Overwhelmed was I to be accepted a Tweader in the most magnificent 11ysses project to rebirth, as ‘t were, from old into new, that infamously complex and suigenerisly celebrated of Modern Novels – even peut-etre the MODERN NOVEL – Ullyses, into cyber-shunted stutterings – as the great doubleJ might say, electronic ejaculates, sent tottering twitterwords into the grand gabbling widing web of the world, on Bloomsday (when else), relishing the great émigré and his effluences and inviting by challenge a generation of virgins to soil themselves at the first on Molly’s bloomers.
Leaping quixotic, like a salmon into the headlights, a deer catched in the river, a blinded minotaurus skewering capewards onto the matador’s welcoming blade came I and ouched to the pain of recognition as the Mocking Master’s mots just put me to the realisation of how Herculean a task was this.
“Help!” I cried, from a Young Man or a Dead one I cared not. And there riverrunning, twitterstreaming, watching and leaping the bold words of the Brave, and I bemuttering in silence. Ah well, as the Great Critic would have us each know: anxiety blossoms under the influence of a quivering king (6,5).
Anger was hidden within a man finding fault with others, but also a reflected truth more clear than betwixt the cracks of a looking glass. With that I was off, like an auld drabbing skunk, Father Jacking meself up on uneven crutches from me wheelchairiot of geriatric remembering. Goaded and chided and cheered along by a reJOYCing Delaney (who clearly had not gone back on the whine at all) to the soundtrack of the Joyce Gang getting In Yer Face, I was wearing my Sunday best and bareknuckling down for the fight!
To do, to do, whatever to cock-a-doodle-do!? How to dress a Giant in shorts and not give him the smirk of a hopscotching schoolboy? How to transform text into characters, losing neither meaning nor colouration, appearing not audacious/brave nor pompous/fool but failing just as any human must since lacking the mental muscle we all dost in this darking night coming after the Fall.
I am chastised as a Jesuit, comforted as if by a fraternal Christian, scaldy cheeks and fingers rapped, but at the end of it I have ended it. Not what it would have been could have been should have been but instead what it was and is and hoping to be. It is not the intoxicating perfume of the love of your life on your first night together / perhaps it is at least the hungover stench of your unmade bed, sheets lipsticked and soiled – and a mocking aching failing flailing back to the ungraspable preciousness of a snatched moment that is now lost. Forever.
Selfish I am in my helpings and thankings richly I must bestow on @11ysses for in this labour I have come to love (with the rapture of a young man, hopeful man, unsullied and unbeaten-by-the-World man) this great oeuvre that has ouvred again my blinded eyes to the beauty of the World and the glory of this ordinary day in that Dirty Old Town which is proof as ever there can be that every day must be Joycefully faced with the broadest of grins and the proudest Stately Gait towards that eternal and unending ending YES!!!