I engage in a strange activity when no one is watching. When I see a small stone on the sidewalk I will choose an area then give the pebble an “accidental” kick in that direction, which is never farther than two feet away. I ask myself “Will everything be alright?” as I hit it with my foot. Nothing else happens after that. I cannot remember when it began, sometime in junior high school, I know that. What it means used to exist, but I can no longer get to it. This happens a lot. At least a half dozen times a day for over fifty years.
It took James Joyce seven years to write Ulysses. As a teen it took me almost as long to read it. The stream of consciousness, which marked the passing of 16 June 1904 in Dublin, second by second, thought by thought, was way too confusing for someone at age fifteen, especially the “Circe” section that goes on a hundred-fifty pages. But that is how it goes with classics written by adults for adults (a point I’ve ranted on before). A person needs a few years as a grown up in her soul before something like Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter can connect to her. Same goes for everything written by Joyce (except a couple from Dubliners–Araby and TheDead can be understood by High Schoolers, I think–at least I “got” them).
I successfully read Ulysses when I stopped demanding it to make linear sense. I let it happen tome. I concentrated on simply reading the words and gave my subconscious the task of sorting it out. Not once did I ask myself stupid questions like “What the hell is happening now?” and went with the flow.
That worked very well. I began to get into the swing of the thing about four chapters in and made it through to the other side. I read that you need to know Irish history to understand the book deeply. Still, I say all you really need to know about Irish history is that before independence (and for a long time thereafter) shit, especially royal and government shit, rolled downhill. Nowadays, however, Ireland is a comparatively uphill, wealthy nation, which means that most of the undesirable blood (such as my father’s side of the family) was safely siphoned to America a long time ago.
This week I shall experiment with Stream of Consciousness, like Joyce in Ulysses, but omitting disgusting items as I wish Joyce would have done with Mr. Bloom, he of the jakes and secret pocket. It was amazing that Joyce was able to put together a narrative from thoughts as wildly scrambled as Burroughs’ Junky.
The Experiment begins:
Tis Aphid season. Three, four attracted by the screen. Keylimegreen. Bugapalooza.
–Arpfmagarpth? Whuzzat. Oh. Hairball. Izzy on the dot. Split. Cats never step in human puke. Selling Buicks at Ralph motors. High scoo. Igglesniff on your nose. Too much Black Velvet. Bring your own spins.
–I ralphed a beeyouick on the rug. Izzy. Speaking. Talking Cat with no hat. Get cleaning it washermygosherwoman.
–You and the Catnip you rode in on.
–Are those your shoes, gibbergimlet?
–All right all right. Two for the price of one, how the west was won. Eyeyiyi of cyclops voice of Joe pazuzukudzu. Stunkofaskunk bee bop bloom a lulu.
The Experiment Ends
Strange things happen when you let your jabbering mind off the leash. Ulysses is hard to read, but like Chaucer and Shakespeare it gets easier as you go. Then you find yourself doing the same, doing the dame. Words scrump up from below, nonsense rhymes squeeze the flow. Flibbergimletjibbeetly we all a go go.
Great, now my mind has gone all Dr. Seuss in Auld Ireland on me. Gotta rate the Catholics Kings and Whoremongers on the quay…coppers singing Galway Bay, bay-a-bee….
What? Oh knock it off, quit leaking fey words into my fingers you goddam whichever lobe that shit is kept. Stop stop stop, he bop, she bop….Bloom bops alone…
Enough! Look what I have done to myself. Beware stream of consciousness. You might drown in it, like She Woolf, with stones in your knickers…
Let’s escape through The Week That Was portal!
The Week of Gems
This was a peculiar week for us because it featured six writers who have appeared with us before. Some several times. Usually there’s one new kid to introduce, but not this time.
And I say six because Our Harbour by site friend and frequent commenter, Paul Kimm, was afeatured rerun this past Sunday. It rates a special mention. For anyone who has still managed to miss it, I encourage you to take a look.
The work week began with Meetings and Partings by Nidhi Srivasta Asthana. Nidhi needs to be congratulated on her professionalism during a long editing process as well as the insightful result of the work itself. It is a revelation involving Indian culture and the ancient practice of arranged marriage.
Christopher Ananias has been on a roll ever since his site debut last year. In the Flames is his latest look into the heart of darkness that beats inside the world. Great evil has always been commonplace (look up Richard Speck or the Triangle shirt fire). But nowadays there’s a relatively new dynamic behind it, something that went up the tower with Charles Whitman long ago. Christopher manages to effectively describe the madness with admirable objectivity.
Wednesday saw the welcomed return of J. Bradley Minnick. The Day the End of the World Was at Hand. It too speaks of madness, the organized one called war. I remember the Vietnam era. I was a child and it all seemed unreal to me, like a TV show, until someone we knew lost a son. The darkness will look for us all, and it is up to us to feel it if we are to grow. Brad shows this sort of thing with great polish and sincerity.
Digital to Analog Conversion marked another welcomed return, this time by Bud Pharo. There is way too much AI in the universe. A strange case of a glut of something that only exists in a half-assed sort of way (I hope “Annie” is not related to the feeble minded Google Assistant). But this one had enough charm to get over, which is a credit to Bud.
Simon Nadel closed the week with Crime Wave. There’s a silkiness to this otherwise hard-bitten narrative. Like Chandler and the underrated Spillane, the cynicism and booze flow in an eloquent manner.
Kudos to all our repeat offenders–I mean contributors. People without the determination to do something good, although difficult, never get across. The writers who appear, and those who keep trying to appear, deserve credit for having that aspect in their characters.
More Stream of Consciousness
Recently I was bored (aka “at work”) and I began to consider what are the greatest scenes I remember from film. I decided that the Stream of Consciousness Approach could work here. Instead of actively seeking examples, I let them come to me. Below are the ten film scenes I came up with. (Readers sharing, as always, is strongly desired.)
“Wedding party”– The Deer Hunter
“Butch finds a sword”– Pulp Fiction
“The final close up of Greta Garbo”– Queen Christina
“Monster bursting through poor John Hurt”–Alien
“All American Henry Fonda massacring a family”–Once Upon a Time in the West
“I’m only thirteen”–Animal House
“I’ll be back” TheTerminator
“Dorothy awakening in Technicolor”–Wizard of Oz
“What I wish really had happened to Tex and the gang”–Once Upon a Time in Hollywood
“Chief putting Randall out of his misery”–One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
Human friction is often caused by a powerful negative response to something another person says is true. An exchange of loud exchanges of not listening to the other person occurs. You see it in bars all the time. Words spill from mouths, fists fill the temporarily emptied maws and loosened teeth are the innocent victims. Dentists prosper. Yet the situation is usually considered resolved.
I like interesting titles. Now, these are not items to be confused with lying “clickbait” nonsense, but titles of books, movies and songs that stray from the norm. Often, as is the case of the cheap 60’s Spaghetti Western God Forgives, I Don’t, the item fails to live up to the title (but, to be fair, it is an interesting little film regardless). And sometimes certain interesting titles almost guarantee a good picture. The two Sergio Leone “Once Upon a Time…” films are classics, as is Quinton Tarantino’s exceptional Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. There is also one called Once Upon a Time in Mexico that I’ve heard good things about (starring Johnny Depp and Penelope Cruz, both excellent performers), yet I’ve somehow yet to see it (I hope to fix that someday soon).
Of all things considered entertainment, comedy is the hardest to explain. Whether you spell it humor or humour (being based in the UK we will go with the latter), to my satisfaction no one has ever defined what makes something funny in one sentence.
For years astronomers have theorized about the existence of another ninth planet in our solar system to replace Pluto, which was demoted to some other category of pointless rock for reasons only clear to the pocket protector faction of human society (I suspect the astronomers conspiring with the makers of the solar system charts you see in classrooms; Pluto was the victim of planned obsolescence).
Sometime this spring will mark my fourth anniversary of sharing the weekend wrap duties. It was either in April or May 2021, I think, although I could look it up.
In Stephen King’s On Writing he mentions that he is among the last generation of writers who learned to read and write before television became a staple of American life (as I’m sure was the same in other developed nations as well).
During my decade at Goodwill I had many jobs. I recall one fondly: Toy evaluation. It involved going through the massive amount of donated toys and separating the trash from the saleable.
This week I again lost the battle of prescription v. “perscription.” It is a secret (well, not anymore) shame that inspires another look at certain words.
We all have our prejudices. These range from the meaningful to the downright insipid. Oddly, I find foolish prejudices more interesting and perhaps better telling of a person’s character.
literally stories 