In My Room

Upon my bed, in between, on top, or beside my pillows is a stuffed moose I received from my grandmother sometime Christmas ago. His names come and go, but I've never given him one. I guess he's nameless, though wouldn't that be a title? Nameless occasionally resides atop a blanket of Rastafarian ripplings; a gift made by a best friends mother for becoming a presbyter of a church I'd long since left. But because I was a troubled youth, because the mother was my mother's best friend, and since the youth pastor saw me as a "gift" not to be spoiled, I received a blanket that unbeknownst to all of them celebrated a completely different religious view. Beneath Irony we find the Feathertop comforter I "stole", not stole, from my parents home two Christmases’ past. On either side of the queen size bed (Neighbour, graduated) stand two wood dressers which I have had (family has had) since I can remember. Atop both dressers are reading lamps. And, as we know, the only thing worse than a dim person is a dim reading light, thus the hundred-watt florescent bulbs (little known fact; only industrial florescent light bulbs contain the poisonous chemical, mercury. Eat it Mom).

Atop the left dresser are two pictures. The picture leaning onto the frame is a senior portrait (wallet size) of a Hispanic gentlemen with his shirt unbuttoned, hands akimbo, looking up into the sky (spoiler: he thought it would be funny to take a few of these pictures as a joke and distribute to his close friends. His close friends thought it would be funny to show everyone). I'm not gay, but anyone who usually has a half-naked man on his dresser is, and whereas I'd love to give you a reason, alas, it's a tedious tale not fit for class. The other picture, the one inside the frame, is that of the blanket friend and I amongst the rest of the youth group in a van coming back from our mission trip to Pine Ridge Reservation.

Next is a speaker, and if we following the wiring, it tucks beneath the edges of a tin sign that reads "Dr. Migillicuddy's Cherry Schnapps. Not Meant to be Nursed." This is a present from yet another friend back home, who tried with the help of 6 similar aged gentlemen, to successfully start a restaurant in the tourist city, Keystone, only to quit his job midway through the Sturgis Rally due to the fact that management was selling cocaine out the backend of the restaurant; a mere thirty feet from his residence (a remodeled shack). The Sign above the other dresser, as well as the drink matt on said dresser, are gifts also from him (both signs saying Heifeweizen).

Following the cord we find it going over a giant window, facing north, which always seems to let the rising sun through the cracks of the inept blind. On the ledge that juts out from the double paned (though I highly doubt the double) sliding window, Is a bottle of brandy dessert wine. I do not know the name, nor shall I ever really remember it. I hate brandy. I love wine. Together they are supposedly to be served chilled (according to the drinking instructions located upon the bottle). It is a gift from my father on my twenty-first birthday.

My first drink.

From him.

It sits, warming in the sun, serving as a reflection of what has been and what may come.

Next on the railing is a decorative box with the swirls of green, red, black, and the color yellow (though yellow may only exist in my memory of it). It holds in its enclosure the power of the gods. Fire. Lighters from here and there, Zippos from motorcycle rallies, but mostly matchbooks. Books from the Paris Hotel. Books from Common Cents, (Exxon to you) the gas station owned by a roommate’s father. The very same roommate whom I used to serve drinks to by the cool pool when he was parched. Arrowhead Country Club. The Green lettering underlined, the smooth texture of the pale yellow coloring of the box. All the memories flood back at the flip of a match, yet they do not extinguish along with the smoke of the dulled head.

Leaving the ledge we find ourselves once again following the speaker wire. This time it dips underneath a fabric poster of a crestfallen old man holding a lantern. Four Symbols lie upon the bottom of the poster. Zoso. The speaker eventually makes the turn of the wall and plugs into a receiver which faces west towards my bed. It along with the stand that supports it, the speakers in every corner of my room, as well as the giant television next to it are from a man once called Richard. Richard was the son of my step grandfather. Richard passed away in his sleep during the holidays. I knew Richard very little. He arrived just as I was departing that part of my life, as well as the fact he suffered a traumatic brain injury early in life that pressed me to stay away. You may find this mean, immature, or even possibly downright evil, especially since the man’s entertainment system now sits in my room. But you do not know as I know, so I will let it pass. I’ve never seen my grandfather cry before, and seeing the man breaking down at every moment possible was heart wrenching. For a parent to see the day his child passes is beyond comparison. The funeral comes back in waves. The tiny room we used for his service, the same in which I saw his father and my grandmother married. The late, drugged up cousin, holding up the service. The Aunt that has never been married, the eyes that know more than should ever hope to be known. My mother orchestrating the event, head turned upwards. Always helping, always here, always for anyone but herself. My brother’s slurred speech that goes on, and on, recognition of love for a part of himself that he has just seen die. He has not the words to say what he means so he turns the speech awkward for a few laughs. For a little recognition. I know every word you cannot speak. I dream it every night I do not dream. And I live without it every day I’ve gone on living.

Two necklaces hang from the doorknob that opens to a room of insulation. Insulation that Lindsey once tracked all across the house in a fit when being told not to bite others. She had hid, and when realizing no one would come find her, she forgot the whole fiasco and went on enjoying herself. But not without leaving a trail. The clues. The understanding. The ridiculousness of it all. Now whenever the door is opened, little specs of fiberglass float into the air as giant clumps of insulation fall onto the green carpet.

That door, when open, collides with the main door. Next to the door, underneath the light switch, is a refrigerator covered in stickers. The fridge has been mine since I used to hide beer in it as a High school student. It tucked neatly under the clothes rack. Then we find ourselves faced with a double door closet which I will not even try to tackle. To many memories are tucked into that cabinet. Too many. And thus we come full circle. This is what I see when I look in my room. I do not see objects, nor uses, but stories. Cleaning my room is a trip down the past while preparing for the future during the present.

My Roommate IFF

The Door Opens. Closes. The slightly masked stamping of shoes upon the rug covering our wood floors. I've always wondered if he knows what the welcome mat upon the other side of the door is for? Or if it is even apparent? Little puddles leave him to gather upon the floor in the hall as he makes his way past the coat closet and into the living room where I'm reading about The Republic.

Woaw! He shouts, laying claim to what he believes is his time. He shudders his red coat off one shoulder. It slides down his other arm onto where he puts his coats. Stomps his shoes again. Stooping his torso, and raising back up with a rinse of his hands across his face, through his hair, leaving him wide-eyed, hair-raised and ready to squander a tale.

man, like what an awesome ride, he says. He sits down on the sofa between his clothing. Like, well it's the first day of riding you know, and when I arrive- and before I arrive!-I sat in the car and just got dusted, he says, trailing off onto laughter as he cleanses himself again. I mean, like absolutely Shoooboing! Whoowzers! I am like off this planet. Completely ripped! So I'm in the car, and I am so blitz'd. And I told you, you know, how it's the first day of riding, you know, like I'm in the advanced course, And I am so baked! Pause for a quick scrub. Anyways, Just dusted, he says while quieting the crowd with his solemn hand. Like I'm done for-

Door opens. Dammit. Kick-off of shoes. Here we go again.

Dude! man! I just had like the best time of my life, he starts again, only he's standing because our other roommate is up, and I know, and I'm damn sure you know, he's up too. IFF only he knew.

Thank You Sexson, It is now a curse listening to my roommate tell stories.

Just so you know, I'm not kidding.

Finnegan Links

An Annotated Version of Finnegans Wake

http://finwake.com/ (is this cheating?)


Here's a site about reading Finnegan. Rather Interesting.

http://archive.salon.com/books/feature/2001/03/16/finnegan/index.html

Here's the wikilinks to Giardano Bruno, As well as Giambattista Vico.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giordano_Bruno

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giambattista_Vico

Both of these Philosophers theories serve as the framework for Finnegans Wake.

Nooteboom's The Following Story

Days! Now that I say the word out loud I can hear how insubstantial it sounds. If you were to ask me what is the worst predicament of all, I would say the dearth of measure. We are totally dependent on it." -p.66 The Following Story

To Begin;

I am disgusted with Mussert, and indebted to Nooteboom. While very angry with both. Nooteboom has found the power in "I" to awaken demons you've always wished to lie asleep. And who better than a "dead" man? When else must mankind relinquish all that it holds within but in death? How do You Rise Again when you are still fixated upon the fall!


Quid non imminuit dies? What is not destroyed by time? "Why do you translate 'dies' as 'time'?" Lisa d'India had asked. -P.68 The Following Story.

Why would dies not mean time? What Other Word Would Fit!

Lisa: "It is obvious that we can no more explain a passion to a person who has never experienced it than we can explain light to the blind." -T.S. Eliot.

And I hope you do see it! Though painfilled the path towards the realization that Nooteboom brings across here. Painfilled indeed. And it is so much more for us. Those who think.

"Anxiety is the Handmaiden of Creativity." -T.S. Eliot

And Mussert certainly is anxious;

"I have never had an exaggerated interest in my own person, but unfortunately that did not imply I could stop thinking about myself at will, from one moment to the next. And that morning I certainly had something to think about."-P.3 The Following Story (Aside: Page does Finnegan "begin" on?)

And what is Anxiety put the inability to deal with the past and future? The weighing down of thoughts, that either have effected the present that could never be changed! or the pull of the future choices that Hamlet's own indecision dragged him to his very death!

And when we quit focusing on the past, the future, when only the present exists then what we were and will be surely does die. And we enter a new mentality. A new Paradox free of old tethers.

This is, I believe, it: not the crude anguish of physical death but the incomparable pangs of the mysterious mental maneuver needed to pass from one state of being to another. Easy, you know, does it, son. -V. Sirin, Transparent Things.

-If it is not forgetting, than it is letting go.

In Two, we join Socrates aboard the ship with A boy, two old men, two men of his age, and a "women standing somewhat aloof like a figurehead."(-63 TFS.) Everyone aboard the ship (yes, even you), floating down the Lethe, is here to help Socrates crossover (but to where is the catch). To let go. I had an inkling with the Child, Icarus(!), the knowing eyes- it certainly was him. So Childish in his assumption of humanity not being animals that he'd completely given up on growing; but the mind shines through. And the Woman, It was surely Lisa d'India, I not only wanted it with all my might, but the way in which she is described upon the Lethe fits perfectly with how he lived his life around her. And the Father Fermi to whom Socrates has the only ability to communicate (he's always talking to himself, Latin poses a change in translation that makes it impossible for another language to understand......?). As for the Airline Pilot and the Journalist I did not fully understand!

Until i stumbled across this passage:

"Every evening, if that was the right word, one of us would tell his story, and I would know them and not know them, and each of those stories would be the end of another, longer story. The only thing was, the others seemed to know so much better than I what story to tell. Yes, I know now, but I didn't know then. The teller of a story without end is a poor storyteller, as you well knew. No one was afraid, as far as I could see. We were past that stage."- 106, TFS


After This I decided to turn back a few pages and found what everyone should certainly read again. Starting with the signal from the woman to the boy (102) all the way to where the author says these words:

"So in fact, while we saw no one but her, the narrator saw someone who inspired him to find the words to express the inner reality of his story."-104, TFS.


And then I Continued reading on page 107 where I came across what certainly was a giant clue to what was going on:

"When it would be my turn I did not know; for the time being I was content to listen to the others and watch, to read the anecdotes of their lives as if they had been invented especially for me."-107 TFS.


And this is where everything hit home. Why he kept talking to me, to you. Why he was telling the following story. His death. His rebirth.


And then there is Peter Harris (catch up on him and Dolce Domum on p.98), A.K.A Arend Herfst, whom finds the logic in his own death by a jealous knife (107-8, ). ( Explicit 20oo KM Lifetime reference on 107)

And then there is Captain Dekobra (13 Minute Lifetime, 108), whom is on a journey, (a spiritual cleansing) and all he can think about is:

"two banal containers lying in their separate freezers somewhere down below."-108, TFS

he than continues to tell us about all that matters in his life as he plummets, following with:

"the two women in his life for whom he always prepared a special meal before his departure, which he left in their freezers so that they would eat them when he was on the other side of the world; it was ridiculous and childish maybe, but it had always been a source of surreptitious pleasure."-109, TFS

Crito and Maria?

And then there is Deng . And though I won't look into it at this time, Deng has to be the Oriental equivalent of Socrates. And so much should be said about this! Socrates! Musserts death of his literate self! Socrates trying to banish all the poets! Musserts love for Latin that is squandered by translation! I will simply say what has already been requoted:

"I experience calumny in the morning and expulsion the very same night." -113, TFS

And then Socrates is left with me and Lisa d'India. Telling The Following Story to us, To Lisa d'India who loves him only in time (p.91 IFF!, Voice p.97). And she and I see the death of the man lying in bed in Amsterdam, because really, he's only a story. And it is only to us that he can tell the story, because only "we" can understand (One) the end of his "20 Minute Liftetime".

There I lay, very still, water dripping from my face, and through those tears I saw myself lying in bed in Amsterdam. I slept, tossing and turning my head, and crying, still clutching the photograph from the evening newspaper in my left hand. I looked at the little Japanese alarm clock I always keep next to my bed. What sort of time can this be in which time stands still? It wasn't any later than it had been when I went to sleep. The dark shape at my feet had to be Night Owl, successor to Bat. I could see that the man in Amsterdam wanted to wake up, he was thrashing about, his right hand groping for his glasses, but it was not he who switched on the light; it was me. here in Lisbon.- 60, TFS


And while I'm so angry with this "man" who runs away from a fight, who does not believe in our animal side, this man who cannot even see what it is he lacks in sight! (Him who throws away the Letter). Yet, I love him for what he's done. For the power he has given his new life, the "I" that awakens in Lisbon.

To Give up everything and begin again is no small task.


Begin? That was not the right word, and it is important now to choose the right words; you know that better than I do. He did not begin; he ended.-p.102 TFS.

Finnegans Wake page 485

A renowned novelist in his youth, after getting smashed with his friends, would return home, open a famous novel, while sitting at his typewriter, and copy word for word the entire book. He did this to feel the epiphany that comes with writing something brilliant. And while Hunter S. Thompson may not be the greatest role model, he was an excellent thief.

Aside: Look Into Thompson's Funferal, it is as ridiculous as Tim's.

So I've decided to do as he has done (if only a bit shorter) and copy out word for word page 485 of Finnegans Wake.

'Sagart can self laud nilobstant to Lowman Catlick's patrician morning coat of arms with my High tripenniferry cresta and caudal mottams: Itch dean: which gaspey, Otto and Sauer, he renders: echo stay so! Addressing eat or not eat body Yours am. And, Mind praisegad, is the first praisonal Egoname yod heard boissboissy in Moy Bog's domesday. Hastan the vista! Or in alleman: Suck at!

--Suck if yourself, sugarstick! Misha, Yid think whose was asking to luckat your sore toe or to taste your gaspy, hot and sour! Ichthyan! Hegvat tosser! Gags be plebsed! Between his voyous and her consinnantes! Thugg, Dirke and Hacker with Rose Lankester and Blanche Yorke! Are we speachin d'anglas landage or are you sprakin sea Djoytsch? Oy soy, Bleseyblasey, where to go is knowing remain? Come back, baddy wrily, to Bullydamestough! Cum him, buddy rowly, with me! What about your thruppenny croucher of an old fellow, me boy, through the ages, tell us, eh? What about Brian's the Vauntandonlieme, Master Monk, eh, eh, Spira in Me Domino, spear me Doyne! Fat prize the bonafide peachumpidgeonlover, eh, eh, eh, esquire earwugs, escusado, of Jenkins' Area, with his I've Ivy under his tangue and the hohallo to his dullaphone, before there was a sound in the world? How big was his boost friend and be shanghied to him? The swaaber! The twicer, trifoaled in Wanstable! Loud's curse to him! If you hored him outerly as we harum lubberintly, from norning rice till nightmale, with his drums and bones and hums in drones your innereer'd heerdly heer he. Ho ha hi he hung! Tsing tsing!

-- Me no angly mo, me speakee Yellman's lingas. Nicey Doc Mistel Lu, please! Me no pigey ludiments all same numpa one topside Tellmastoly fella. Me pigey savvy a singasong anothel time. Pleasie, Mista Luke Walkie! Josadam cowbelly maam belongame shepullamealahmalong, begolla, Jackinaboss belongashe: plentymuch boohoomeo.

--Hell's Confucium and the Elements! Tootoo moohootch! Thot's never the postal cleric, checking chinchin chat with niponnippers! Halt there sob story to your lambdad's tale! Are you roman cawtrick 432?'-Finnegans Wake, 485.

Recitation Lines

"Finn, again! Take. Bussoftlhee, mememormee! Till thousandsthee. Lps. The keys to. Given! A Way a lone a last a loved a long the riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs."- Finnegans Wake 628/3.

Normally a person would describe where my connected choices came from. Yet a common reader knows better that to make such drastic statements with such a book.

To Douglas on Finnegan Pages 4, & 485

First And Foremost:

I've Chosen Page 485 from Finnegans Wake. Apologies Shaman on taking your time.

Douglas,

-Suck It Yourself, sugarstick! it's Mine!

Thank you ever so much on not choosing this page/passage. I've selfishly been hoping that you wouldn't see the fun in this section, or had possibly not even recalled what page it was upon, and though I'm tremendously sorry for your wife (yet happy for your child), you do not know how delighted I am in the fact that you found another page to work with! And A Brilliant Page it Is!

In fact, it was an alternative page.

Even more beguiling is that I fell in love (though not in today's commercial induced sense) with the very same line that you have, and for much the same reason, the only difference being I understood far more from the next line, which you have left out.

"Fall if you will, rise you must: and none so soon either shall the farce for the dunce come to a set down secular finish."

And what would the coincidence be that I'd decided upon these lines for my memorization?

But I've changed them now, or at least my recitation lines (I do believe I'll spend such time upon your blogs that I won't be able to forget the lines).

Congratulations on a brilliant pick, good studies, and the best of luck!

Haroun Childerric Eggeberth

WE ALL FAIL!

Has Anyone Read The Introduction by John Bishop To Finnegan?

Go To Page XVII.

Read About Finnegan.

Read About Haroun.

Understand why Shaman Sexson picked Rushdie's Children's Novel without a second thought.

Also,

Read the opening remarks by reviews, novelists, and someone special, at the beginning of Haroun and the Sea of Stories.

-But I did arrive late and miss the first day of class (my apologies) so perhaps he's already given it all away. If so, it's been lonesome in the dark. If not, We've found a pale light.

Also Again,

On the back cover of Finnegans Wake, at the bottom, is a comment by Sammuel Beckett that reflects the way he himself rights, while having a perfect perception of Joyce's style as well. Yin and Yang. Plerosis and Kenosis.

Really,

We all Know,

Style Is Everything.

The Return of in Rapture

Hello! Welcome!

(a few definitions of rapture)

Rapture: ecstatic joy or delight; ecstasy (It's better than E)

Not to be confused with

The Rapture: (straight from dictionary.com) the experience, expected by some fundamentalist Christians, of meeting Christ midway in the air upon his return to Earth. (lets not get into this)

Aside: Before beginning, Nabokovians, do you remember the title of my last Nabokov post?

"It is a process known as Rapture. And with sufficient skill, a person may choose to wake up in the place to which the dream takes him; to wake up, that is to say, inside the dream."

-Haroun And The Sea Of Stories, P.99.
I've clearly clicked my boots.

This sentence is too powerful for me. Everything that is contained in this very small phrase, very majusculae process fits into every category.

I am so confused by it in fact that every time I begin to write I dissect, delete, dissect, delete.

It's much too powerful for me. Too many Ideas. Too many Ideas.

I certainly can see why Shaman has picked Haroun as a frame, and why he prefers us to read it before we delve into our themes....Though it is a slow and tedious pace that my mind hates.

I'd like my cake now, thank you.

Yet, here it is, the process that I find carries so much in it. Everything in this class. Except Dolce Domum (though every time I start, I do end up back where I began. Blank. Blah. unable to Gab).

Perhaps this is a sentence that has only relative power.

But I think not.

I certainly will be returning to it, later, when I've discovered the netting.

I encourage you to delve into it too.

Tossing Around The Finnegan

Kushman. What are you taking this semester. He asks. I Swivel my shoulders in the chair so as to face Joe who is sitting at one of the dinning tables, pouring over Calculus II. Will you toss me Finnegans Wake, Joe, I say. Which one's that, Joe says. The thickest one, I say. Joe picks it up, rolls his wrist, looks at the perfect pages, Oh the crackless spines! I don't think you want me throwing you such a nice book James, he says. Joe rises. Walks around the table, to my chair, hands me Finnegan which I immediately toss to Adam across the living room.

Open to any page and try to read this, I tell him.

Adam does this. He opens to John Bishop's introduction. Page vii. He reads aloud. Too well. No, I tell him. Any page, not the first page, I say vehemently. Adam's fingers flip to page 286. His voice sounded nothing like this:

So, bagdad, after those initials falls and that primary taincture, as I know and you konw yourself, beath, and the arab in the ghetto knows better, by nettus, nor anymeade or persan, comic cuts and series exerxeses always were to be capered in Casey's frost book of, page torn on dirty, to be hacked at Hickey's no fuck you. you come here right now. I'm not illiterate, He says to the laughter of everyone in the room. Only it sounds like NO Fuck You! You come here right now! I'm not ILLITERATE! hands waving laughee's to approach.

Let me see it, says Page. Page opens to page 313.

Sets on sayfohrt! Go to it, agitator! they bassabosuned over the flowre of their hoose. Godeown moseys and skeep thy beeble bee. I'm done, Page says.

Landon walks into the entrance to the living room, body limp, hands hanging from the pull up bar in the doorway. Try and read this, Page says. Oh I Know, I heard from my room, Landon says, you sound like a bunch of idiots. Page tosses Finnegan, pages flutter, the pull up bar now vacant, landing in Landon's hands. He is the only one to open the book and not read aloud a single word. Landon is a genius. He also is the gentlemen that fell off the rafters onto his face during a Cats game. Genius seems relative.

Door slams. Cold air gusts in. Colt storms in, badge still on his shirt. I hate that job already, He says, looking at no one, talking to everyone and himself. This'll cheer you up, someone says, read it out loud.

Man with nightcap, in bed, fore. Woman, with curlpins, hind. Discovered. Side point of view. First position of harmony. say! Eh? Ha! Check Action. Matt. Male Partly masking female. Top notch stuff you literature majors due, he says, really good stuff. Waving the book. Really, good stuff, he says again, I'm going to go, but you keep up the good work. His head shaking up and down, eyes glinting, chin raised, completely lost. Fin.

The Three Laughs So Far. And A Note on Names

ONE

" And I was Marvelling, in that half-sleep, at my half sleeping, when my son came in, without knocking. Now if there is one thing I abhor, it is someone coming into my room, without knocking. I might just happen to be masturbating, before my cheval-glass."

TWO

"Out? I said. Where? Out! Vagueness I abhor. I was beginning to feel hungry. To the Elms he replied. So we call our little public park. And yet there is not an elm to be seen in it, I have been told. What for? I said. To go over my botany, he replied. There were times I suspected my son of deceit. This was one. I would almost have preferred him to say, For a walk, or, To look at the tarts. The trouble was he knew far more than I, about botany. Otherwise I could have set him a few teasers, on his return."

Couldn't stop laughing after I looked it up.

Aside: Moran is very upset about the fact that there is not any onion in his stew. From above you notice that Jacques (son) knows more about botany than his father (the one thing he does know). Moran questions Jacques about what he's been looking at?

"The liliaceae, papa, he answered. The liliaceae papa! My son had a way of saying papa, when he wanted to hurt me, that was very special.

Now, looking into lililaceae we find a Double Entendre as well as the first hint that Moran is not quite as elite as he believes. lililaceae is a lily, as well as a family of endogens to which the onion belongs.

Moran knows the tell of his son (We understand this a little later with the stamp collection), yet he doesn't know what his son is saying. For Jacques, being held in a constant state of being possessed, it is one of his only outlets.

THREE

"I went down to the kitchen. I did not expect to find Martha there, but I found her there. She was sitting in her rocking-chair, she would have you believe, was the only possession to which she clung and she would not have parted with it for an empire. It is interesting to note that she had installed it not in her room, but in the kitchen, in the chimney-corner. Late to bed and early to rise, it was in the kitchen that she benefited by it most, {the wage-payers are numerous, and I was one of them, who do not like to see, in the place set aside for toil, the furniture of reclining and repose. The servant wishes to rest? Let her retire to her room.}"

And A Note On Names

"My name is Moran, Jacques. That is the name I am known by. I am done for. My son too. All unsuspecting. He must think he's on the threshold of life, of real life. He's right there. His name is Jacques, like mine. This cannot lead to confusion." -and it does not. Father is constantly referred to as Moran, and son as Jacques.

Moran- Moron.....or is he? He is at once both extremely vain.....yet not.......

Gaber- The Gabber. Whom Moran is extremely jealous of because of his monetary status in comparison. He shows no kindness to this man in exchange.

Jacques- The Complete copy of his father, or possession?

Youdi- The Chief

"A simple prophetic present, on the model of those employed by Youdi. Your son goes with you."

Di- Double, Two

You- go to the dictionary.

It's All In The EyeBrows

TO BEGIN!

It's nice to be back! To be amongst like minds! This will be a fun study eh?

To Creased Brows, I apologize ahead of time, and this will be the last time I do it, for everything I say that insults you, hurts your feelings, or generally turns you off.

I meant what I said.

If we're going to be Elitists we're going to break some feelings. Not that we need to. Or even that it will happen. My point is merely that this class is going to be ripping apart a certain type of reader, and if that's you, get out or deal with it.

Now For The RACES!

It seems there will be two races going on in the class;

The first of which (the game you'll play with yourself) is to see which spine will deteriorate quicker. Will it be Finnegan's Wake? Or The Four Quartet's? Which will be the first to loose a page?

The Second game, and by far the more intriguing, is the race to see who can finish Finnegan's Wake. And who can finish Finnegan's Wake? And who can achieve the White Elephant with Shaman Sexson's Satisfaction? For those of you who've seen his copy of Ulysses, I'm sure you're behind me in saying that theirs not enough ink in a single pen to complete the scribbles scrolling down the columns of that epic. Who will win? Who Will be First!?


Now On To My Thoughts On The Eyebrows of Highbrows, and Lowbrows reading:

I had this thought while reading Rushdie's Haroun and the Sea of Stories (a novel).

Why do we call it Highbrow?

When a Highbrow (an Elitist) reads the Alchemist his brow is low, sulking almost, searching through the text for the faintest texture, and, being unable to find it, we see the Elitists eyebrow creased downwards. Whereas, if a Lowbrow (peon, the unwashed masses, etc.) reads The Alchemist his brow is raised, lavishing in the ideas he has just found! Ideas, which sadly enough, they will never fully investigate. Ideas they will probably never delve into.

And Vice Versa

When a peon reads Molloy their brow's form a V. It's an Abomination! Pointless Drivvle (yes Drivvle!). It has nothing in it! It's some moron gabbing with another man. That's all that's happened! Where's The Entertainment!


It's in the Understanding.

".....Mr. Beckett seeks to empty the novel of its usual recognizable objects- plot, situation, characters-and yet keep the reader interested and moved......"
-The New York Time Book Review

And this next part might scare you.

"Beckett is one of the most positive writers alive. Behind all his mournful blasphemies against man there is real love. And he is genuine: every sentence is written as if it had been lived."

And I feel it. You Should Too. This is the time to become neurotic about your work. Your Studies.

My Expectations for this Class:

Be Full of Yourself.

Befoolovurself

BE A FOOL! Attempt to be wrong to be fool of yourself!

Really I think the only persons to find us foolish are those who are truly foolish. Those who would call us full of ourselves because they do not understand, nor want to.

As for my feelings, if you'd like to hurt them, are rather strong that there is going to be a lot of jealousy spilling about the class. Great Jealousy! Everyone NEEDS to become possessive to the point where they wish they'd found THIS or THAT. I hope this happens. This is where an elitist lives. And I'd also like everyone to share their comments on each others posts. I invite everyone to share everything they discover. BLOG CONSTANTLY. Give credit where it is due, and above all do not watch what you say.

And my parting remark, my question is;

"What do your eyebrows do during the readings?"

(And for Jennie Lynn) look up the definition of discover.