Having my way with Ulysses

5 5/11 minutes past each hour per hour in arithmetical progression.

The happy precision of gears and well-oiled thoughts; the concurrence of energies as they converge into a single victorious trajectory. 2 hours 10 minutes 54 6/11 seconds ante meridiem

Now watch the clock. Keep your eye on it. There. That was one. Did you blink? I can slow it back down for you if you like, I’ve done it before, but we’d be here forever.

Let’s try again. There’s another one coming and there! See it? The longer hand and the shorter hand were at exactly the same angle of inclination. That’s the moment, that’s the way in, you understand. When the longer is the momma and the shorter is the girl, the way to shorter leads through longer and the way to longer leads through shorter.

Now pay attention, here it comes again and now! You missed it. Listen. You think this is easy tinkering with time for you? Try to focus. You think it’s everyday a mother and daughter feel simultaneously inclined? Yes it is every day, twenty two times a day, but I’m making a point, you owl, so don’t give me your shit. I can go. You know that, don’t you, I’ll leave. And then when will you be? I thought so. And we just missed another one, so. Yeah. Are we doing this? You ready? You’re not ready. I’m going to have to stop time or I’ll be explaining this until I’m blue in the face.


Now let’s do the math. The hands kiss every hour and five and five elevenths minutes. Get that? Keep up. The daughter moves twelve times as fast as her mother, but that doesn’t mean momma’s not moving too. Frankly I’ll take a woman who understands a good slow rotation any day. But you are young, you like it fast, that’s your deal. So. Just know that momma is moving too, thirty degrees to her girl’s three hundred and sixty, so little miss chica moves fast, but she always plays catch up. Oh so much for her to learn. Do the division, divide little missy’s speed by momma’s endurance. Feel that eleven rising? Right there in your face. And start. And we just missed another one. Right. Right. Kid. Enough mathematics, we need to get scientific now. And musical, let’s try a higher octave. Yes? We can philosophize until the owls come home but that doesn’t get either you or me any nearer either one of them. You ready? Really feel it this time. Now go!

The sins of the past are rising against you. Many. Hundreds.

The thing pleased him andt, and andt, He larved ond he larved on he merd such a nauses The Gracehoper feared he would mixplace his fauces. I forgive you, gorndt Ondt, said the Gracehoper, weeping, For their sukes of the sakes you are safe in whose keeping. 12:39 am

Thousands. They are raindrops rolling across a window, and you can see allpast right through them. Lets get up close. Magnification of where, distortion of how, inversion of what time, and with how many fluxes in octaves between convex and concave. Polytemporality wouldn’t know anything about that, strictly speaking, from here it’s ants all the way down. I dreamed something different perhaps maybe once if rememory serves. I disguised myself and walked, a dark visaged man, trailing hair, creamfruit smell.  I was dreaming and the dream was me. Like you. But you appear to be drowning just a bit. Partially drowning, like you misplaced your what’s that? Well, that’s your opinion, I’m just saying what I see from nowhen. Men like to ondts.

Though they stink yet they sting.

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?

Reduplication of personality.

THE DEVIL: ... You remember how he sang? [He begins to sing in a nasal operatic baritone, tremulous from an eternity of misuse in the French manner] Vivan le femmine! Viva il buon vino! THE STATUE: [taking up the tune an octave higher in his counter tenor] Sostegno e gloria D'umanita. THE DEVIL: Precisely. Well, he never sings for us now. DON JUAN: Do you complain of that? Hell is full of musical amateurs: music is the brandy of the damned. May not one lost soul be permitted to abstain?12:29 am

There is a flower that bloometh
I’ll arise and go to my roometh?
Each moment I expect
to be but the next
Oh fuck

There is a flower that bloometh
As the gulls soar and zoometh
loves old song is sweet
he has sparrows for feet?
Christ this needs some perfumeth

Dear Mr. Deasy.
Hey Mr. Deasy,

I just wanted to tell you that
Following up on
I feel close to you, as a friend, as a
Reflecting on our conversation discussion chat it, if feel I might ruin every
Great catching up with you, you gave me much to reflect aaaaaaaaaaanh.

Oh Jesus H God
9th rate coward

I’m a little drunk still maybe. Right. Spent what. Where’ve I been? I paid my way. Pay pay paid. Each octave is twice or half the pitch of the next. I am myself and I am not myself. Life I love you, go to hell.

Let everything rip

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.

Musemathematics. And you think you’re listening to the etherial.

Be but in tune with yourself, madam, 'tis no matter how high or how low you take it.4:21 pm


Mathematics is not arithmetic.  Is that what you thought?  Oh my darling.  Arithmetic is  2*2/2=1+1.  That’s just juggling numbers.  But please, my delightful, look around you.  Go ahead.  light on something.  That is not a something, that is a collection of number in relationships, in patterns, whispering the universal language.  Some people, eccentrics mostly bless their hearts, think God is an external force.  Now I know my dear that you know better.  God is universal harmony perceived through number.  And if God is this universal harmony perceived through number, and play along, then time is the soul of God.  But don’t listen to me, who am I?  I am only God.  Listen to this:


Hear that?  Numbers.  Music is the voice of mathematics.  Go look in the mirror (haven’t we done this before?) and open your mouth wide.  Look in there, all the way in.  Two tiny silky chords, wonderful, more than all others: the human voice.  Vibrate those little silky strings and out comes number.  Double that number and there you are, one octave higher.  Divide it in half, one octave lower.  An octave is the sound of the number 2.  Divide by 3 and you get the musical fifth, the fifth note on the scale.  Bald deaf Pat brought quite flat pad ink.  Quite.  Octaves and fifths love to make love.  Men and women, when left undisturbed, naturally sing a 5th apart.  Harmonious.  The number 4 = 2*2 = the second octave.  The number 5 is the musical third  (Pat.  Glorious that symmetry under the cemetery wall).   Bald Pat Quite: a chord.  You want a little dissonance?  Try the numbers 7, 11, and 13.  Heavy mojo in those numbers.  I don’t even want to tell you about the number 20. Want to get a little irrational?  Play the strings.  Guitar frets are placed according to the 12th root of 2.  Oh the numbers.  Durations of notes have ratios too.  And now we get into geometry.  Oh my beauteous ones.  If I could only tell you.  Or show you.  Or sing you.  Or touch you.  Or taste you.  If only.  Then I will never leave you.  And you will never leave me.  We can entwine in mathematical harmonies and whisper eternality into each other’s vibrating tympanic membranes.  You will weave patterns with your body and look in triangular mirrors.  But then you will see God and leave me to suffer.  Snivel.  Big spanishy eyes goggling at nothing.  Wavyavyeavyheavyeavyevyevyhair un comb:’d.