Ottacaro Weiss     James Joyce Playing Guitar, Trieste      1915 Happy Bloom’s Day, June 16, 2012!      Quitting all languor Lionel cried in grief, in cry of passion dominant to love to return with deepening yet with rising chords of harmony.  In cry of lionel loneliness that she should know, must martha feel.  For only her he waited.  Where?  Here there try there here all try where.  Somewhere.                        —Co-ome, thou lost one!                          Co-ome, thou dear one!      Alone.  One love.  One hope.  One comfort me.  Martha, chesnote, return!          —Come!      It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, don’t spin it out too long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the ethereal bosom, high, of the vast irradiation everywhere all soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness…        —To me!         Siopold         Consumed. —James Joyce, “Ulysses,”  1922

Ottacaro Weiss     James Joyce Playing Guitar, Trieste      1915

Happy Bloom’s Day, June 16, 2012!

     Quitting all languor Lionel cried in grief, in cry of passion dominant to love to return with deepening yet with rising chords of harmony.  In cry of lionel loneliness that she should know, must martha feel.  For only her he waited.  Where?  Here there try there here all try where.  Somewhere.

                       —Co-ome, thou lost one!

                         Co-ome, thou dear one!

     Alone.  One love.  One hope.  One comfort me.  Martha, chesnote, return!

         —Come!

     It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, don’t spin it out too long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the ethereal bosom, high, of the vast irradiation everywhere all soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness…

       —To me!

        Siopold

        Consumed.

—James Joyce, “Ulysses,”  1922

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