Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.

Tuesday, December 31, 2019

Happy New Year, 2020

“With our best youlldied greedings to Pep
and Memmy and the old folkers below and
beyant, wishing them all very merry Incar-
nations in this land of the livvey and plenty
of preprosperousness through their coming
new yonks.”

Finnegans Wake

Sunday, June 16, 2019

Happy Bloomsday, 2019

—There must be a new moon out, she said. He’s always bad then. Do you know what he did last night?
Her hand ceased to rummage. Her eyes fixed themselves on him, wide in alarm, yet smiling.
—What? Mr Bloom asked.
Let her speak. Look straight in her eyes. I believe you. Trust me.
—Woke me up in the night, she said. Dream he had, a nightmare.
—Said the ace of spades was walking up the stairs.
—The ace of spades! Mr Bloom said.
She took a folded postcard from her handbag.
—Read that, she said. He got it this morning.
—What is it? Mr Bloom asked, taking the card. U. P.?
—U. p: up, she said. Someone taking a rise out of him. It’s a great shame for them whoever he is.
—Indeed it is, Mr Bloom said.
She took back the card, sighing.
—And now he’s going round to Mr Menton’s office. He’s going to take an action for ten thousand pounds, he says.
She folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch.
Same blue serge dress she had two years ago, the nap bleaching. Seen its best days. Wispish hair over her ears. And that dowdy toque: three old grapes to take the harm out of it. Shabby genteel. She used to be a tasty dresser. Lines round her mouth. Only a year or so older than Molly.
See the eye that woman gave her, passing. Cruel. The unfair sex.


Tuesday, April 30, 2019

Happy Third Day of the Writing, 2019 (Better Late than Never!)

Loud, graciously hear us!
    Now have thy children entered into their habitations. And
nationglad, camp meeting over, to shin it, Gov be thanked! Thou
hast closed the portals of the habitations of thy children and thou
hast set thy guards thereby, even Garda Didymus and Garda
Domas, that thy children may read in the book of the opening of
the mind to light and err not in the darkness which is the after-
thought of thy nomatter by the guardiance of those guards which
are thy bodemen, the cheeryboyum chirryboth with the kerry-
bommers in their krubeems, Pray-your-Prayers Timothy and
Back-to-Bunk Tom.
    Till tree from tree, tree among trees, tree over tree become
stone to stone, stone between stones, stone under stone for ever.
    O Loud, hear the wee beseech of thees of each of these thy un-
litten ones! Grant sleep in hour's time, O Loud!
    That they take no chill. That they do ming no merder. That
they shall not gomeet madhowiatrees.
    Loud, heap miseries upon us yet entwine our arts with laugh-
ters low!
    Ha he hi ho hu.

--Finnegans Wake

Saturday, June 16, 2018

Happy Bloomsday, 2018

An afterclang of Cowley’s chords closed, died on the air made richer.
And Richie Goulding drank his Power and Leopold Bloom his cider drank, Lidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said they would partake of two more tankards if she did not mind. Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving, coral lips, at first, at second. She did not mind.

Tuesday, April 10, 2018

Happy Third Day of the Writing, 2018

The Ondt, that true and perfect host, a spiter aspinne, was  

making the greatest spass a body could with his queens lace-

swinging for he was spizzing all over him like thingsumanything

in formicolation, boundlessly blissfilled in an allallahbath of

houris. He was ameising himself hugely at crabround and mary-

pose, chasing Floh out of charity and tickling Luse, I hope too, 

and tackling Bienie, faith, as well, and jucking Vespatilla jukely

by the chimiche. Never did Dorsan from Dunshanagan dance it 

with more devilry! The veripatetic imago of the impossible

Gracehoper on his odderkop in the myre, after his thrice ephe- 

meral journeeys, sans mantis ne shooshooe, featherweighed 

animule, actually and presumptuably sinctifying chronic's de-

spair, was sufficiently and probably coocoo much for his chorous

of gravitates. Let him be Artalone the Weeps with his parisites

peeling off him I'll be Highfee the Crackasider. Flunkey Footle

furloughed foul, writing off his phoney, but Conte Carme makes

the melody that mints the money. Ad majorem l.s.d.! Divi gloriam.

A darkener of the threshold. Haru? Orimis, capsizer of his ant-

boat, sekketh rede from Evil-it-is, lord of loaves in Amongded.

Be it! So be it! Thou-who-thou-art, the fleet-as-spindhrift,

impfang thee of mine wideheight. Haru!

--Finnegans Wake