So, as you should all know, I have a growing fascination with the life and works of James Joyce. I’ve already read his first two major works, Dubliners (1914) and A Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man (1916), and now I’m slowly working my way through Ulysses (1922). There are a few things you should know about Ulysses.
- It’s not really about Ulysses, Greek hero. It’s about an Irish Jew named Leopold Bloom. Yeah, I don’t really understand it either.
- It was banned in the USA for ten years because it’s allegedly “profane.” But it’s not illegal to possess any more, so I guess I’m okay.
- It’s hard to read. Joyce uses a stream-of-consciousness technique that makes it seem like you’re reading into someone’s garbled thoughts rather than what comes out of their mouth. It’s absolutely brilliant.
This third thing is the most important. Why? Because, seeing as I’m exhausted and whimsical, am going to try my hand at some stream-of-consciousness shtuffs myself. Then I’m going to sit on the roof and read aloud from Ulysses at the top of my lungs, in hopes of angering my turtle-killing radical right wing neighbours. It’ll be fun!
So, here goes nofink.
Time. 12:30. Almost as that time. In the morning. I’m awake.
I’ve always told myself that I’m the cool one but that isn’t true. I know I’m not the cool one because I can’t because the cool one the cool one doesn’t stay awake until 12:30 in the morning to do stream-of-consciousness writing in hopes of one day being as cool as James Joyce, the cool one goes out and parties hardy until they OD on cheese whiz.
Maybe I don’t wanna be cool being cool is overrated. I’m fine being a big loser thank you losers finish last but who wants to live life in the fast lane when there’s a bus seat with your name on it any day of the week, pardner?
Don’t call me pardner. I don’t like it. One. Two. Three. Two. Hahaharhar. Red roses painted the stair car. It’s dark in here. I made it that way so that there was nothing between me and the screen, so that I could write until my fingers bled and I got cts.
I only type with my right hand. I do most things with my right hand–except for open jars I can’t open jars with my right hand I have to use my left. I’m weird that way. My hands. Hands my I can hands ran Jan runs off the cliff.
Jan, go, Jan.
Jango. H. I made a funny.
I’m floating through space. I know the where of my being but I know not that why or how I am. I need to know. I have to know. Full stop. Tea break. Back. Switch. Reversible jacket liners.
Sconces and peanut butter. These things don’t go together on Tuesdays. Call back then. ctsctsctsctsctsctsctsctscts
My hand hurts. Ow. I said ow.
I’m almost there I can see a light and oh that was me dreaming, wasn’t it? Howling from the rooftop to the neighbours. I like that idea.
And, so, that’s about all I have for now. It’s oddly strange.
Then again, what could you expect from a bloke called Stranezza?