re Joyce part 3

He went by the quieter way nothing so annoying as small town tourist traffic feeding sharks, two local police SUV's flashing lights clog main street to harass some elderly New Yorker who double parked to drop a letter in the post box. A quick drop off now in true police wisdom blocks the intersection for at least a half hour. Gallows hill brought him out behind all that. Right turn then left past the cemetery regiment GAR, immigrant Ireland, Poland, Italy, Japan, sisters, brothers, priests and the girl with the funny name, Kelsley who had the same surname as he. How many years how many cemetery miles walked, and other than his own direct family never seen his own surname upon the stone? Right again, past the frozen pond where this past autumn ducks, herons, seabirds , turtles and G-E-E-S-E! spotted by the child. Then between the two smaller ponds, either side of the school drive way. It was there they'd stopped, watch the first beaver she had ever seen, keen eyes of hers noticed ripples on the water as they were heading home after her first day in American school. He'd stopped the car along the roadside. They stood there for about a half hour before Mr. Beaver disappeared. At the top of the hill turned yet again into the parking lot, parked. Waiting watching for signs of school being over, made notes in a black notebook heard a radio interview and live music Madeleine Peyroux. Had been certain it was Billie Holiday. Listen now, maybe playing local, the wife would love that. It was greying up again cold enough to cause his fingers pain. Few more minutes and the little treasure would be his again.

Re Joyce part 2

So tea almost done, Sun has come to mid-day grey the rain or snow of this evening prepares itself. He's thinking about his our walking Eccles Street, Dublin on his own; now here so far away in so many ways he is able to read Ulysses because like Joyce knew Dublin in the minute little ways of endless walking, sometimes to work, sometimes look for work, sometimes for the pure joy of nowhere to go a smoke along the Liffey, a lunch of the best Irish stew in Ireland, a mad rummage among the old books and even though centuries separate their Dublin's neither would not at all recognize the others. Upstairs in the land of opportunity watch the New England traffic make its way still several feet of snow banked around the green. Tea almost gone another yoga stretch... The times he'd gladly walk the hills for miles just to get to the village pub roll a smoke while Ita  pours a proper pint and maybe a wee Jameson for warmth to ease the wait. Is there ever enough time to be home?

Re joyce part 1

For two dollars he bought a copy of Ulysses. Two dollars for a book of some of the best English language ever written. Twentieth century Shakespeare. Appropriately original publisher - Shakespeare & Co. Unfortunately it was not one of those copies, but it was a hardcover Everyman edition from the fifties or maybe the sixties. Most important was the font size. How many people their lives ruined by trying to read micro-dot re-issues, Melville, Cervantes, Homer, Shakespeare and epically Joyce! All squished into cheap toilet paper stock so as to be sold on the cheap. Words the size of Joyce's need space and a paper firm enough to hold them. Too close and not only strains the eyes but the reader cant help but skip ahead hoping for some oasis from the claustrophobic inevitably blame the work as tiresome difficult and not worth the bother. Some one said you cannot take one word out of Joyce's work without ruining the whole thing (proves it is a work of poetry). You cannot also smear those words together and not ruin the whole work. Each must have space to stand alone alongside each other word. Then equally as part of the whole they can be savored and the genius of Joyce made obvious.