Happy Bloomsday

Mmnn Yes!!

Maybe too unobtuse for such a day that. And maybe he would and maybe he wouldn't. We though of hm for years before that great nose came off and he descended nto some daly drunen hell like a bat before the waves. Out and out he went, to find some awful to eat, some piss-tainted kidney lying, forgotten behind the stive in that dusty, dirty pub of his. And six pianos in the ears, a dream of a noise, like God on a day off, telling everyone which is the right religion for those clicks of damper on string, that no-pedal shortness of anxiety that leaves us all breathless. Up an octave for a chord change or no more excitement led by the clean girls up White-side way, into the nice families and their white houses with the black railings. Oh yes! We know you. Second Best bed and all that. What you know about him and his wife. Means nothing as she got the rest didn't she, the whole shebang and shake from shaft to spear and all stations in between.

We will finish this one day, get by page 3 where the drawl and trawl begins, that slavering mess of tower-bound drunks. Here come the Gardai; wait for that siren and duck down into the bubbling rocks around the bay all ye tower men. The day mostly gone now we get past twelve and what tense is this that makes us tense? Make sense of tense and have your slippery lunch to make you sleep for the second time this day. and In C now. When to start and when to stop. Up along the bay still seagulling like a mix of Welsh and Irish, bible black and pudding with fingers in his mouth - maybe his own this time, the slavering butcher, the killer in some eyes. The poisoners and painters killed some guy with his wallpaper I HEARD, over the tannoy sometime last week. Arsenic in the paste maybe.

And what makes us think we are better than the others round this table. Which one to kiss and kill and end. The only one deserving of sympathy washed his hands of everything said the guy who must have had it bad right up to embracing that horse, that lovely horse and going mad. I am so nervous at the end of the day. There seems to be nothing for it. Nietzsche Smietzche! A climb, an ascent to the to of the world makes those dirty roots into shining flowers, a random hundred years of imrovement and clubland. They've banned the dead end forays of the Ryan Air generation and made them spoil their own lands now, the dead-end drunken lakes of foul air and sickness that pour out of the soulless deserts every night thinking they are the men and women of the moment, taking drink like air and making heaven hell in seconds.

They drink to forget but they have forgotten what and so there is no point asking them again. I came down here when I was small, a little white bud, fresh from the cell division, that natural cloning that made me like my father and all the others of us stretching off into history. And why these trees get bigger! This is proof, just a proof so don't read more into it than you have to. What can I say to get myself banned? I do not care for results; you can see that in my life, the mess and nervousness that cause this to be the only free time I have. Where we all end up save for our richly-organised lives, down in the gutter with the offal and the straw and the cholera of all generations in that dirt. There is roman grime built up in these roads, dust from the first Caligae to hit the sand of England twenty times ago, past day one of Bloomsday and back to the falling legionnaires of that most holy empire. Apis on the roadside, a honey tangle, sweetness for the soldier as he struggles to take over a land he can never understand. Rings bells that. Made molly groan that one. She thinks she once had a roman man, under the shadow of some Italian dockside, San Remo, where they hire you boats and you can change your life. In C again, back in the brain like eggs and bacon, like kidneys in your breakfast bowl, fried and lovely, a treat for any ailementary tract today, that greasy slippage of the tang of home and heart. The lights make Haggis easy, a dreamy celtic dish to match the best of Dublin. Over the railinged bridge that covers that apology for a river, back to the Black Lake, the Black Cat, an Cat Dubh, And V from mh - how does that work. Sdpeak Irish Man! or Flan - or Miles Na Gopaleen, the humourlists friend, the great absurdist, the master of the footnote, the unfinished trip to hell by bombs that never explode.

Great hell man! The life of O'Brien is some melting of two great men of this city. My mother lived here too, inside Trinity, making herself a doctor in the forties, afetr winning the war or so we thought, a classical scholar of steel and pipes made to link islands through the sand. And here, sixty years later, we have a real world mother to think about, the other parent of my own two dear children, camouflaged amongst the grass of some long-gone summer, not missed but quiet and scholarly, pollenless and happy gurgling to each other. Where do they learn of us? The end and no checks today. This is just a proof, a roof, an end, a blend, a quite end.