. But he gave her, stealthily, the honey-sweet berry of the pomegranate to eat, peering around him. He did not want her to stay for all time over there, at the side of her honorable mother, the one with the dark robe.12:28 am

Think back. Remember. I am almosting it. I spent those summer months, the first ones after, with circles and squares. As one would. It’s natural. Look at that circle there. You see it? A reflection of your eye looking at me.  I’ll reflect mine back to you in case you need, no? Fine then. So beautiful your circle. A circle is a circle because it is not a square.  A square is a square because it is not a circle.  The perfect square lacks corners, but I get ahead of myself. But I can’t get ahead of myself, that’s my predicament. Nor can I get behind myself either, damn it. But let’s return to the roundness, the fullness of your circle. All points of your circumference are equal from your center. Such pretty, such sublime perfection. Such infinity. Such simultaneity of number. Ba! Look at that square, now, ugly thing. In front of you, see it? Around where you stare. You should blink more, this is very bad for your eyes holding them open like that. Blink. Now see that ugly square binding your reflection. My reflection back. Corners. Angles. Limited. Linear. Like me. Ba, this has been an unusually fatiguing day. And this day, like any other day is this day now. Here. Now. Endlessly now. Nothing but now, only now forever and always now. I know for you it is different. I see it is different from here. Good Christ you can see it from space, but for me, when I look at myself I see only this and no other then. When? I exist between before and after in a durationless instant, and I unite them. Before and after exist because of me. You exist because of me. But I heard once of a way, a secret way. Closer, I’ll tell you. If the square married the circle, yes? You see it? Forgive the allegorical language but this is top secret understand. If the square married the circle they would mate, yes, and be united. Unified. If the perfect square lacked corners and if the circle had rationality. Think of the implications! Imagine what it could mean! The eternal and the temporal entwining. Infinity plunging into linearity. We can do it. So gently, so carefully. This is virgin territory. The past that was can be caressed into the now. And the future that beckons, we shall be the ones saying come hither sweet little thing you are. Aren’t you curious? Nobody’s looking baby love, we can do it. The cause is sacred. Stop. You don’t agree, do you. You think I’m wasting time. But the quadrature of the circle is all I have left, don’t you see? I live in temporal succession and this compounds my grief. You think it’s so easy to? You. Your center is everywhere and your circumference is nowhere. Ba. When have you ever needed to resurrect anything? Simultaneity. You are nothing. Leave me. Sorrow lives only in linearity; what do you know of my troubles? Now go.

Along an infinite invisible tightrope taut from zenith to nadir the end of the world.

• Circe

In the stories I have mentioned the ascetic and the king symbolize nothing and plentitude, zero and infinity. More extreme symbols of that contrast would be a god and a dead man, and their fusion would be more economical: a god that dies.

12:25 am

Are you a god too? You don’t say much do you. Wanna play dice? No? Do you know what i’m asking of you? Some other time, yes? Or maybe you don’t speak my language. How about this: 3.5 = A time, times and half a time. Yes? A little reaction. Now we’re sensing a little of the cosmic force. How about 77? 2+3+5+7+11+13+17+19? Oh did I offend you? Forgive my crudeness. I’ll rephrase that. My darling, I sort of believe strong in you. Would you join me in a little 4² + 5² + 6²? It’s up to you. You don’t have cold feet about the cosmos do you? Careful! Watch that infinite tightrope. It’s invisible, but that doesn’t mean it’s not sealed in here with us. That thing goes both ways, don’t you know, from zenith to vacuum, and we are damn close to vacuum now. Look at the clouds forming. My, it’s warm. It’s getting so hot in here; it must be the heat. We may be but a pair of squares, but seeings that we are all in a cauldron and everything, how about a 69 before we ? We can get all turned around and place our bets if we are coming or going.  Journey up looks the same as the journey down and the start and the end is the same point. Shall we put out heads between our knees and look around? Come on, before we evaporate to nothingness, let’s find out more about each other than we have forgotten.

Let everything rip

• Circe

Day to day pours forth speech, and night to night declares knowledge. There is no speech, nor are there words; their voice is not heard; yet their voice goes out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world. 12:21 am

Well would you look at us.  Meeting again, are we? One traveler weary as hell from daily travels and besmeared with sulfur dung of lion reek of every last bit of shit along the slog. But well hey, what the eye can’t see the heart can’t grieve for. And then the other wants to play musemathematics with time. And so here we are a cork and a bottle.  What shall we talk about? insanity? Patriotism? Sorrow for the dead? No need for that. Death is the highest form of life. The future of the race then? Music? I thought so. Guarenteed to lull one of us and stimulate the other.  The rite is the poet’s rest. Well now, after you is good manners.  Well, what about the octave, a traveler like us. How like us? The octave moves in a simultaneity of departure and return. Oh octave, sweet sweet octave, you never know if you are coming or going do you? It’s both and, darling, you’re coming and going at the same time.  Whichever direction you go, ascending and descending other people’s staircases, you find yourself at both ends.  If you go forth tonight it is to your own steps you will tend.  It must be tedious always meeting oneself whichever direction you tend. Stop. What’s that noise? An exhale and a click; what a distracting sound.  Can you stop that please, we were just getting somewhere.

You’ll soon be over it.

• Circe

Whereat samething is rivisible by nighttim, may be involted into the zeroic couplet palls pell inhis heaventh glike noughty times ∞, find, if you are not literally cooefficient, how minney combinaisies and permutandies can be played on the international surd!

12:14 am

They’re not cute. Just look at them. They say all babies are beautiful, but these — woof! Maybe it’s because there were eight of them all crammed into one manwomb? Might be that. That and the metallic faces, that’s just weird. But they’re all alive and here so who’s complaining. Still, what octomom is going to want a home birth for eight babies at the same time? If I didn’t charge by the baby I’d have said oh god the liability, no. No way. No thank you. As it is I don’t think I was insured for this many simultaneous deliveries. But done is done. We ought to write their names on them so we can tell them apart. No not on their diapers! What is the use of that? Within two hours the whole system will go to shit. Oh fuck it. What do I care, put their names anywhere you want. I’m halfway out the door. It’s up to their momdad now. Poor kids, their stars are fixed. They’ll be mid-level managers of failing banks. At best. Poor ugly babies. I’ll say a prayer for them before I go. I call upon the watery, the dark, the invisible, and the kings of infinite space. Come primordial pairs swing your partners into a double quaternity then lay them down and hear my plea, for these, what are we calling them babies were born to a man who so wanted to be a mother. He is a simple and lovable person, a young soul clearly unfamiliar with metempsychosis. A dear person, kind of nuts really, wears a hair shirt for godsakes. Somehow somebody has made him forget the memory of his past but I believe him to be more sinned against than sinning. Embrace these babies tight, dear, and provide for them an abundance of scholarships because he’ll never afford tuition for them all.

A new era is about to dawn.

• Circe

Awake! Awake Jerusalem! O lovely Emanation of Albion Awake and overspread all Nations as in Ancient Time for lo! the Night of Death is past and the Eternal Day Appears upon our Hills: Awake Jerusalem, and come away.12:02 am

It can’t be done. I won’t do it. You’ll need another architect, I can’t do this shit. What do you take me for? I’m no magician. Ok. Ok. listen. Just look at your plan here, 40,000 rooms and only 12 doors.  In what universe does this make any sense: 40,000 rooms arranged in a perfect square, excuse me, cube. It will be hideous. No architect will touch it.  A big ugly cube — it will look like a Wallmart. You want your new Bloomusalem to be a Wallmart? I mean, maybe we can do 200 x 200 rooms with tall ceilings, which might be our only shot at symmetry under the cemetery wall, but look how tall the damn rooms would have to be. The ceilings will have their own weather! Otherwise we can stack 34 or 35 but we won’t get anywhere near your perfect 40,000. Maybe we can get there with an octahedron, and make the sides 44 of whatever measure you like, in length. Close enough to 40,000. We can include an annex for the rest. But that brings us to another problem, how big is this place? Your plan uses stadia and furlongs. And cubits! Who measures anything with cubits? None of your numbers make sense. Seriously. What are we using to measure this thing? It’s a beast! You want cubits, fine. It’s your deal. But you have here each side of the cube measures 12,000 stadia. That’s four million nine hundred thirty three thousand thirty three cubits.  So a cubit being 1/1000 the distance the earth rotates at the equator during one second of time, we are talking about the length of about an hour and twenty minutes of Earth’s rotation. What planet are you on man? Do you know how big that is? By the time I even get the foundations laid (12 foundations? Dude!) the Earth’s rotation will have slowed down enough that we’ll have to redefine the length of the cubit. And then what, we start over? And with what work force? Who is building this thing? Where are they going to live eat shit? Schools for their kids? Hospitals? Food? We’ll have to build a new Bloomusalem just to house the people who will build the new Bloomusalem, which will require Bloomusalems for those builders recursive to no end point. I’ll take the lake of fire. Really. I’d rather have a good eternal swim in the lake of fire. I don’t want any part of this. Find another contractor, I’m out.

He exhales a putrid carcasefed breath.

• Circe

Married! And you a professed anarchist, too! What is this confounded nonsense? But I suppose it’s merely a manner of speaking. Anarchists don’t marry. It’s well known. They can’t. It would be apostasy.11:55 pm

Ooh. Pardon. That buttermilk didn’t agree with me. Bad idea anyway. I traveled all the way from Exile, you know the place? City called We Put God There. Anyway, came pretty far to help out here as I see Bloom’s traveling south at about thirty two feet per second per second. So listen. Listen. Oh come on now, listen up. How’s my wife? Keep her off the booze, could you? And yeah don’t mind Bloom, he’s with me. Or was with me; he was at my funeral. He’s not some unibomber type, he’s all right. You know why? I could give you eighteen thousand reasons why. He’s married, for a start. But look it, I have to keep moving or the rats, you understand. Missing a few features of my face already. Just, you know, pray for my soul or whatever if you’re into that. You can do it with more or less care than is good. Anyway, I’ll see you, an soon from what I hear. When you get to We Put God There look me up.  I’m in field 14 + 24, row 101.

Would you like me perhaps to embrace you just for a fraction of a second?

• Circe

For our beginnings are a barred and palpable body, the mean of a fugitive spirit and watery gold without conversion, from which our masters have accepted their own lives, the end however is permanent.11:40 pm

You slumming here!  You ought to see yourself. Tell me, do you remember the night we, when there was, when we were so inclined to? We had such a nice little mix up of the marital, is it beyond recall? Can we again, maybe, oh how time flies, hark back in a retrospective arrangement to the housewarming party remember? Blindfolded feeling for partners (oh you had such soft corners!) and you and I by the teapot talking about what it means, what it meant to me. You. And you now. Lady and the Unicorn (what were you thinking?) but we can’t change that now. Or maybe we can, eh? Want me to kiss the spot? Could you? I have a little present for you, if you’ll ever forgive me for it.  If you are so inclined. Just for a moment. A second. A half second, really, just a small. Just a little. Won’t count really, just a little fraction of a fraction. Mathematically insignificant. What is time, really? Just a pin prick of it, just a little something, shall we, won’t in the grand scheme of, don’t you see, I know somebody won’t like it but the ears can’t see what the lips won’t hear, if you understand my dear, my faun, my hart. How graceful are your feet in those gold sandals. You are so elusive in them. My fugitive. Your breasts are like two fawns, twins of a gazelle. Whatever do you think of me? Do you remember what I whispered in your ear that night? I bit your ear and sent you a secret valentine and said