On 16^th June 2004 I was at a bar in Dublin explaining Joyce.  The sceptical local who faced me was convinced all the surrounding Bloomsday anniversary fuss was, like Joyce’s novel, ‘a load of bollix’.  I told him reading novels at least twice to get the point was not crazy but like listening to your favourite album more than once; he told me he was a bookmaker with no time for that nonsense.  I told him that, as it had been one hundred years before, this Thursday was the Ascot Gold Cup, and proceeded to give him the prices of 1904, explaining how all drinking Dublin considered the Jewish advertising agent Leopold Bloom ‘cute as a shithouse rat’ for tipping (successfully though inadvertently) the long-odds outsider Throwaway (100-5) to win ahead of the favourite (and following year’s winner) Zinfandel (5-4) – and then not standing any drinks.  This story impressed for just a moment, if it would never entirely convince; but it well illustrates the problem David Pierce’s new book intends in some way to resolve.  Despite an ever-expanding and grossly prolix critical industry Joyce generates many fewer enthusiastic readers than he should.  Reading Joyce is personal account of the problems and pleasures of encountering Joyce written by a distinguished Irish literature scholar explicitly in hopes of finding and guiding new readers to Joyce.  It is in many ways a brave book: that it does not succeed is not to spurn the many pleasures to be had by the way.

Taking as a starting point Joyce’s apparently personal plea in Finnegans Wake ‘Is there one who understands me?’ Pierce sets forth his sense that the word ‘delay’ better encapsulates the reflective attitude Joyce should inspire than that obstructive word ‘difficulty’.  The suggestion is that if the reader will just wait a little the books tend to explain themselves, and if such homespun wisdom as ‘Joyce was extraordinarily reluctant to say what he means’ initially jars, Pierce saves himself by elucidating what he calls the Modernist ‘resistance to paraphrase’, and we understand that Joyce was extraordinarily keen to say not what others meant to say but exactly what they said, nuggets which gather then their own meanings.  The text is framed in eleven chapters and a brief afterword: following a revealing introductory piece we encounter a thoughtful probe into Joyce and his city in 1904; four further chapters on aspects of Dubliners; only one, regrettably, on A Portrait of the Artist; three further chapters concerning Ulysses and student responses; and a final chapter on ‘Figuring out Finnegans Wake’.  It might be deduced from this that Pierce takes a material attitude to Joyce’s texts: he imagines them built from the ground up, from fragments and cityplans in fact, and thus helps us to become familiar with all of Joyce’s cities and their surviving extrusions.  He has less time for Stephen Dedalus’s ethereal wordplay and this commonsense approach is not without compensating subtleties, although as his comments on A Portrait are particularly enlightening, and his heroic unearthing of Sussex Earwickers abundantly fascinating, one might wish for more on these less tangible texts – to take as sample an insight that evidently draws on the author’s own experience: ‘interior monologue […] began long before Dujardin, Joyce and the Modernist novel.  It was known in the Church as mental prayer and, crucially, it included the distractions that accompany mental prayer.’

Such insight represents the best side of what is the most striking characteristic of the book, and this is a narrative threaded with autobiographical reminiscence.  I began with an anecdote for a reason: Pierce’s book is littered with them.  If this is liable to irritate I would suggest reading something else, or only looking at the pictures, which is not as silly as it sounds.  In fact as a Joycean pictorial miscellany this book has few equals, and the treasures Pierce has unearthed will be of inestimable interest to thoughtful scholars, teachers, and students.  Many photographs and images (including maps, bookcovers, and music) I had not seen before, and the author’s musings in the proximate captions on Joyce (‘a boxy sort of mind’) provide entertaining reading.  Yet as we observe Pierce reading or teaching Joyce, visiting his family or revisiting his upbringing the personal stories produced seriously run the risk of banality.  His occasional and unconvincing ventriloquism of Joyce-the-writer (or the voice of Irish nationalism) ignores exactly that resistance to paraphrase he elsewhere commends, while his inclusion of reliably imprecise excerpts from student essays is not always the revelation that was evidently expected.  This is frustrating, as it gets in the way of some real gems of local insight, especially in the latter half of the book.  Pierce evidently believes in the luminous detail, and at his best will take the unfinished sentences of ‘The Sisters’ or words from St John’s gospel and in a few deft touches allow their gleams to illuminate the whole.

All of which suggests that in the flesh Pierce is a very fine teacher, with a gift for the communication of complexities without patronizing his listeners: many handouts and tips are passed on here.  But outside the classroom it is much harder to get the feel of one’s audience: books are not reciprocal events, however much we pretend them to be.  Too often on the point of discovery the narrative lapses into discursive asides, which appear on the page only as strained attempts at ‘relevance’.  Worse, the book seems to miss its intended readership.  Many details are luminous only after much polishing and thus appeal only to those steeped in Joyce, without providing the overall shape a general reader might desire.  In the new reader the book on occasion assumes too much Joycean knowledge; more significantly it is hard to imagine that time-pressed students would not be frustrated by the intrusion of so much circular and frankly unilluminating autobiographical tales.  Pierce does not have Joyce’s gift for concision and resonance in autobiography: well, few do.  But to take on an author with such propensity for transmuting the base metal of personal experience into gold is, however faintly, to set oneself up in competition: tired phrases like ‘then he had to face a different kind of music’ reveal who is the better storyteller.

It is only just to note that in this pervasive spirit of openness Pierce recounts how he was pestered to write the book by his publisher.  Given ‘the demise of critical monographs’ there was, it seemed, a need to make criticism ‘attractive’, especially for Joyce, the great unread.  Pierce responds by attempting to fill a perceived lack: a book that says ‘not “this means that” but “Why should I read this at all?” and “How does any of this connect with my life” and “Please tell me things but make it interesting.”’  In Ezra Pound’s view ‘the critic who doesn’t make a personal statement, in re measurements he himself has made, is merely an unreliable critic’.  Pound though is arguing the critic should not pretend to impersonal objectivity when it comes to questions of value; it is his reasoning, not his biography that should be adduced.  Criticism should perhaps be enjoyable but above all it must be concise and get out of the way, leaving the thing itself to communicate.  So although Reading Joyce marks a noble effort to fulfil the whims of educational publishers, and contains much of value, one can only hope (or pray in that interior space Pierce so well describes) that it does not represent the ‘attractive’ future of academic criticism.  Joyce was a teacher too, we remember; assuming effort but not our overwhelming intelligence, his books knew that only direct contact with us readers ensured they were news that stayed news.

David Pierce, Reading Joyce. Harlow: Pearson Longman, 2008. xviii + 366pp. £14.99 (softback). ISBN 978-1-4058-4061-3.

[To see this article in print see Irish Studies Review, 17:2 (May 2009)]

With New Moon about to hit theaters, all that I’m hearing about lately is vampires (luckily not from my wife). Now, I realize that romance is the largest selling genre in the book industry and I also realize that millions of tween girls are going crazy for the movie. What I just can’t stand is the mass of people trying to jump on the vampire band wagon. Let’s just list off some of the new vampire media since Twilight premiered:

1. Cirque du Freak: The Vampires Assistant
2. Lesbian Vampire Killers
3. The Vampire Diaries (CW)
4. True Blood (HBO)
5. Day Break (2010)
6. Rosencrantz (2010)
7. Gildenstern Are Undead (2010)
8. Mom’s Got a Date with a Vampire (2000 Disney show that’s been rerun since Twilight premiered)

Sadly, vampires have lost a lot of cool point with me from all of this. All I can see that this is doing to sending a message to tween girls that they won’t get with any hot guys unless their broodingly emo and wear far too much black eyeliner and eyeshadow. As if twelve year old girls didn’t have enough to deal with, now they have to do it all while being depressed. I don’t see a very good combination here…

***

If you hadn’t noticed I updated the header picture on the blog! It felt a little self serving to put my ugly mug on it, and more than once I wanted to quote Disney’s Hercules by proclaiming loudly, “I haven’t seen this much love in a room since Narcissus discovered himself!” I think it looks good regardless of my inclusion, and it helps to make this blog uniquely mine.

Because my friends and I had so much fun doing this, I’ve added a slide show to this post so you can check out some of the other pictures that we took. They may end up as banners later on too. Also, make sure you keep an eye out for my completely inappropriate pose with a handicapped Bloomsday participant.

-Rich

!!!

In honor of Bloomsday, June 16

IV.

The morning of December 16, 2004 is cold. Henry Flower sees this through his kitchen window, pausing in the middle of scrambling breakfast for his wife Moira, who was still in bed: a bright clear blue through the trees, though it was only 8 a.m. Still, implacable, its substance invisible, Flower stares at one thing (nothing) and thinks of another (subject).

The yolks, an uncomfortable color, saturated ochre against the inverted bowl of a Scandinavian sky stare up at him, he a reflection hanging over a viscous pool. Caught between action and decision, the fact of thought arriving just before its content, Flower does not beat the eggs. They cannot be unbeaten and, if beaten twice after an interval, may not be the same. The meal still unmade will not be complete; it lacks flesh.

V.

On Main Street in Trumansburg heading for the P.O., Flower crosses the eponymous creek and passes the café. He does not stop in now and recalls the mornings past when all he wanted was a cup and no protracted interaction, and bought it at a service station instead.

VI.

His unread letter in his pocket, Flower, his hat pulled down around his ears, pauses before the millstone memorial. It begins to snow. Down the hill Flower sees a bent figure limping toward him through the white air: his tricorn bound down, his overcoat clutched before him: Abner Treman, long dead, returning home shy one foot.

VII.

At the Free Press Flower stares at the reflection of the front page in the window and recalls the smell of Hassidic boys hunched over their texts on the northbound A train. But for the grace of circumstance, therewent he.
In the office he places a classified ad that reads simply, “Help wanted,” with his number. A young man drops off a letter to the editor that he did not write. Flower will see to him later.

VIII.

In the Falls restaurant Flowers eats a silent meal alone and thinks about the earlier, happier days of his marriage. On his way in, Neely Blynn, an old flame, went by him and said, “Hello, Henry” without a trace of rancor. Last month he returned home to find his wife, an actress, had gone away on tour. She had left a note on their bed and he had never found it, having slept on the couch in the living room the entire time she had been away.

IX.

Feeling strangely expansive after drinking three Yuenglings in the Falls taproom, Flower regales fellow patrons with his interpretation of the 1984 Alex Cox film Repo Man as a retelling of the Grail quest. His interlocutors are divided between puzzlement and disinterest.

X.

Neely Blynn encounters the ghost of Abner Treman on East Main and in the snow mistakes him for a tramp. She presses three dollar bills into his chapped fingers. He stares at the portraits of his former commanding officer and then moves off toward the warm café.

XI.

While eating a plate of fries in the Pourhouse, Flower watches his wife’s tour manager make his stolid way across Main, his figure blurred by fogged glass and flaked air. Flower knows the terminus of Malloy’s excursion and smiles wanly as the fiddler in the corner makes his way through “Rockin’ the Cradle.”

XII.

As the evening darkens, the Pourhouse fills with well-known faces and opinions. Flower finds that he is listening to an attack on his plan for peace in the Middle East. His companion, his good eye rimmed red with exhaustion, is loudly insisting that the Palestinians have every right to every acre, and he will not hear Flower’s “perverted thoughts” on finding a reasonable compromise between European and Near Eastern traditions of land use.

XIII.

The young woman next to him is leaning forward as if she would like to hear words that he is not speaking. This provides a view of which she seems proud. Flower looks up at the silent television. He sees footage of a hummingbird suspended before a conical corolla, its beak plunged inside, and he smiles.

XIV.

At the home birth of his niece Flower thought it possible that she would learn to speak by making every sound every generation before her had uttered and then just join them together when she was ready to be understood.

XV.

Flower is standing outside, where the wind and snow have stopped, looking up at the stars.
Flower:     I see shapes that I’m not supposed to see. Look there’s Moira. She doesn’t look happy.
Moira:     What ever happened to my breakfast? What ever happened to you? You just disappeared … about 10 years ago.
To escape the speaking sky Flower ducks into a doorway and up the stairwell to sound of a party. Once inside he spies the young man from the newspaper office and makes for him.
Flower:    Didn’t I see you earlier today?
Daniel Icarus: I believe you saw right through me, sir. I now I am looking right through you. What of it?

Canal Street in the slow noon burn of June. Thin dribbles of tourists pass up and down, hug the narrow ledge of shade along the buildings as if some abyss yawned at the curb. A handful of hotel workers in dull uniforms colored maroon and dark blue shuffle unhappily toward work or tiredly toward their bus stops and home. There are few suits on the street, no conventioneers with plastic badges swinging from their necks our for lunch. Two men in wilted jackets, ties-loosened, pause outside the Palace Café; they consult the burning blue sky, one’s watch, the cool, dark windows of the restaurant and decide to slip inside. I imagine the spicy fried oysters nestled in a bed of cool greens and blue cheese, a sweat-beaded glass of tea besides. The café tables on the street are empty; pigeons huddled under the canopy pick at the crumb-less pavement. The birds outnumber the people passing by.

Canal passes like a diorama: the peppery aroma of Popeye’s Fried Chicken is followed by powerful cloud of patchouli coming from the Hippie Gypsy shop, then the more delicate smells of browning butter out of the Palace Café; music passes like the tuning of a radio, bars of Cajun from one and jazz from another of the progression of tourist shops with names like Gumbo Bayou and Jazzland and Dixie Market with their racks of tacky t-shirts and windows garlanded with beads; in between ageless Levantine gentlemen stand stiff and mute in the doors of electronics shops like sentinels in crisp cotton shirts and slacks, windows blazoned with No Tax! 220v! PAL Format! waiting patiently for sailors who no longer get shore leave from the mechanized container ships. They watch the masts slip past just over the floodwall up the block and wait.

By midday the sun has warmed everything until the heat no longer comes from above but radiates from every direction: down from the sun and up from the pavement and off the sides of passing windows and we pass in the middle like loaves through some mechanized oven, perfectly browned on all sides. In the distance a church chimes and as if part of the clockwork the last thin ribbon of shade slips under the buildings and there is only the harsh glare off the pavement. I stop and listen to the fading echoes from a dozen buildings, try to think: which church, St. Louis Cathedral to my left or the Jesuit Church behind me on Baronne Street?

I remember as a child my grandmother and I catching the old green Perley Thomas cars at Cemeteries for the trip down Canal. She would shop and we would eat lunch at the K&B Drugstore counter or the lady’s cafe’ in D.H. Homes Department Store but my clearest memory is Immaculate Conception; the dark, narrow Jesuit church filled with flickering red glass candles, my grandmother lighting a taper to Mary while I studied the procession of men who stood, heads bowed and murmuring prayers with one hand on the foot of Saint Joseph. To this day every time I see a status of Joseph I study its feet, notice how generations of hands sliding on and off have worn the wood.

I don’t remember it being this hot when I was a child. I study the parents leaning heavily on the handles of strollers, the women’s sun dresses collapsed damply over their bodies as toddlers skip happily away over the roasting pavement toward traffic. To a child this weather is as natural as the damp warmth of the womb, they see the sweat on their bodies as beautiful dewdrops, tiny sunlit jewels. I stop and mop the inside of my hatband and then my brow, watch anxious parents corral the children back into the stroller and set off grimly for the Aquarium and the promise of air conditioning and the cooling illusion of immersion. I squint over my shoulder back toward Baronne Street and imagine for a moment stepping into that dark nave, into the cool innocence of my own childhood, then turn back to continue my trudge toward the river.

I am not on vacation. I have no lunch date. I am walking away from work but only for a while. I have, frankly, no good business being out in the mad dog sun except to walk and watch and listen. It is June 16, and I am taking my own advice, spending Bloomsday not reading about Dublin 1904 but setting out on my own ramble through New Orleans, to capture a snapshot of this city in June 2009. There is little to see except the street itself. The heat has driven all but the desperate indoors, and those who are out in the sun don’t waste their energy talking. I walk on.

The first and last real crowd I pass stands in the plaza of the last tall high rise before the river, the office tower disgorging lunchtime smokers onto benches. They stand alone or in small knots, and I wander in and through the crowd but there is not much conversation. It is all they can manage with a full belly in the noon sun to get the cigarette up to their lips and back down to their sides, blowing smoke up into the sky to carry away the extra heat. I bum a light to excuse my intrusion and perhaps pick up a bit of conversation but all I get are grunts of assent, and a flame held at arm’s length. I puff, nod and walk on.

The last block to the river passing the humming utility substation is empty. A lone vendor eyes me excitedly, waving dripping bottles of water in my face for only a dollar, coldest on Canal he promises and the last chance, he throws in. I smile back (his the only smile seen today on the street, and my reply is equally forced). No, I manage through my pleasant grimace and head up toward the place where the streetcar and Public Belt Railroad tracks both cross Canal. I stop and look both ways but there are no cars or trains in site, the empty tracks remind me that the river is no longer the city’s big business. The Aquarium across the tracks and it’s tourists are now our stock and trade, the stores where my grandmother once browsed are now Gumbo Bayou and the Hippie Gypsy.

Here on the plaza another vendor paces up and down shouting his own cold drinks, water a dollar and Powerade available, but he’s on the wrong side of the square. I walk alone into the middle of the plaza while the scattered tourists make directly for the shaded overhangs of the Aquarium where they huddle under the arcade, lining up to escape into the promise of frigid air.

I head straight for the railing along the river, hoping to find a consoling breeze there. I can see it out on the river where the wind stirs up a tiny, rippling chop amid the swirling flat water where the confused current prepares to make the hard bend at the Gov. Nicholls and Esplanade wharves before heading down through St. Bernard and Plaquemine to the Gulf. I light another cigarette and watch the wind but it stays over the main stem away from the riverfront. I pull off my hat and mop again, then start walking along the water’s edge. Usually you can smell the river but today is so hot the creosote is oozing out of the timbers that edge the dock and its aroma overpowers everything. I am alone on the promenade.

There is no traffic on the river. I crane my neck to look upstream but nothing moves. Even here where tourists often congregate it’s deadly quiet; no buskers out playing or liquor-loud knots of bead wearing young people in from the dry north. The riverboat calliope is silent. I am startled when the ferry hoots its horn, ready to cross. Usually the pigeons that swarm here for the lunch leavings would launch themselves into disturbed whorls at the sound, but they are nowhere to be seen, have found shade somewhere else. Realizing I have less sense than a pigeon, I turn and start to head back to work.

The only action is a woman who poses in front of the aminatronic dinosaur advertising an exhibit at the Audubon Zoo and starts hollering, “Help mommy! Help mommy!”. A small toddler grabs his father’s hand and starts tugging him. “Help Mommy, Daddy, help Mommy”. Then the plastic raptor lifts it’s head and let’s out a roar and he freezes even as mother squeals louder, “help me, help mommy”. Not yet two and already he’s torn, facing his first betrayal: the woman and love or his own skin. You don’t get to save a pretty girl from a dinosaur every day and if you don’t you might wind up a lonely pair of eyes, one of the solitary watchers of the world walking alone at lunch, instead of one of the heroes.

I root for innocence and heroism but I need to find the water man, coldest in town and only a dollar, before I start my march back to the office, before the wriggling lines of heat invade my head and start to spin like disturbed birds. I need to replace the bucket of sweat the day has taken out of me, and to wash out the taste of cigarette and creosote. Before I turn the corner I look back to see how things played out but the boy and his parents are gone, into the aquarium where the monsters are kept behind thick safety glass.

Today would have been film critic Pauline Kael’s 90th birthday, and to mark the occasion film blogger Jason Bellamy has turned his site The Cooler into a clearing house for arguments about all things Kael. The clip above is from a four-part 1982 interview on the occasion of her book 5001 Nights at the Movies, and if you like it you can watch parts two, three and four.  

“Pauline Kael. She’s never said a good thing about me yet. That dirty old broad. But she’s probably the most qualified critic in the world. Cause she cares about film and those who are involved in it. I wish I could really rap her. But I can’t. Cause she’s very very competent. She’s knows what she’s talking about.”

Of trains, Secaucus Junction, William Carlos Williams and Paterson, N.J.

What did you do for Bloomsday?

Time to catch up on John O’Hara.

“Call me crazy, but the time to stop your boss from trying to murder your only son with electric bolts is before he starts, not several minutes in when your kid is smoking like a grill full of baby back ribs.”

Learn more about Anna Julia Cooper and why she belongs on that stamp.

A chat with Michael Moorcock.

What were people reading during the Depression? Take a stroll through back issues of Publishers Weekly to learn who was “the best paid author in the world” in 1933, and to find ads for Mein Kampf (a “stirring autobiography [in which] you will find Hitler’s own story of his meteoric rise from obscurity to world-wide fame”).

Fecha límite, última oportunidad, agotamiento de la posibilidad a futuro, final, cierre, ultimatum. Se desvanece entre mis dedos aquello que tan sólo hasta este momento sale de mi control. No puede haber felicidad donde todo es dejado en manos del azar; la mala fortuna de carecer de buen juicio -cuánto quisiera poder convencerme de que es fortuna, en lugar de negligencia- me deja ahora tan sólo con las manos amarillentas por el tabaco posadas sobre la tapicería policrómica de este inconcebíblemente lento monstruo de metal. Hay un reflejo en la ventana que rebota justamente en el punto en que mis pestañas son más blancas, lanza un fulgor que irrita la pared posterior de mis ojos, allí donde los objetos se transforman en imagenes que son tan sólo mías. Bajo, camino, fumo, tiro la colilla incandescente, fumo de nuevo. No hay noticia aún.  Se agota el plazo, se acaba el día; un día que resume todos aquellos días en que los límites no fueron claros ni relevantes. Hoy se concretan todas las demarcaciones, hoy se aparece como real el paso del tiempo.  Tengo hambre, tengo sueño, el ácido de mi estómago me obliga a reclinarme sobre el escritorio de la secretaría, contemplo mi enorme panza mientras considero la posibilidad de ausentarme un momento para buscar pañuelos desechables; seguramente el baño no tiene papel higiénico ni jabón, seguramente la puerta está dañada y tendré que caminar hasta otro edificio. Será una ausencia de quince minutos, supongo, no hará mayor diferencia. ¿Qué son quince minutos cuando se ha esperado casi dos años?  No, no me voy. Llamo. Dos, tres veces. Correo de voz. ¿Tendré las agallas para llorar en público? No. Soy demasiado cobarde. Recibo una llamada, la llamada. Hola, no, no llegó nunca, no me explico por qué, sí, ajá, está bien, voy a comunicarlo con las autoridades competentes. Entrego el aparatito negro a esas manos de uñas rojas con florecitas blancas que transforman el teclado en un instrumento de percusión. Sí, bien, gracias profesor. Levanto mis dos puños, sonrío, me ruborizo. Rojo, todo es absolutamente rojo. Ya no tengo hambre, no tengo dolor alguno, mi cara no responde a mis esfuerzos por mantener la compostura, tengo la punta de la lengua adormecida, los labios hinchados y las mejillas palpitantes. Camino, busco con quién tomarme una cerveza, ando casi en círculos. Todos están ocupados. Sus sentencias no han de cumplirse sino hasta dentro de un par de días, tienen aún ocasión de modificar lo irremediable. Subo a otro bus, no importa cuánta sea la demora. Voy al norte, tomo un café con demasiada azucar y busco compañía en internet. Pasará otra hora hasta que llegue ella, con su termo verde y su mate. Tengo que ir al baño, pero no puedo abandonar mi maleta a su suerte. El papel de colgadura con que adornan aquí el cubículo del inodoro me recuerda alguna ocasión en la que estuve muy borracha en otro baño, pero no soy capaz de saber dónde, ni cuándo, con precisión. Agua tibia, jabón espumoso, toallas de papel. Salgo y pido un café negro, mientras pretendo leer Williams sin entender mayor cosa. Llega ella, violeta y negro, y su termo, verde. Tomo un martini con dos aceitunas; ésta es mi celebración por haber ganado el indulto. Ya no hay sol, ya no hay plazos, ya no hay límites.

Twitter, la red social favorita de algunos famosos, se volvió intelectual y decidió homenajear al escritor James Joyce con una interpretación de la famosa novela “Ulises”, publicada en 1922.

Dos entusiastas del “Ulises”, el diseñador de videojuegos Ian Bogost, del Instituto de Tecnología de Georgia, y su colega Ian McCarthy, querían utilizar la página web con un interés cultural en lugar de usarla sólo como un servicio que permite a los usuarios enviarse mensajes de 140 caracteres, conocidos como “tweets”.

Entonces se les ocurrió la idea de recrear un capítulo del “Ulises” en Twitter.

Eligieron el capítulo 10, “Wandering Rock”, que es famoso por mostrar los acontecimientos entrelazados de 19 personajes que recorren el centro de Dublín haciendo sus tareas diarias.

Bogost y McCarthy registraron a 54 de los personajes de la novela como usuarios de Twitter y adaptaron el capítulo en una larga serie de declaraciones realizadas en primera persona, utilizando un software creado especialmente para automatizar una representación.

El 16 de junio o “Bloomsday”, el día en que tiene lugar la acción en 1904, estos personajes enviaron ‘tweets’ sobre lo que estaban haciendo en el momento correcto de la ficción.

Bogost dijo que todo salió sin inconvenientes, pese a unos pocos problemas técnicos que hicieron que algunos personajes no pudieran participar.

“Creo que el proyecto arroja una nueva luz sobre Twitter al mezclar actividades habituales con estos personajes de hace un siglo”, dijo Bogost en su blog www.bogost.com.

“Como uso literario a largo plazo de Twitter, desde luego es una opción viable e interesante”, agregó.

Cada año, se celebra en Irlanda -país natal de Joyce- y en otras partes angloparlantes en el mundo el “Bloomsday”, con seguidores y expertos en Joyce recreando los pasos de los personajes de la célebre novela.

Well, pleasant dreamers, I was going to write this article as part of my E3 meditations, but since so much time has passed since then, it might as well stand on its own. I’d feel bad about making you wait (if any of you were still out there reading, anyway), but as it stands, it’s nice enough to publish a piece like this around Bloomsday (although I missed that by a day, too). Suffice to say, however, that the continuing thoughts I’ve had following the trailer-debut of Fumito Ueda’s The Last Guardian are broad enough to stand without any glint of superficial timeliness. Furthermore, while I’ve been away at revising and reworking my game Limbo (which happens to be the main reason I haven’t posted since last week) those thoughts have arrive somewhat refined and revised as well, as though the act of game-design itself has helped clarify my feelings about a certain gaming trope I’ve been noticing lately.

But before I talk about Ueda’s game, my own game, or even the yearly festivities of Bloomsday, I want to talk about something else entirely: The Come Out & Play festival, and what it has to do with the difference between games & sports, and what that difference has to do with the social atmosphere of gaming in general.

Now, like E3 and Bloomsday, this year’s CO&P has already come and gone over last weekend. Last year I was actually involved in the festivities myself, working with Charley Miller on an espionage-themed game called Ministry of Silence. While I considered cooking up some ideas for an outdoor activity of some type, I was far more concerned with honing my skills with Flash, and while the platformer I’ve come up with is hardly in the same league as many other indie-productions, I’m at the very least pleased with the progress I’ve made. Furthermore, it’s far closer to the type of game design I’m interested in– while many of my NYU brethren swoon to the ludological fancy of Big Games, Alternate Reality experiences and non-traditional design of all forms, I have to admit that I’m not.

Why am I interested in game design? Because of video-games. That’s what I want to make. Not that they necessarily have to be on a console– with the rise of indie-game production with Flash, Game Maker and new stuff like Flixel, the designation between video-and-computer gaming is becoming more and more irrelevant, especially since many flagship console titles are now regularly released on PC’s, and vice-versa. But non-digital games? I’m interested in them to an extent, sure, but not heavily. I could get excited about working on a board game, perhaps, but not as much as I could about working on a Zelda-clone. It’s just my nature.

Now, the reason for this is obvious– all my life I’ve played video-games. Growing up with asthma, I could never really get into more athletic activities like baseball, football or basketball. Whenever I tried to play the ones that interested me– basketball, especially– I was never good enough to excel in a team environment. So after a while I gave up, and stuck with video-games.

Granted, this isn’t the only reason that digital games appeal to me– there’s also the narrative ones, the way they play directly into wish-fulfillment, not to mention a large amount of just-plain unexplainable fascination and fun. But it’s a major contributing one, and has a lot to do with what I find compelling about games in the first place. See, video-games are great, for the most part, because you can play them by yourself. Many games have– and sometimes are defined by– popular multiplayer modes, but that’s largely a side element. A spin-off. By and large, gaming on a console or computer is a single-player affair. It’s a realm for the individual to experience something, and not a group of people. You don’t need team-members, competitors or even friends to enjoy a video-game. The same can be said for certain card-games, board-games and outdoor games, like basketball or golf– they can all be very worthwhile solitary affairs.

While it’s not one of the widely recognized characteristics most commentators look to when coming up with a clinical definition for games, I think this solitary nature is a pretty crucial one, not only to understand what makes certain games so effective, but also to understand what makes games different from sports. A game can be played with a single player, or at the very least between two or more competing players. A sport, however, can only be played by teams. Granted, many will rightly point out that games like tennis are most widely played between competing individuals, and are universally considered sports– that in fact, a sport is defined more by its competitive or professional natures, rather than its social ones. But for the purposes of this piece, that’s the distinction I’m drawing– games are solitary, sports are team-based.

And this is the main reason why I avoided sports, honestly. I’ve always enjoyed shooting hoops every now and again, but I was never good enough at it to excel in a team. I could’ve gotten better, obviously, but even then, what’s the fun in passing a ball to the guy who’s going to score a point instead of taking it yourself? I can be a team-player when it comes to working on something seriously or professionally– but when it comes to my recreation time, I just want to have fun. I don’t want to settle for helping somebody else have fun. This is one of the ways that the team-nature of sports gets in the way of its game-ness– in a game, the drive to win and the drive to have fun are one and the same. In a sport, you often have to repress the fun-drive in order to win– passing the ball to the better shot instead of taking it yourself.

In sports, the individual often must make sacrifices for the good of the team. In pure games, on the other hand, you’re on your own. How does it feel? It’s a question that the best games answer, a feeling the best designers articulate, as expertly as their gameplay is able to muster.

In Super Mario Bros. there’s a carefree independence to every leap and bound the player makes, while in Legend of Zelda an awesome sense of discovery just around every corner that’s made all the more personal due to the player’s solitary achievements– Miyamoto articulates freedom and independence.

On the other hand, there’s Metal Gear, where the player remains constantly surrounded by enemies, with only the most cursory of backup from suspicious allies, and the most important thing is to remain as isolated and invisible on the battlefield as possible– Kojima articulates alienation and paranoia.

Then there’s games like Ico and Shadow of the Colossus, where the player’s subtle, dynamic symbiosis with lone companions helps make the hostile, barren environments that much easier to navigate, cultivating emotionally resonant relationships, not in spite of a level of dependency, but because of it– Ueda articulates love and friendship.

These are some of the best examples of the expressive potential when game-designers recognize the solitary nature of video-games. Plenty of other games have done interesting things with the player’s independent nature as well– Grand Theft Auto expresses a rather Crowley-esque approach to morality in its open-world climate, where “do what thou wilt” does indeed appear to be the whole of the law so long as you don’t get caught. Braid and Portal expresse the freedom of becoming unstuck from the time-space continuum, only to find the emptiness of linear existence at its core. But socially, far more is said by Miyamoto, Kojima and Ueda in their games than the vast majority of other designers, no matter how much their work is sometimes hampered by aesthetics and narrative acoutrements.

It’s the kind of ludic poetry I look for in games and aim for in my own, and it’s something I rarely find in alternative-media games– Big Games especially, and even more so at the few games I saw at Come Out & Play.

Now, I only saw a handful of games this year at the festival, and only in Central Park, so therefore I’m obviously only dealing with the more sports-like activities from the fest, rather than some of the more abstract entries like Charley Miller’s Heartbreakers. On my Saturday free in the Park the game I saw the most in-depth was Circle Rule Football, which might’ve made sense to me if I was playing it, but as an observer, looked to me nothing more than a massive clusterfuck of “Calvinball” proportions. Largely it’s because I can’t get into sports in general, thanks to the team-driven aspect– when I play a game, I want to enjoy myself individually, not collectively. So I’m therefore going to be far less inclined to study the rules and strategy of a team-oriented game that’s even more complicated than most others are already. It feels like being forced to suffer through a massive bureaucracy for the sake of others, at the expense of your own self-interest.

It’s in team-based sports and games where I see the dark side of communism– the individual forced to conform for the sake of the masses. I can’t really see the camaraderie and unity that others see in it, just as I can’t really see the desperate isolation that plenty others see in single-player gaming (or at least when I do see it, I can appreciate its context). Perhaps it’s because the competitive nature of games can very easily spill out beyond its prescribed borders– players on a team not only compete against members of an opposing team but between themselves, as well, each individual striving to score the points themselves rather than being forced to let somebody else have the glory.

I tend to see all interpersonal relationships through the prism of some kind of contest– we all have our own private wants and desires, and it’s when those desires oppose one another that we experience conflict. There’s win-and-loss conditions in every negotiation and exchange we go through, every day. It’s why I articulate interactive-dialogue in my games as turn-based combat– after all, what is any conversation but a battle-of-wits, a duel of words? And it’s why in this most recent revision in my game, Limbo, that I decided to make those battles as optional as possible, because the value of solitary-play runs both ways. Personal exchanges, real or imaginary, best occur as responsibilities, rather than obligations. If we are free to ignore others around us (to a point) then those moments we choose to interact with them become all the more meaningful.

According to some girl who sang the blues, freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose. Well, winning and losing only means something if it was based on free will, to begin with. Liberty, both in the social and ludological sense, is only possible when a person is willing to see themselves apart from the rest of society at large. That’s a frightening concept– it’s why teams, parties, armies and governments of all kinds are so attractive (and necessary, for basic reasons). We feel safety in numbers, or at least numbers larger than one. But when one can achieve everything they want inspite of being outnumbered, or worse, being alone, we can celebrate something far greater than efficiency, security or even victory itself.

When we see a lone man or woman win, against all odds, for whatever reasons, we call them a hero. And if loneliness is the price a hero pays– so be it. They enjoy a freedom the rest of us mere mortals can never know, or even appreciate. Except, of course, when we play a video-game.

Anyway, I’m looking forward to The Last Guardian– like Ueda’s other works, it looks like a game which expresses the value of mutual co-dependency within the context of freedom. What made Yorda so precious was the fact that you weren’t tied to her all the time– holding her hand was a choice, and your care for her therefore a responsibility, not an obligation. Those moments you found yourself separated from her became all the more suspenseful and rending because of the danger you yourself were in because of it. If this new game accomplishes half of what Ico did before it, we’re bound to see something genuinely heroic in game-design, and I can’t wait.

That’ll be all for now, and I hope to return again soon. Until next time, pleasant dreamers, ask yourself how it feels, to be on your own and completely unknown…

This is the face I make every time I'm forced/persuaded to go sightseeing. I know, I know...it's old and all that....meeeeeeehhh

Well, it’s tough to digest all my thoughts from the first week. To say that it all blew by would be a gross understatement. But as the rushing gale sped past me, I managed to grasp a few remnants of the whirlwind of a week I had. First of all, exploring Dublin has been a fantastic experience; it already feels sort of, kind of, a little bit, a teeny weeny bit familiar. I’m no cartographer so I won’t say I’ve mapped the city out yet. I’ve paid particular attention to the people of the city, and paid less attention to the inanimate characteristics of the city, besides the times when I sped past site after site in a harrowing scavenger hunt (last Thursday) that cast me from one end of the city to what seemed like the complete opposite end. Oh yeah, we ran the whole time during the hunt because, well, I am too competitive for my own good and I refuse to lose, even if the game was not designed for competition as much as it was designed to get us acclimated to the city we’ll be living in for two months. Well, despite the encounter with the drugged up fellow who refused to take our picture beside the four courts until we posed in the exact manner he slobberingly suggested to us, the lady who cowered and basically ran in fear at the site of two sweaty, jittery, obviously foreign guys asking her to take a picture of them on the Ha’penny bridge (that would be “us truly”, the Indian and African guys), or the many times we wove through a throng of confused Irish people as we sprinted across O’Connell street, dashed towards Heuston Station, or screamed “Yes!” at the sight of some cathedral, statue, or tailor (Legendary Louis Copeland mother “shut yo mouth” ), I’d say we had a very informative and “normal” tour of Dublin. Hahahaha…the term normal is very relative in my life, as you will soon notice. I’m filling the application for “The Amazing Race” as we speak….

Interesting things we’ve done so far as a group:

- Gruel. The Bangers and Mash at this restaurant is off the handle. I can’t tell you what was in those sausages but they were om nom nom nom delicious.

-  The discussions on the influence on religion on Irish Identity, on Irish society, and Irish history have been quite fascinating. Seperation between church and state???? hahaha…Ireland scoffs at that. The West criticizes countries influenced by Islam? really? cough cough cough

- The Church: An old church converted into a restaurant/cafe/bar….complete with plaques indicating that people are BURIED UNDER IT. Like memorials and what not…yeah.

- Arthur Miller’s All My Sons in the Gate Theatre….It was surprisingly legit and well performed…except for the Chris character. If you have achance to see this, see it

- Walking around Dublin City Centre looking for a club that played current hip hop…nope, nothing from Tupac is current, DJ at Club M. And no, Beyonce is not hip-hop by affiliation.

Oh, and yesterday was Bloomsday here in Ireland. The name is derived from the name Leopold Bloom, the principal character in James Joyce’s Ulysses. See, here in Ireland, the Irish are ubber proud of the literature giants the small country has contributed to the world (Joyce, Yeats, George Bernard Shaw. Samuel Beckett, Johnathan Swift…the list goes on). I mean, every where you see a picture of one of those  heavyweights…it’s borderline obsessive. So Bloomsday is one big celebration of Joyce, his book Ulysses which was set on June the 16th, and the writers that Ireland is so proud of. People visit all the famous places the story of Joyce’s book moves through, and, according to one man, “everyone pretends they’re literate and have read all of Joyce’s works.” Personally I have been a poor, poor English major and have not yet read Ulysses (tsk tsk Tosin) but I will definitely got on that as soon as I can. So, yesterday, I kindly abstained from the festivities (it wasn’t that huge anyways) and perused through facebook for hours on end.

Alright…I’ll try to be a little insightful now. Navigating around Dublin last week, I felt almost oblivious to the social, economic, and racial divides. The South/ North socio-economic “civil war” was merely spoken of to me: I stood in utter disbelief as one of the workers at the O2 store on Henry street claimed that O’ Connell was “dodgy, extremely dodgy…they’ll snatch your peeerrrsse and wallet if you don’t pay attention.” I didn’t see it…couldn’t, for the life of me, understand what was so different about the other side of the Liffey.

But then two encounters struck me. The first was at a “dodgy” store off of Henry Street. Kaitlin, one of the seven other Dukies on the trip with moi, and I, are sitting in the store as the owner, of apparent Eastern European origins, unlocks Kaitlin’s cell phone. We watch a posse of young, seemingly 15 year olds clamor into the store. A white, dark haired Irish girl steps up to the counter and demands, in a thick accent, to trade a Blackberry in her hand for 70 Euro, since apparently the store down the street appraised it for that value. The owner, knowing that the phone was either stolen or could not be unlocked, kindly rejects her offer and tells her she could sell it to the previous store. She continues to bargain with him in a pseudo friendly, civil manner. Then, seeing this was going nowhere, the owner’s coworker/girlfriend, noticeably of Asian descent, kindly chirps in “sorry, but we can’t take it.” Hearing this, the young Irish girl flashing an angry look towards the Asian lady, flares up, loses her lid, and screams at the Asian lady “Eh!!! I wasn’t talking to ya, alright???” at which point the owner sternly shoos her and her grimacing minions out of the store.

The owner’s girl friend is, at this time, fuming at the reaction of the little girl. “You try to be nice to them and talk to them and they call you a pussy” she spits furiously, “I swear, I will cut her head of with a stick if she comes back here! Just because I’m Chinese doesn’t mean you treat me like shit.”  Judging from the reaction of both the store owner and his girlfriend, this scenario, or similar ones, had occurred many times before. This was not a first time, or a rare occurrence, that the Asian lady had been discriminated against purely based on her ethnic orientation or had caught some sort of flack for her “otherness”.

|This was Kaitlin and I’s first encounter with a hellish, harsh, Irish reaction to the difference introduced by the immigrant population. This was not a sugar-coated, “hey, you look different” type of reaction. It was open, unfiltered prejudice, out in broad daylights and plain for all to see. What seemed so blatant, so charged, so emotional an encounter, did not gather so much as a turn of the head from passers by, or other customers in the store. Strange. Granted, we definitely are peering at every interaction and every situation here in Ireland with a particular lens, but it was still startling to see it so clearly exhibited, and from a person so young. One’s first assumption is that the youth are more progressive or more willing to embrace racial, cultural, and/or ethnic difference and the older generation more stuck in their ways, but I was clearly mistaken in that case. It seemed like the reverse has occurred in my observations in Ireland: the older generation seem willing to appear accepting and inclusive, even if it might be a façade, while the youth show utter disdain and rejection of all things foreign. To say I have been taken aback is to say that Everest is “big.” I’m floored.

Bear in mind these are very, very unqualified, first timer, pseudo-biased assumptions so please, please, do not think that they will not be challenged or probably reinvented as time goes by. This was one extreme case of very few instances involving race that I have observed here in Dublin. Told you I had my race goggles on! (In the first post you skimmers.) This is just what I have observed so far and I figured I could vomit my thoughts on le blog if anywhere else…I’m prepping for tailgate y’all…

Anyways……The second encounter confounds my assumptions. On the first Friday night here, the whole gang dressed up in dressy garb and skipped out of our residence hall, anticipating a “memorable” first weekend out in Dublin (Just gloss over the previous sentence if you’re reading this ‘rents). As we pilled into the 10 bus, we were accompanied by a group of ten or so middle school or early high-school looking boys, prematurely drunk off of the Bulmer’s can they unabashedly passed around the bus. Bulmers is the Cider that Ireland seems really proud off (baseless in my humble opinon cause it tastes pretty dreadful). It seemed like the bus was some sort of rendezvous spot, cause in it were a whole battalion of similar girls and guys behind us, drunk as a Sailor’s monkey without a leash, and lauding the arrival of their friends. As we as a group sat down in the bus, there was a hushed silence, a period of uneasy anticipation, and then one of the kids busts out his cell phone and begins to play a song loudly. What would you know??? It was Beware of the Boys, a song by Punjabi MC! (Four of the members of our group are of Indian descent by the way.) All of the kids peered at Poorav, Neelima, Menaka and Athira, mouths wide open and eyes beaming, for what seemed like some sort of validation. As Poorav, like a king pronouncing a verdict, gave a nod of approval, the kids burst out in an uproar and began dancing, laughing, singing, chanting…basically going nuts. Feeling braver, some of the kids ventured towards me, asked me where is was from in the States (judging by my accent) and proceeded to chant “Texas, Texas!” all the way to their stop at the Leinster rugby stadium.

As the kids lumbered off the bus, chanting and jamming from their mobile boom box, we as group couldn’t help but laugh heartily at the innocently ignorant or “politically incorrect” response to our multicultural “twister mat” of a group. I swear, if they had cranked out some hip hop I would have bust out with the ’stanky leg’ or something shamelessly stereotypical…just to humor them. But in all seriousness, this was the Ireland described to me before I arrived: a country so blissfully ignorant of “the other” but with no harmful intention in this ignorance. The instinctive reaction of staring, trying to awkwardly identify or connect with this foreigness, or ask seemingly obtrusive questions is soooo Irish. Interestingly, I sometimes find it hilarious lol (trust me, I’m not one to find things like this very funny.) This encounter offered me another perspective to view the reaction to the recent flood of immigrants and other manifestations of “otherness” in Ireland. There is a genuine nature to many of the people I have encountered, a lack of pretentiousness that is very refreshing and very un-American in a general sense. These two perspectives on racial interaction here in Ireland have stuck out to me beyond anything else in the first week. It’s interesting how differently a place appears when one has a particular agenda visiting or staying thereOh yeah, and I stuffed a few sight seeing here and there.

Aaaaahhhhh! I promised I wouldn’t write as much as I did in the first post, but I’m just one who breaks promises aren’t I? If you were brave enough to read all of this, you deserve a cookie, or a Guinness, or some work, cause you sure are lazing around…Just kidding! I’m sure there is value in some of the things I have said, or entertainment if anything else. I have some more pictures added to the right of the page: some from our trip to a small town in the South Eastern portion of the country called Kilkenny, some from the city, some from the very, very “Euro” clubbing experience we were fortunate (unfortunate?) to experience. Wish I could go into detail about those, but I’d have to start paying for extra bandwith if that’s the case. I’ll let the pictures say the thousand words, as they should. Right? Right?

Personal goals for the summer? To chronicle as many of this interesting situations as I possibly can and make sense of them in a larger context. Second, to look into the possibility of issues dealing with immigrants, race and culture as a career beyond Duke…not necessarily directly in the form of what I am doing in my job placement. I’d like to see whether it has potential longevity as an interest of mine and whether Ireland could offer me opportunities to pursue that post-graduation or anytime in the future. Finally, I want material to write about…sounds simple but true.

I’ll write about my work assignment and other insightful insights in the posts to come…and maybe some crazy interesting encounters..ooooooo (twiddles my fingers and hums the twilight zone tune)

Happy birthday in advance to Lace…I had to put it on here cause, well, I’ll be missing it in person. Oh…and cause I felt like it. Va te faire foutre!

Kidding guys…

By the way I’ve been spinning the Dream’s latest album and also discovering a liking for the Beatles…I think something in the water here is messing with my musical tastes. I need some CD suggestions y’all…I’m in the musical Patmos over here…

Khalas people

taken from the Rosebach museum website…I still don’t have a camera.

yesterday I went into the city for my first Bloomsday at the Rosenbach museum in Philly.  Getting off the train at Suburban, I happened to run into one of my mentors from PA Governor’s School for Teaching.  I hadn’t seen him for 3 years, and I wouldn’t have even noticed him if it weren’t for my friend pointing out that he had a cool seeing eye dog.  I had a feeling that he was also going to Bloomsday, so I approached him, and it turned out not only was he going, but that he was also scheduled to be one of the readers for the chapter Ithaca, along with his brother David.  It was great to see him again…it definitely made me a little nostalgic for governor’s school…

I only got to catch the last 2 hours-ish of the reading, but that included some of Circe, up until the end.  The woman who read Penelope, Molly Bloom’s soliloquy was absolutely superb.  It was amazing how it made everything so much more sensical hearing it aloud. 

Tonight I’m going to the Dirty Projectors show at the First Unitarian church, quite excited, although I’m still overall exhausted from Greek class, even though I got a good 7 hours of sleep last night (I’ve been sleeping for about 4-5 hours every night other than that).  But for more good news, my second midterm is CANCELLED.  I couldn’t ask for anything better…

Also, Passion Pit at the church August 15th!!! I jumped the gun and bought tickets, figuring I can always resell them if I can’t go.  R5 productions says that this is their first Philly show…I guess playing at Swarthmore doesn’t really count?

A las ocho de la mañana soñé con un  mosquito  que  picaba mi mano derecha y yo trataba de rascarme pero no tenía uñas, a las nueve y media  ya despierta   ejecuto las siguientes posturas de Yoga: Tadasana, Trikonasana,Ardha kandrasana, Ado mukha,Janu Sirsasana,Sarvangasana, Halasana,Savasana.

Diez y media:Nubes negras sobre Bruselas, viento frío, humedad, falta una semana para que llegue el verano. Tomo mate , lo único que me despierta sin dejarme nerviosa, lo acompaño con  uvas blancas y una galleta.Observo   la batalla en  el  cielo  desde la mansarda, las tejas rojas, las chimeneas,  la cúpula de la iglesia de La Chapelle y el omnipresente Palacio de Justicia,parece  una  gris  matrona coronada, inmensa, esperpéntica e   inocua.No tengo ganas de ir a la cita pero toca, necesito ahorrar, necesito una entrada adicional, cumplir mi palabra.

11 y cuarto.Monto en la bicicleta cruzo Rue Haute, el recyclart ,atraviezo la avenida Estalingrado dejándo atrás la ruta del pavé para introducirme en el territorio Gare du midi, impregnado por el olor a orines y habitado por los residentes de las sillas públicas: hileras de  borrachos encorvados con el rostro congestionado.

11 y media.Mientras aseguro la bicicleta, Rosa llega con dos paquetes en las manos  y un tic nervioso en el ojo izquierdo. Rosa es chilena, vive en Bruselas desde 1972, es pequeña blanca y pecosa, sus cabellos  le llegan hasta la cintura, lleva una sudadera rosada y los labios pintados de rojo, saluda con un beso en la mejilla, yo la trato de usted, ella me contesta en francés. Tomamos el tranvía 82  allí Rosa me estudia con su mirada  mientras yo le hago cualquier tipo de preguntas para pasar el tiempo,  vive en las afueras de Bruselas, tiene una casa grande con gallinas, conejos,perros y gatos , es bueno tener gallinas pero piden mucho tiempo, no vuelvo a Talca (Chile) porque la paso tan bien que cuando  regreso  a Belgica me dá depresión, aqui estan mis hijos,mis nietos , allá mi pasado, todo cambiado …..porque ni siquiera un árbol es el mismo despues de  tantos  años.

Medio dia.Nos bajamos en el ayuntamiento de Forest, caminamos hacia un gran edificio, de arquitectura reciente, ladrillos verdes, ventanas rojas. No recuerdo  por cuál entrada ingresamos al garaje del edificio, allí en un vestíbulo Rosa me explica  lo que hay que hacer:tienes dos cuñas y una llave para el agua, aqui estan tus baldes, los trapos y esto aqui es para quitar las telas de araña, !importante!… cachai? Tienes que limpiar las bodegas ( Cave, Kelder), eso es todo, cuando termines me ayudas a terminar  las entradas.Luego me explica como se limpia el pavimento, como detener las puertas con las cuñas y la mejor manera de exprimir un trapo.Uso los guantes ella comenta que esas cosas  en el fondo no ayudan a trabajar bien, el detergente es natural.

12 y 55. Me quedo sola en la primera bodega de las siete que limpiaré, no son muy grandes   la mayoría constan  de mínúsculos  cubículos,   solo tengo que limpiar los corredores y las manillas de las puertas. Pero como todo oficio, precisa de método, método que solo alcanzo a adquirir a medias  en la tercera bodega. Las luces tienen una intermitencia de 5 minutos, para ahorrar energía  luego se apagan y mientras repaso con el trapo  y la escoba casi siempre, busco a tientas el interruptor, trato de no pensar en nada, sin embargo me llega la imagen insistente de algunas películas de terror donde la primera victima  a veces es un desprevenido aseador  o la mucama  que quita las telas de araña.

2 y media.Ya he cometido algunas faltas: olvidar  una  cuña en la puerta de la segunda bodega, botar el agua sucia del balde en el lugar equivocado, perderme en ese laberinto de autos , puertas y bodegas sin encontrar la tercera . Rosa baja de tanto en tanto para  verficar que todo vaya bien y no sé porqué pero baja cuando estoy cometiendo algún error. Que distraida que estás me dice, esto no es normal y se rie , pero igual se va y me deja con la cuarta bodega. Al terminar  la acompaño a limpiar las entradas del edificio, son cuatro. Descubro que la batalla del cielo la ha ganado el sol, impresionante victoria, en un lugar donde el dominio de la nube negra es imperioso  y la perspectiva climática no auguraba sino uno de esos típicos chubascos bruselianos.

3 y media.Tengo ganas de dejarlo todo, de irme con la señora del perrito jack rusell o el hombre que tartamudea y dice que el buen tiempo hay que aprovecharlo ipso facto, Rosa le contesta en su francés macarrónico que eso es para los que tienen tiempo libre.Olvido un cepillo, no sacudo el gran tapete como Rosa me ha explicado,me señala indignada  una tela de araña que no he erradicado. Rosa dice: no es por ser racista pero las huellas  que dejan los negros en los vidrios son más difíciles de quitar y me observa como para que yo le complemente su comentario, yo la miro atónita, estoy demasiado cansada y distraida como para decirle algo, me dan ganas de decirle  que  el  no es por ser racista me produce mas fastidio que su prejuicio con las huellas de las manos , me parece un esfuerzo inútil.

4  en punto.Nos cambiamos, despues de haber lavado  trapos y baldes, Rosa me regala una decena de sobres de manila, salimos y nos encaminamos al paradero del tram. Me siento ligera, como si una gran carga se hubiera disipado, como el cielo azul sobre Bruselas.Place Saint Denis  se vé radiante , Rosa estudia en la vitrina de un negocio de calzado unos zapatos de cintas de colores.En el tram me pregunta que porqué tan distraida,será que estás embarazada o muy enamorada?. Tengo ganas de contestarle que tal vez es porque hoy es el Bloomsday cómo para confirmarle que estoy mas loca que una cabra . Rosa se sienta al lado de un muchacho con sindrome de Down, me mira para no mirarlo a él. Yo veo pasar las calles como fotogramas, aliviada por la luz, la fuerza recuperada y    la  belleza que adquiere Bruselas con el sol.

4 y cuarenta.En la Gare du midi, Rosa me paga 45 euros y se sorprende  al ver  que su reloj se detuvo a las 3 y 35, se asusta.Le recomiendo la henna para tinturarse sus cabellos, me despido. Al montar en la bicicleta me doy cuenta de haber dejado mi mochila  en el vestíbulo, maldigo,  llamo a rosa y quedamos en vernos el jueves.

5 en punto.Cruzo avenida Annesens   en la esquina me espera R en su bicicleta nos séntamos en  la terraza de un bar , él pide una Triple Westmalle y yo un rosée,describo lo del trabajo  con Rosa . El acaricia  mi mano mientras me explica lo que quiere decir el capital simbólico según Bordieu ( tiene un exámen de sociologia  el jueves), hablamos de la autoridad, el prestigio, la fama , el buen gusto la honorabilidad, conceptos y palabras similares  al empaque al vacio , seguimos riéndonos.Le cuento del Bloomsday, pero terminamos hablando de Trieste, Miramare, I filtri, los distinguidos locos triestinos, Italo Svevo, lo divertida que es la Conciencia de Zeno, la iglesia ortodoxa de San Nicoló,  los amigos, los vicios, el higado encebollado.

6 y cuarto .Invito a R a comer  a la  Maison des crepes en Rue de midi 13 ,  él pide uno de queso de cabra, rucula y nueces, yo una de piperade con pollo. Luego vamos a dar vueltas en  bicicleta, R me muestra su calle preferida en Saint Gilles, Rue du Mont Blanc, cuesta abajo , anónima tranquila y esplendidos  edificios del neo renacimiento flamenco .En algunos apartamentos del primer piso se adivinan los  típicos jardines interiores de  las casas de la centreville bruseliana que tanto me gustan .Rodamos sin objetivo  por Saint Gilles  .

9 y media.Entramos al Vendome  para ver Milleniun pero terminamos viendo   looking for Eric , divertida, optimista, sin pretensiones. No entiendo porque le han hecho tanta propaganda a Cantoná si el verdadero actor es el otro Eric, pero en fin, ejemplos de un buen empaque al vacío, Cantona se lleva toda la atención.

11 y media, luego de dar algunas vueltas sin rumbo fijo,  entramos al apartamento, R alista sus cosas yo me doy una ducha y a la una menos cuarto despues de haber leído algo de Cees Nooteboom apago la luz .

The Earnest Reader: Our Bloomsday reading yesterday provoked a flurry of activity from within the Academic “Community”.  We had not thought dearth had undone so many.  We are therefore delighted to announce the birth of Twiterary Cwiticism.  (Note to public we have already claimed the term Twiterary Theory too.) We have reprinted some of the submissions below.  Needless to say they are limited to 140 characters. 

 The Concerned Reader: Now there is an idea I can really get behind: literary criticism mangled down to 140 characters!

 It was the erstwhile Earl of Rochester who, upon reading Canto VII of Il Purgatorio, remarked to his drinking companions: “A pox on the very

 From Vico, Dante, The Story Untelling by  Rudmose Boaterhat-Pubcrawl, D Litt, Asumpta College Cambridge

How can the non Thomist in posse become the harbinger of anti historicity while clinging to the Hegelian precepts gained in years of earnest

 From Joyce and Post Modern Neo-Post-Structuralism, the Postquailist Tendencies by Prof Vicente Caligliari, International Joyce Summer School, Brindisi, Italy

When I was a boy old Ma Joyce once caught me robbing the milk bottles off their doorstep.  Drumdondra Road in those days was a place of many

 From I Knew Yr Aul Wan, A Memoir of My Acquaintance With James Joyce by Francis Xavier Pendergast, poet, veterinarian and critic.

***ultimíssima hora (22-Junio-2009):

Enrique Vila-Matas se ha sumado al proyecto Bloomsday con una fotografía tomada en Dublin.

Aquí.

***última hora:

Javier Avilés acaba de colgar un mapa con las ciudades de Origen

de cada uno de los participantes.

Pueden verlo Aquí.

Amigos que ya han colgado sus aportaciones al proyecto:

****Actualización de las 14:08 horas

1. Javier Moreno (Balada del Elefante Azul) [Lyon]

2. Miquel Adam (L´artista abans conegut com Subal Quinina)

[Ciutat Fastigosa (Barcelona)]

3. Alvaro Huertas (Quizá nos lleve el viento al infinito) [Glasgow]

4. Palumbus Columbus (idem)

5. Quim Roig (L´Efecte Jauss 2.0) [Arbúcies (La Selva)]

6. Albert Ullibarri (The Daily Avalanche) [Barcelona]

7. Eduardo Laporte (el náuGrafo digital) [Madrid]

8. Petrusdom (Montañas de silencio y profundos ríos de palabras) [Valencia]

9. Matts de Bloeff (Iceland bailout plan (9)) [Barcelona]

10. Jacinta Escudos (Jacintario) [San José (Costa Rica)]

11. José Montalva (Rumores y sombras) [Valencia]

12. Antartica (Le vertige des Abîmes) [Barcelona]

***Actualización de las 14:58 horas:

13. José Cruz Aceves (Jakalito) [Guadalajara (México)]

14. Jacobo Deza (La Senda de los libros) [Managua]

***Actualización de las 15:45 horas:

15. Omegar Martinez (omegar.org) [Ciudad de México]

16. Jorge Mayer (Días de Darcy) [Trelew (Patagonia Argentina)]

17. Cinthya (Crónicas de Aparador) [Barcelona]

18. Martín Gómez (El ojo fisgón) [Barcelona]

19. Alberto Haj Saleh (Reducir al mínimo)

[Kamloops / British Columbia (Canadá)]

20. Manuel Jesús Curiel Arroyo (El cuaderno amarillo)

[Plasencia (Cáceres)]

***Actualización de las 16:19 horas:

21. Zero Kevin. (Huellas de unos dedos congelados)

[Rubí (Barcelona)]

22. Salvador Leal (La vida irreal de Salvador Leal)

[Ciudad de México]

23. Ruben Ramos Nogueira (Fuga) & Rubén Ramos (Tea-Tron) [Barcelona]

24. J. G. Cozzolino (Sin pastillas) [Buenos Aires]

25. Said Javier Estrella (Andén Ocho)

26. Sheila la Ladrona (365 excusas)

27. Olavia Kite (Doblepensar) [Tsukuva (Japón)]

28. Carlos Be (Idem) [Barcelona]

***Actualización de las 17:12 horas:

29. José Luís Justes Amador (idem) [Aguascalientes (México)]

30. Rafael Hernandez (Artes Mecánicas) [Monterrey (México)]

31. El Llibreter (idem) [Catalunya]

32. Clara Osorio (Nabusimake) [Castelldefels (Barcelona)]

33. Tina Vallés (Ganxet sota les pedres) [Barcelona]

34. Kraven Sneijder (Fagiafilia) [Gijón]

35. Andrés Villaveces (Josef Pronek) [Bogotá (Colombia)]

36. Julian García (Un detective salvaje) [Amsterdam]

37. Pablo Galerna (Facetería) [Comala (Colombia)]

***Actualización de las 17:41 horas:

38. Grace (Slashing echoes) [Bogotá (Colombia)]

39. Luda (Luda 76)

40. Luis Bardamu (idem) [Dock Sud]

41. Beatriz Nava Dominguez (El último lugar del mapa)

[Ciudad de México]

42. Jildardo González (La Luna de San Mateo)

[Aguascalientes (México)]

***Actualización de las 20:52 horas:

43. ManoSuelta (Idem)

44. Visa para un Sueño (Majadería en México)

45. Cheenglish (Idem)

46. El Conde de Almaviva (Lindoro.Net 2.0)

***Actualización del día 18-Junio-2008 a las 12:51 horas:

 

47. Javier Elizondo (EstremecedoraMecedora) [Ciudad de México]

48. Bernardo Luis Munuera Montero (Desóxido) [Jaén]

49. Alicia Ancona (Alice Dice) [México]

50. Karla Olvera (KarlaTone) [Ciudad de México]

51. Ximena Gama (The Non Sewing Camara) [Bogotá (Colombia)]

52. Rafael Zamudio (Catatonia) [Tijuana (Baja California, México)]

***Actualización del día 18-Junio-2008 a las 13:57 horas:
 

53. Con Vocación de Espina (Dieginho) [ßogotá]

54. Edilay Peña Osorio. (Lo que dejo que pase de vez en cuando) [Medellín (Colombia)]

***Actualización del día 18-Junio-2008 a las 15:04 horas:
 

55. Mauricio Salvador (The art of fiction) [México D.F.]

56. Memoria Repetida (Idem)

57. Juan Lewin (La vida en Leiden)

***Actualización del día 18-Junio-2008 a las 17:12 horas:
 

58. Silvano Gozzer (Efecto Tunel) [Madrid]

***Actualización del día 18-Junio-2008 las 21:32 horas:

59. Javier Avilés (El Lamento de Portnoy) [Tarragona]

***Actualización del día 19-Junio-2008 las 01:42 horas:

60. J. S. de Montfort (La soledad del Deseo) [Barcelona]

*******************

COSAS CURIOSAS (Sobre Bloomsday)

<<<<< 41 Ráfagas: Variaciones sobre Monterroso para Bloomsday

<<<< K.M.R.I.A. (Kiss my royal Irish Ass)

<<<<< De cómo Bloomsday intelectualizó Twitter

<<<<< Juan Francisco Ferré sobre Molly Bloom: La Dominatrix de lo Real

<<<<< Dublin is a written text: Ulysses is simply its most famous translation

*******************

Francis Scott Fitzgerald´s copy of Ulysses

-The memory of the dead, says the citizen taking up his pintglass and glaring at Bloom.

-Ay, ay, says Joe

-You don´t grasp my point, says Bloom. What I mean is…

-Sinn Fein! says the citizen. Sinn fein amhain! The friends we love are by our side and the foes we hate before us [1]

[1] James Augustine Aloysius Joyce. Ulysses. Penguin Modern Classics. London. 2000. [pp. 396]

******

Leopold Bloom, reincarnation of Ulysses

Bonus (extra): 
para los que no les apetezca transitar sus casi 1000 páginas,
pueden escuchar el Ulysses en el ipod mientras van de camino al trabajo.
Aquí

**Disclaimer: la hora de actualización no se corresponde necesariamente con la hora de posteo sino con la hora en la que ha sido chequeado el enlace.

Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods’ roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.

Kidneys were in his mind as he moved about the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the humpy tray. Gelid light and air were in the kitchen but out of doors gentle summer morning everywhere. Made him feel a bit peckish.

Ham and eggs, no. No good eggs with this drouth. Want pure fresh water. Thursday: not a good day either for a mutton kidney at Buckley’s. Fried with butter, a shake of pepper. Better a pork kidney at Dlugacz’s.

He halted before Dlugacz’s window, staring at the hanks of sausages, polonies, black and white. Fifteen multiplied by. The figures whitened in his mind, unsolved: displeased, he let them fade. The shiny links, packed with forcemeat, fed his gaze and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm breath of cooked spicy pigs’ blood.

A kidney oozed bloodgouts on the willowpatterned dish: the last. He stood by the nextdoor girl at the counter. Would she buy it too, calling the items from a slip in her hand? Chapped: washingsoda. And a pound and a half of Denny’s sausages. 

The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the pile, wrapped up her prime sausages and made a red grimace. 

Mr Bloom pointed quickly. To catch up and walk behind her if she went slowly, behind her moving hams. 

His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a sidepocket. Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers’ pocket and laid them on the rubber prickles. 

While he unwrapped the kidney the cat mewed hungrily against him. Give her too much meat she won’t mouse. Say they won’t eat pork. Kosher. Here. He let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her and dropped the kidney amid the sizzling butter sauce. Pepper. He sprinkled it through his fingers ringwise from the chipped eggcup. 

He prodded a fork into the kidney and slapped it over: then fitted the teapot on the tray. Its hump bumped as he took it up. Everything on it? Bread and butter, four, sugar, spoon, her cream. Yes. He carried it upstairs, his thumb hooked in the teapot handle.

Nudging the door open with his knee he carried the tray in and set it on the chair by the bedhead.

—What a time you were! she said. 

Her spoon ceased to stir up the sugar. She gazed straight before her, inhaling through her arched nostrils.

—There’s a smell of burn, she said. Did you leave anything on the fire?

—The kidney! he cried suddenly.

He fitted the book roughly into his inner pocket and, stubbing his toes against the broken commode, hurried out towards the smell, stepping hastily down the stairs with a flurried stork’s legs. Pungent smoke shot up in an angry jet from a side of the pan. By prodding a prong of the fork under the kidney he detached it and turned it turtle on its back. Only a little burnt. He tossed it off the pan on to a plate and let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it.

Cup of tea now. He sat down, cut and buttered a slice of the loaf. He shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to the cat. Then he put a forkful into his mouth, chewing with discernment the toothsome pliant meat. Done to a turn. A mouthful of tea. Then he cut away dies of bread, sopped one in the gravy and put it in his mouth. What was that about some young student and a picnic? He creased out the letter at his side, reading it slowly as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in the gravy and raising it to his mouth. 

He sopped other dies of bread in the gravy and ate piece after piece of kidney. 

extracts from Ulysses by James Joyce

POETRY WEDNESDAY is hosted by Creative Journey

James Joyce

I know it’s technically past midnight and therefore, no longer June 16. But I don’t care, it didn’t all of a sudden become ‘tomorrow’ just because it turned midnight.

So happy Bloomsday!

If you’re unfamiliar with Bloomsday I’ll fill you in. Bloomsday is a holiday celebrated in Dublin and other parts of Ireland. It commemorates the day that James Joyce’s homeric novel, Ulysses, takes place (June 16, 1904).

On that day, Leopold Bloom and Stephen Dedalus go about their daily rituals throughout the streets and shops of Dublin. There’s a ton of allusion, sub-plots, parallel story lines, and emotional exploration.  I won’t go into it much further simply because I’ve been stuck on about page 408 for the past 6 months.

But nevertheless, I hope you all had a truly Bloomian day!

~Kbshea

Este post pertenece a esta inciativa.

De hecho, nunca he escrito sobre un día en mi vida. Al menos no de un día completo, con todo y su rutina. Creo que muchos buscamos precisamente escribir de la no-rutina, sobre lo sorprendente, lo chusco, lo que hizo que el día fuera digno de plasmarse en un motor de blogs.

Hoy no corrí. Tengo 5 días sin correr, me duele la pierna y es mi pretexto perfecto para dormir media hora más. Tal vez mañana me vuelva a doler la pierna. Así que desperté a las 7:30. Tomé un baño con agua más fría que caliente y más por elección que por falta de opciones. Preparé mi sandwich -siguiendo con la dieta: pan, jamón de pavo y pan, sin tiempo para la verdura- tomé un plátano y salí de casa. Olvidé el libro que leo, El Señor de Los Anillos: La Comunidad del Anillo, volví por el y por fin, manejé hasta la oficina. Llegué con tiempo, a las 8:17 prendí la laptop y después de revisar el correo, fui por un yogurt, para completar el desayuno. También compré una manzana roja y jugosa que comería a media mañana: colación matutina en el argot nutriologuesco. Hoy tenía tres objetivos, revisar el paquete uno, corregir el estudio dos y revisar el paquete tres. Comencé con el uno. Revisé unos estados financieros bien hechos pero sospechosos: es la primera vez que analizo una empresa arrendadora, así que no entendí algunas partidas; imprimí la lista de documentos que necesito y vi que faltaba todo. TODO. Mandé un correo. En lo que esperaba respuesta corregí el estudio dos y dediqué algunos minutos aleatorios al internet. Feeds. Noticias. Letras de Café Tacvba (estudiar para el concierto de mañana: no me sé Las Persianas ni La Chica Banda). GM vendió su filial Saab a Koenigsegg. ¿Koeni-qué? Google it. Fábrica sueca de autos deportivos más allá de lo exclusivo, 1.5 millones de euros para adquirir el modelo más reciente: tiempo de 0-100 km/h de 2.9 segundos. Que si podrán con el paquete, que si tienen la fortaleza financiera, que si el Gobierno sueco les ayudará, que si SAAB es una marca emblemática. Lo es. Emplean a 12,000 personas en su planta sueca, algo debían de hacer. Sonó la puerta, sonó como si la abrieran; cambio rápido al correo, volteo de reojo. Nadie. Tampoco me se Rarotonga la busco, la leo, la tarareo y la canto al final. La puerta de nuevo, nadie de nuevo. Ya fue mucho internet, a seguir con los pendientes. Reviso el vaciado (dícese de el archivo de Excel en el que ingresamos la información de los estados financieros de las empresas) y veo que está mal calculado el capital contable de 2005 a 2007. Que hueva, que huevísima por que tengo que revisar los estados financieros de esos años y revisar donde estuvo la falla. Lo hice, no fue tanto como pensé. Que bueno. Lo reenvío y son las 2:20, faltan diez minutos para salir a comer. Voy con mi jefa, le digo lo que me falta del paquete uno, hablamos con el jefe y nos platica sobre la línea de crédito que se solicitará. Regreso a la oficina a anotarlo. 2:30.

Hora de comer.

Sopa de garbanzos -cuenta como leguminosa, ok-, Lomo a la crema -mi porción de carne, ok-, acompañado de calabacita rellena y arroz -las calabazas son libres y el arroz es mi porción de cereal, ok-, agua de jamaica -mi dosis de azúcar- y plátanos con lechera de postre -fruta para finalizar, ok-. Pido la comida corrida. Delicioso, todo. Mi novia se sienta a mi lado y platicamos un poco. En la mañana le platiqué que el 15 de Octubre del 2011 es sábado y me pregunta cómo llegué a pensar en eso; le cuento que ayer estaba pensando en que, si tuviera que irme lejos por parte del trabajo, me gustaría casarme con ella pronto. Pronto en un año, dos como máximo. Siempre hemos pensado en casarnos en octubre y el 15 sería ideal por que los días 15 cumplimos meses. Si además de ser 15 de octubre fuera sábado, sería la boda perfecta. Vi el calendario y saqué cuentas, en el 2011 cae en sábado, veremos que pasa de aquí a entonces. Me levanté y seguimos platicando en el comedor de su casa. Ya es hora de regresar y la llevo a la guardería donde cuidan a su sobrinita y que me queda de camino a la oficina. Nos vemos en la tarde. El calor es insoportabilísimo, salgo mojado del coche, después de estacionarlo.

Mi oficina, mi nueva oficna, está fría por que tiene, ajem, aire acondicionado. Para mí solito. Mi sonrisa no puede ser más grande y más sincera. Nada en el correo. El mensajero me deja unos estados financieros que urgían la semana pasada, pero que venían sin la parte de pasivo y capital y ahora, al fin, vienen completos. El paquete tres desplazado al día de mañana, si tiene suerte. Empiezo a revisarlos, sólo lo que me hacía falta, pero tengo que parar en seguida para ir al baño. Tomo mi libro y voy. Un baño caliente y solitario; avanzo 12 páginas y una tercera parte de otra, Frodo se dispone a escuchar lo que comenta la gente grande en el Poney Pisador. El libro es increíblemente extenso y detallado, que si las briznas de verde hierba tibias por el sol matinal de un perfecto día de verano se mueven vacilantes al paso de los jóvenes hobbits que marchan sin rumbo por aquí y allá, dirigiéndose al oeste de la vieja cerca, donde alguna vez hubo algún pueblo de reyes antiguos de los que sólo queda el recuerdo en leyendas oscuras y misteriosas. Extenso. Me enfrasco con los estados financieros nuevos y los vacío. Suena el teléfono: Jany, mi novia, me pregunta si es veniste o viniste. Viniste, hablando del pasado, lo verifico para no hablar sin fundamento. Viniste, es correcto, Jany me encarga un té verde en mi camino a su casa. Sigo con mi vaciado. Don Robert, el ingeniero de mantenimiento y de sistemas del edificio vino a cambiar la red de mi antigua oficina a la nueva oficina, ya no tengo que avisar que cambié de red, seguiré contestando en la cuarenta y cuatro. Terminé el vaciado, son las seis y veinte hora de salida; apago la computadora y me doy cuenta de que no envié el vaciado, mañana será. Nos vemos mañana.

Cierro la oficina.

En la primer cuadra encuentro a un amigo detenido por un oficial de tránsito, dejó su camioneta tapando la banqueta; me pidió cincuenta pesos y en cuanto se los dí caí en cuenta de que ese dinero jamás regresaría a a mí. Ya no traigo para el te. Decido que pagaré con la tarjeta, en el Seven-Eleven aceptan tarjeta. Tomo el té y unas Barcel Toreadas y llego a la caja. No hay servicio joven, además la compra mínima son cincuenta pesos. Me lleva. Llego con las manos vacías y le cuento lo que pasó, veo su cara y decido embarcarme en una aventura a conseguir el té, en la tienda de la esquina. No hay del verde, solo de limón, sandía y kiwi; le llevo el de limón y unos Cheetos Flaming Hot, ya que no hay Barcel en la tienda. Llego de nuevo y le digo que no hubo Toreadas. Ojitos tristes. Una nueva aventura, buscar las toreadas. A la tercer tienda las encuentro y me enteré que fulanito está en la cárcel mientras que perenganito anda rondando por ahí libretitas de a peso dijo la anciana dependiente. ¡Las tengo al fin! disfruta tus toreadas. Me dice que los flaming hot no lo son, andaba en la luna. Revisé mi correo personal y contesté un mail de la nutrióloga: mañana a las 5:30. Nada, nada, nada. Llegó Conchis para irnos a las pláticas de preparación para papas y padrinos de niños que harán la primera comunión el 4 de junio: seremos padrinos de Érika, la vecinita. Diluvia, el cielo se cae y como todo un caballero les indico que esperen a que lleve el auto hasta su puerta, para que las damas se mojen lo menos posible. Llegué empapado al coche. En el camino la tormenta arreció, no se veía nada a unos metros de distancia. Justo unas cuadras antes de llegar, dejó de llover. Perfecto. Nos estacionamos y entramos a la plática en el templo: mi mamá estaba ahí, me llamó para que la llevara y no se mojara con la lluvia torrencial y quedamos de vernos ahí a dos cuadras de su oficina. Empezamos, el tema de hoy: Jesús nos da el perdon del Padre. Flemática la catequista, mi mamá dijo que es la emoción de evangelizar, yo no sé. Hubo algunas cosas buenas y otras no tan buenas; dijo que “Perdón” es una palabra hermosísisima yo pienso que tal vez lo sea la acción de perdonar, pero la palabra en sí, su grafía y fonema no me son hermosísimos en absoluto. No imagino una palabra hermosa; las hay graciosas como pomada, mono, tomate y goma. Dejamos a Jany y a Conchis y fuimos a cenar: una tostada de pata, LA tostada de pata para ella y un sope con carne para mí. Cereal, carne y lácteo (lleva queso el sope) para mi cena. Un hombre tocaba rock sesentero con su guitarra, el bule bule, el acapulco rock y otras más que no recuerdo. Buena cena. Llegamos a casa, me cambié, entré al baño y recogí un poco mi habitación. Ya me voy a dormir. Bajo por un vaso con agua y veo que mi computadora está encendida. Imposible. Posible, le dí mi contraseña a mi hermano para que revisara las funciones de cine el viernes pasado. Cambiaré la contraseña. Y bueno, leamos algunos feeds. SalvadorLeal.com: Bloomsday. Sigo el link, leo las bases, quiero hacerlo. Lo hago.

Terminando, ahora sí. Dormiré. Pero antes iré por el vaso de agua que hasta este momento, sigue pendiente.

If you haven’t spent a June 16 in Dublin, then you probably aren’t going to get this thread at all!  Well,  you might if you liked The Producers or maybe, just maybe, you’ve read James Joyce’s masterpiece Ulysses. Today is the annual celebration for his most celebrated of novels.

Here are some Bloomsday activities you can do at home.

First, you can go to the UK Guard and take a Bloomsday Quiz or you can just read about what everybody in Dublin is doing here at Wikipedia or read about it at the James Joyce Centre.

Oh and about that header.  Here’s the answer if you ever get asked what Mel Brooks has in common with Bloomsday?

In Mel Brooks‘ 1968 film The Producers, Gene Wilder’s character is called Leo Bloom, an homage to Joyce’s character. In the musical 2005 version, in the evening scene at the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park, Leo asks, “When will it be Bloom’s day?”. However, in the earlier scene in which Bloom first meets Max Bialystock, the office wall calendar shows that the current day is 16 June, indicating that it is, in fact, Bloomsday.

And of course, we need a quote from the masterpiece itself!

EXCERPT

STATELY, PLUMP Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned:

–Introibo ad altare Dei.

Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called up coarsely:

–Come up, Kinch. Come up, you fearful jesuit.

Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding country and the awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak.

Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered the bowl smartly.

–Back to barracks, he said sternly.

He added in a preacher’s tone:

–For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soul and blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One moment. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all.

He peered sideways up and gave a long low whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here and there with gold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill whistles answered through the calm.

–Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off the current, will you?

He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gathering about his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plump shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle ages. A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips.

–The mockery of it, he said gaily. Your absurd name, an ancient Greek.

He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet, laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearily halfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him still as he propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and lathered cheeks and neck.

Buck Mulligan’s gay voice went on.

–My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has a Hellenic ring, hasn’t it? Tripping and sunny like the buck himself. We must go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid?

He laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried:

–Will he come? The jejune jesuit.

Ceasing, he began to shave with care.

–Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.

–Yes, my love?

–How long is Haines going to stay in this tower? Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder.

–God, isn’t he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks you’re not a gentleman. God, these bloody English. Bursting with money and indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford. You know, Dedalus; you have the real Oxford manner. He can’t make you out. O, my name for you is the best: Kinch, the knife-blade.
He shaved warily over his chin.

–He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Where is his guncase?

–A woful lunatic, Mulligan said. Were you in a funk?

–I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. Out here in the dark with a man I don’t know raving and moaning to himself about shooting a black panther. You saved men from drowning. I’m not a hero, however. If he stays on here I am off.

Buck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razorblade. He hopped down from his perch and began to search his trouser pockets hastily.

–Scutter, he cried thickly.

He came over to the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Stephen’s upper pocket, said:

–Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor.

Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly. Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said:

–The bard’s noserag. A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen. You can almost taste it, can’t you?

He mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly.–

One more bit of trivia.  Who said:

“I guess the man’s a genius, but what a dirty mind he has, hasn’t he?”

Whose critical verdict?  His wife, Norah Joyce.

Happy Bloomsday!  What’s on your summer reading list?
Please Digg!!! and Share the Joyce!!!!

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It’s Bloomsday!  In honor of which, a non-opera-related story: When I was in high school and in love with a 20-something writer, I read every book he mentioned to me (even in passing), because that’s what teenage girls in love do (ironically, I spent part of today with that same writer floating out ideas as to how he can get his pregnant wife to eat more…no, he was not married 10 years ago).    Il Writer was a Joycean and highly–HIGHLY–recommended Ulysses out of all the guy’s works, so Christmas break my junior year was spent in search of Stephen Dedalus, in Dublin with Leopold, and in bed with Molly Bloom.  Some time later, probably around spring break, my misogynistic Western Civ teacher heard me discussing the big U with a classmate and scoffed “You’ve never read Ulysses.”  After giving me hell, he let slip “No woman can read Joyce.”  Every Bloomsday, I can’t help but think of crotchety old Mr. Needham.

Thus, it’s only appropriate that today would be the day I hit Caccini’s La Liberazione di Ruggiero dall’isola d’Alcina.  Caccini’s name should sound familiar from Euridice Catfight!–a true catfight since Caccini was one of Peri’s greatest rivals and, allegedly, wrote HIS Euridice as a way from stealing Peri’s thunder (this operatic rivalry and duality of operas was to become a famous/infamous trend).  But this composer isn’t Giulio Caccini; rather it’s his daughter and, by rights, the first female opera composer, Francesca.  For all I wanted to support my sisters in the face of pricks, misogynists, chauvinists, and the general ethos of the “boy’s club,” however, I felt myself oddly conflicted while listening to Liberazione.  At times, she pushes past Monteverdi and foreshadows Handel (who would write his own opera based on Alcina), at others she goes back more than 20 years to the dramatically stagnant early works of Peri.  What really got me was the Aria del Pastore, which unfortunately has only made it onto YouTube with a musically inferior rendition, though if you can get your hands on the Warsaw Chamber Opera recording, it’s really something.

Whether La Liberazione is a statement on feminism or gender seems obvious–perhaps even a little too obvious.  Though the cast of 16 is evenly divided between men and women, female voices tend to dominate the piece.  It helps that, among the men, there is only one bass (and, curiously, no castrato).  That the women sing in flat keys, the men in sharp, and one woman–playing an androgynous character–in C Natural has also led many modern historians to take this piece as a commentary on the role of the female–either sacrifice femininity or overtly use it to succeed; there is no middle ground.  Which would speak aptly to the role of women in 17th Century Venice–you were either a mother or a whore, with very little room for negotiation in between (ok, the convent, fine).  As a side note, there is a great study in this dichotomy as seen in the life of Venetian poetess/courtesean Veronica Franco, and in her subsequent biopic, Dangerous Beauty.

On this day, 105 years ago, James Joyce went on a date with his wife-to-be.  For whatever reason, the literary world has always seen fit to celebrate his life on this day.  Happy Bloomsday everybody!

History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

BLOOMSDAY!

It’s today and it rhymes with doomsday. It’s a special day for the truly ridiculous and hardcore literary nerds, fans of James Joyce’s classic novel, Ulysses. I’m one of those geeks so I find just a bit of silly enjoyment in this day, I’m not going to lie.

They name comes from the novel’s main character, Leopold Bloom, and June 16 is the day the novel is set on (it all takes place in one very long day). But the date also comes from…

Nora Barnacle, who was, and I love the way that Wikipedia words this, “the lover, companion, inspiration – and eventually – wife of author James Joyce.” An episode from her real life would inspire the epiphanic moment from “The Dead” and the date of their first romantic liaison with Joyce – June 16, 1904 – would be forever immortalized as Bloomsday.

I’ve talked about the novel before here on Counterforce, but mostly focused on my favorite section of the book, the last one, which is the infamous Molly Bloom soliloquy.

I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will yes.

from here.

The day is much more of a big deal in Dublin itself, where it is all out celebration (and I think we all know that the Irish hardly need a reason to celebrate, so when they actually have one… boy, watch out!) and a wide range of cultural activities, including readings and dramatizations. And, of course, pub crawls and and crazy fun merriment.

Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes actually got married on June 16, 1956 in special honor of Bloomsday.

Richard Linklater seems to have a special affinity for the day himself. a character in Slacker throws his copy of Ulysses into the river at one point and Before Sunrise is actually set on the date.

from here.

You can follow Bloomsday on twitter, of all places. Or, if you have just a little bit more patience, you can always enjoy Slowblogging Ulysses, a site devoted to sharing one word from the novel with you a day. It’s an ambitious little art project, and one that should take you well into the year 2741 if you’re planning on sticking around for a while. But you could always just go read it now if you so chose.

Thanks to Oh Grow Up and Elvira on tumblr for some of those heads ups.

Anyway, that’s enough out of me for a bit. I’m going to go find my copy of the book and do a little catching up over a Guinness or two. If you get the chance, feel free to join me.

from here.

I’m in Austin again, and am sorting through things, including finding a job and unpacking (still). This blog’ll probably slow down, for a while at least.

It’s Bloomsday though! I’m trying Ulysses again this year… it didn’t go well last summer, but I’ve prepped a little more this time around. I’m fresh off of reading Dubliners (perfectly timed for my plane rides, oddly), and since I made the expedition through the first 150 pages of Ulysses itself last summer, I feel like I can get further this time around.

The Austin library system is all checked out of Ulysses, so I bought a used copy.

Gisele Freund, Three generations of Joyces. James Joyce, seated, Giorgio standing, and Stephen playing with Schiap the dog Schiaparelli gave him, while Helen Joyce (Giorgio’s wife) looks on. Taken in the garden of Giorgio’s house in Paris, 1938

Gisele Freund, [James Joyce in Sylvia Beach's book shop], 1938

Gisele Freund, [James Joyce in Sylvia Beach's book shop], 1938

Today is Bloomsday.
The day when most of Ulysses takes place.
The day in 1904 when James Joyce first went for a walk with Nora Barnacle…

James Joyce can be heard here (with a text by Sylvia Beach)…

Here’s one of our favorite photography-related passages in the book, it’s Buck Mulligan and Stephen Dedalus speaking by the sea…
“… Still there? I got a card from Bannon. Says he found a sweet young thing down there. Photo girl he calls her.
Snapshot, eh? Brief exposure…”