Thank you kindly, much obliged my man. We have to all pull together, am I right, and these things can be damn expensive. When there’s a girl like that a ripe and a ready, a little venus of the people, and no man has yet gone before, then I want to be the man for the job, hey don’t spill on my new pants. We live but to die and there’s hair in your eye. I know it. I’ll never be a poet. I am a little sentimental about the girl, but the sentimentalist is he who would enjoy without incurring the immense debtorship for a thing done. Much obliged to now where did he go? Oh there, getting some wine. Two guinness for me. And two for yourself? Ah yes, she’s a bold bad girl. Who’s paying? Well sir, it’s who’s invited us! Whoa! That one’s passed out. You don’t say? Had the winner until you? Wasn’t such a dead cert then. Who gave him the winner? Him? Him that gave me the condom for my photo girl? With the wife in the window? Have to see her to be believed. Pull the blind baby, somebody’s watching. Wait, Bloo? He’s the one she calls papli? Ok then, is that the time. Getting late. Just slide over here by the door, Mulligan, look alive, look at that there by the door. A round of absinthe? Sure sure, green poison the devil take the hindmost. Don’t mind us just going to take a look at something out here. Just outside. See ya adios bye bye catch you later gotta go.
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.
They know what they are doing, eyes all over them. Don’t even have to look, they know just what is where and who. There’s a sense to it. Walk into a room and feel which ones want what and who wants someone else. It’s a pressure in the air or something. I’ve seen it, what am I, blind? They feel that I want to fuck you feeling coming from some corner or other. Directly behind. You think that turns off because of a husband? Look at Molly after the Glencree dinner, telling me Val Dillon had his eye on her, and she cracking nuts with her teeth like a tiger. She was sending a message in a bottle and no mistaking it. And mister lord mayor sir knows a ball buster when he wants one. She knew her own business on the way home too, and then telling me after about her first kiss with Mulvey up against the Moorish wall. Just like a woman to camouflage with timing. And me the blank clock. She saw, fine eyes too, clear, she saw with her every eye what I wanted to hear and saw to it. Sharp as needles. Milly too, practicing in front of a mirror. Gets it from her father, mother I mean.
Yes. And he’s an excellent man to organize it. The tour, you see. It starts up north. A summer tour, will be a nice holiday. Who’s in it? My wife, so far. So far. I believe Boylan is adding some rather famous, locally famous you understand, particularly well-known talent. He’s organizing it. Really it is just one show. So far. Just one. Only Molly in it. His father made some money. Sold the same thing to the army several times over. And now Boylan selling this tour. Chip off the old. Just one show. I won’t go. Go visit my father, his anniversary. They’ll go alone. Together. He’ll organize her there. Again. I wonder what she sees? She’s all drowned in him. Worst man around.
Seventeen o’clockOn the first day of June it was some people say, That old Bloom got a check for some work it was pay. He bought for dear Molly garters violet and fair But that fat heap he married hrumphed “why just one pair?!” Well now Bloom he does try, and mistakes will be made, But do we blame poor old Poldy for plans poorly laid? My dear Mrs. Marion, ’tis only too true Your man is in peril, mocked, scorned, and he’s blue! You don’t grasp my point, what I’m meaning is thus: While Molly’s post-coital, Bloom’s making a fuss. He’s stirring up trouble, poking giants in eyes Will it end well for Poldy? There’ll be no surprise. While he longs for his Molly (though soon visits another) Foes want to harm him, beat, hang, maim, and smother! They’ll string him from tree limbs! They’ll maul him I swear! They’ll brain him with biscuit tins flying through air! Now please don’t be fightin’ for this or for thine, Don’t be so dividin’, come on let’s combine! Molly, he gave you lone garters ’tis true, But he brought you face lotion and four handkerchiefs too He’ll bring you more lotion if he remembers besides But poor Poldy’s hit bottom and downward he slides. Treat him gently, with kindness, bring him breakfast and treats. And for Christ’s sake, Madam Molly, at least wash the sheets!
I remember. I remember. That night in the box Michael Gunn gave us, listening to the tuning, its’ own music like feeding time at the zoo. That clown in box above with his lens staring down into Molly’s dress and she on the edge of her seat listening to me. Me. I told her about Spinoza, exiled Jew, glass in his lungs. Imagine a worm in the blood, he said, a tiny worm that can see corpuscles moving and colliding and rubbing together, flowing. The worm would think each particle of blood its own part, not a whole fluid stream coursing in and out of bodies. Just like us. We are parts in relationship together, part of an infinite whole. Or we are the worm, maybe, seeing everyone else as parts wanting to be the infinite whole. Or wanting to be worms. Or a bee. A bee sing stinging and drawing blood, one corpuscle at a time OW! And our mind is part of a larger intellect or is the worm that is to say bee listening in to the parts and has to listen again to know it is a song. She was riveted. Hardly moved a muscle. Beestung lips. I sounded like this:
These two bitches been doing a shit job of things. I see luring but no devouring. Where’s the devouring? Why I leave girls to do a woman’s job? Move over, all of you, let me through. Mama’ll fix this mess. Lidia, ready to kill herself over that one just left. He’s on his way to a real sirena baby, go play sad music and cry. Stupida. Where’s your sanity? Stand up straight! God give me patience these girls make me crazy. Who told you to warm him up for somebody else to finish off? Did all her work for her. She’s a better singer too. She knows what sells. Think. Remember when she was selling clothes? And singing in bars. What do you think made her money, eh? Those old theatre rags don’t sells themselves, you see people lining up for that? It was the men. The men. The men she lured singing. Learn something. And Mina. Who you going to get standing there doing nothing? Look at that fatso there slapping that piano with his meat hands. He knows. Or that fake priest who helped him knows: put on tight pants when you sing to the girls. It’s not the voice it’s the body. Even a fatty like him. Come on chicas! Why is it taking men to teach you a job you should know by instinct? Listen to these guys:
They know their business, ya. They’ll eat you alive then drag your soul to hell and you’ll want more. Listen to their promises. Even I’d take my panties off for them. Get your shit together. Now Lidia don’t cry. An idiot who leaves just like that isn’t worth throwing yourself away over. Mi pobre hija. I just want you to get them to come to you, to see you with their own will. Now enough of this, you give me a pain deep in my heart. You have work to do and another one coming in. You get him, ok? Enough tears chica, you make yourself crazy over nothing and me with you. Now go.
Why does no one starve in the desert? Because of all the sandwich is there. Had a gorgonzola sandwich with mustard. Easy on digestion. Cheese digests all but itself. Ate it trying not to see the drip from Nosey Flynn’s nose. Davy Byrne quiet, ingratiating. Puts up with Nosey Flynn talking horse racing, money to throw away. A regular is like the roommate you never wanted. Nosey curious about Molly’s concert tour, is Blazes Boylan involved. Well, a free ad is a free ad even if it does bite at the heart. Told him. Word of mouth. Word is he’s covered in fleas, or worse. Scratching in his pants pockets, talking about a fight at Lewis-McChord. That place breeds the worst of them all. Something about the Northwest maybe. The rain? More serial killers here too. Train them up here, make them into murderers. Teach them war is a live action video game. Get them to like it. Then off they go to sunny places, full of power, false authority, prescription drugs and hash. Make the mission vague and change it up so they won’t wonder about why. License them to kill farmers for fun, murder holy men and whole families. Villages. Toss the candy out the front of the convoy and drive over the little ones. Leave behind a Russian gun. Murder staged to look like combat. We were attacked, they’ll learn to say. Then bring them back to Lewis-McChord so they can implement their education. Watch them put their cigarettes out on their women’s skin and don’t forget to torture the children. Waterboard a little boy because he can’t say the alphabet. Another because he wet his bed. Killing each other and themselves and everybody else. War is the safest bet: heads all lose, tails all lose. Easy money. Dark thoughts to chew over. Scars on the anima mundi. A shock to the heart. Nosey’s ambush, unintentional presumably. Collateral damage. Think about something else. Something else. Nice quiet bar, Davy Byrne has. Nice counter wood; like the way it curves. Nicely planed. Look how the light touches it just there. Gentle.
Funny the way she says things. Wuz nc & all teh bfls wer out. Saw one today with white stockings, dressing lingerie shop window. Naked mannequins with sale signs, pinning on garters, flimsy silks. All in red. Thick feet she had. Hope they get mucked by the rain. Need to get a pincushion for Molly. Might not like that though, throws away the black headed ones too. Superstitions. Get pricked by a pin and lose your lover. Sleep with two pins crossed under your pillow. Not sure why. Sharp things cut lo. Never hand a pin to somebody point first. Nice red things they had there. For Molly. For women. All for a woman. Home and houses, the wealth of the world for them. Molly. Molly’s skin. Must get her lotion. Warm full perfumed. Kissed, yielded, tangled, trembling breath. For them. For her. Men. Men, men, men. See the animals feed. Pungent meatjuice. Swilling, wolfing gobfulls. Bulging eyes. Stink of manpiss and sweat. Am I like that? I can’t see myself like that. Is that how others see me? Watch me eat. Ramming down knifefulls, sticky, masticating chewchawchew. Spitting back the gristle. Shoveling into my gullet. Chump chop lick the plate. Eat or be eaten and choke to death on a salmon bone, bite off more than I can chew, and kill! Kill! I hate dirty eaters.