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June 12, 2014

Bloomsday draws near, like the great army of an alien race just over the horizon, only the pale smoke from their fires yet visible, fires of an unearthly hue that we imagine or remember as being unimaginable or unrememorable, and of a heat we know full well to be unknowable. Our Bloomsday, our Boomsday, our Doomsday, our Gloomsday, our Soonsday. Yes our Moonsday, this year a Moonsday. Adam’s curse returns after God’s rest, and Brenda Ann Spencer kills again.  So the rats of Bloomtown feast, and the children of Africa starve, behind pink walls that hold no secrets and no madcap prisoners, just rolls of cash and lightly drifting piles of cocaine. There were no Roses for these Blooms to come off of, only Wal-Marts and K-Marts and Kwik-Marts and Hay-Marts, leaning rickety one against the other on the cobbled streets of old Doubloon, in the Land of Ire, the long lost Atlantis of Play-Dough, squeezed from the garlic press of God, like the heavy hairs of a fallen angel, leaden, damp, dire and drunk. It was later revealed that James had no son, and Guinness lost all records in a fire, with the mills of Bush burned in the same. Not here the golden apples of the sun, or the silver apples of the moon, just the homely pale soil-smirched apples of the earth. Enough to keep a man alive. Live long enough to sing. Long enough to leave. Zurich is stained with the revolutions that happened elsewhere, James and Vladimir and Tristan idling in every coffeehouse, peeping Tom looking on, scribbling always scribbling every one of them, this decline and fall will need no further notation, annotation, or footnotation; the rivers ran black with the ink of the dying. Words slid off their meanings, and became quite beautiful for a moment, until they were just another spill on a floor, waiting for the mop. This is how he did it, but again and again and again, as the world grew dim around him, hammering away at all he remembered, all he felt and all he finely thought, hammering in the dark hot smithy of his soul. And how does this conscience feel that he wrought? How regally will we wear it, weighted under these crowning words, these final books, when language met its Boomsday?

But dawn will break again on Bloomsday. This year, and then the next, and again and again,– not forever after, but long enough. Long enough to live. Long enough to leave living. And then, gone under, to rest long in the gentle dark company of the earth and all its apples, pocketable and unpocketable alike.

From → Bloomsday

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