#Odyssean task

[trashland-llamas]

Blood Lust

meant to be a John Price x GN! Vampire! Reader blurb w/o using any form of reader or y/n. Genuinely there was no idea behind this, just that it had to be some sort of vampire au

‘But you wouldn't be alone.' It's the constant whisper that Price hears from the vampire. 'I'm so hungry, please let me drink.' Price's blood would be a vintage wine compared to the men they drank on the battlefield. Alas beggars can't be choosers or is that how the saying goes? It's been so long since they've heard their native tongue. Yet that doesn't stop their ramblings from reaching Price's ear. The rest of his men unable to comprehend how he hasn't gone mad. The silver chains burn on their skin, their own Odyssean imprisonment when the blood lust became uncontrollable.

'You might have a family but it'll be stolen from you. Like they did mine. I never asked for this, none of it! A little blood is all I yearn for.' They knew Price wouldn't be easy to wear down, the captain of task force 141. Wrongfully assuming that he'd sympathize, keenly observing the smell of cigars on his jacket.

For a treacherous leech that they had to keep under lock and key, that's all they were to the unit. How they wished for a wooden stake at this realization.

[ojamesy]

Full length PDFs of Joycean criticism

1) Morris Beja and Shari Benstock: Coping with Joyce

2) Vincent Cheng: Inauthentic: The Anxiety Over Culture

3) Patrick Hogan: James Joyce, Ulysses and the Poetics of Cognition

Reviewed by Tom De Keyser: 

Patrick Colm Hogan is an ambitious writer. Early in Ulysses and the Poetics of Cognition, he promises to explore “the key components of cognition and poetics” in one of the most complex novels of the twentieth century, James Joyce’s Ulysses (Hogan 2014: 5).  In six chapters, this book argues that simulation is a constitutive element of cognitive research, and that it is a central means by which authors create stories. The framework of narratology is used to constitute the argument on the basis of the distinction between what is told in a narrative (“story”) and how it is told (“discourse”). Hogan illustrates different aspects of simulation with multiple literary examples taken from various genres. On the story level, the works of Shakespeare and Racine are examined in order to make a connection between character simulation and authors’ cognitive operations. Next to simulating characters, authors use metaphors and models (the way The Odyssey is a model to Ulysses) to guide simulation, which is demonstrated in relation to writings of Brecht and Kafka. On the level of discourse, an author’s creation of plot is clarified by an analysis of Shakespeare’s Hamlet and narration itself is taken up in the surprising Afterword, which simulates a conversation between Hogan and Calvino... According to Hogan, simulation is the central process by which Joyce developed his novel. ...Of course, Hogan admits that things are far more complex, but he contends that authorial simulation in tandem with a simulated readership is crucial to the creation of a convincing story world, a world that only exists in minds. However, simulation still has a close relation to its real-life counterpart. 

The second half of Ulysses and the Poetics of Cognition therefore presents an argument in favour of a connection between Joyce’s novel and reality. According to Hogan, simulation of the fictional events and actions on 16 June 1904 constitutes Joyce’s way to provide the reader with a convincing representation of reality.  He aims to reexamine the notion of realism in relation to Ulysses. Hogan notes that his argument goes against the interpretation offered by an important commentator in narratology and reader response theory: Wolfgang Iser. In 1989, Iser wrote an influential essay called “Ulysses and the reader”. He argued that Ulysses establishes a radical break with nineteenth-century fiction, as it resists a traditional interpretation, namely that art should represent reality. Ulysses simply “puts an end to representation” and, as a consequence, to “expectations” of tradition (Iser 1989: 133). Every expectation proposed in the novel is later on inexorably shattered, leaving the reader in a wasteland of unfulfilled expectations. Iser thus presents an interpretation of Ulysses that considers it as radically “making it new” and embodying the spirit of the age, namely attempting to bring order to chaos, but failing in the attempt... While Iser writes that Ulysses does away with this notion, Hogan contradicts him with his interpretation of simulation. According to Hogan, Ulysses provides the reader with a particular representation of reality, though it does not intend to mirror or transcribe reality. Above all, Joyce’s novel does  not give a truthful image of reality, but instead wishes to cultivate the reader’s “understanding” of it (Hogan 2014: 116). This is what Hogan calls “communicative realism” (2014: 116). Furthermore, Ulysses establishes a critique on norms imposed by society and thereby opposes specific, misleading ideas about reality...the book refuses to accept traditional – what Hogan calls “external” – expectations, motivations, and norms. In order to provide a convincing interpretation of Joycean realism, Hogan takes this idea further. He correctly observes that Ulysses offers a critique not only of external norms, but also of newly-established, internal norms.

4) Ulysses with Declan Kiberd’s Introduction

Quotes from the intro: “The sincere nationalist asks writers to hold a miror up to Cathleen Ní Houlihan’s face; authentic liberationist wistfully observes that the cracked looking-glass, which is all he has been left by the coloniser, renders not a single but a multiple self.’ (p.lxxviii; also Inventing Ireland, 1995, p.298.) [Cont.]

“The difference between these two versions of Irish Renaissance might best be explained by invoking Lionel Trilling’s brilliant distinction between sincerity and authenticity. Sincerity, a congruence between avowal and feeling, can be achieved when there is no problem of form: in it based on the Romantic ideal of truth to the self and it presupposes a definite indentity [sic] which it becomes the task of a lifetime to be true to. Authenticity is a more excruciatingly modern demand, which begins with the admission that there is a problem of form, and that this makes a congruence between avowal and feeling difficult: it recognises that the issue is not truth to the self but the finding of the many selves that one might wish to be true to. It makes the liberating concession that a person, or a nation, has a plurality of identities, constantly remaking themselves as a result of perpetual renewals. Joyce’s constant struggles with the question of form […] places him squarely in this tradition.” (p.lxxvii.)

“[…] Ulysses is an endlessly open book of utopian epiphanies. It holds a mirror up to the colonial capital that was Dublin, 16 June 1904, but it also offers redemptive glimpses of a future world which might be made over in terms of those utopian moments.’ (p.lxxx; end)

Harry Levin: James Joyce: A Critical Introduction

Because Harry Levin’s view is large, as opposed to the many necessary exegeses and close textual studies, he leads the reader easily into the delights to be found in Joyce, from the comparatively simple prose of Dubliners, through Ulysses and into the complexities of Finnegans Wake. The insight and brilliance of this "critical introduction," first published by New Directions in 1941, make it as rewarding for the expert as the student. For this revised edition, Mr. Levin, who is Irving Babbitt Professor of Comparative Literature at Harvard, has made revisions and added a new preface and a long "postscript" which he calls "Revising Joyce." He examines the works that have come to light in the last few years and some of the important later biographical writings about Joyce.

5) John McCourt: James Joyce In Context

This collection of original, cohesive and concise essays charts the vital contextual backgrounds to Joyce's life and writing. The volume begins with a chronology of Joyce's publishing history, an analysis of his various biographies and a study of his many published and unpublished letters. It goes on to examine how his works were received in the main twentieth-century critical and theoretical schools. Most importantly, it places Joyce within multiple Irish, British and European contexts, providing a lively sense of the varied and changing world in which he lived, which formed him, and from which he wrote. The essays collectively show how Joyce was rooted in his times, how he is both a product and a critic of his multiple contexts, and how important he remains to the world of literature, criticism and culture.

6) Laurent Milesi: James Joyce and the Difference of Language 

Cambridge Press book release: 

James Joyce and the Difference of Language offers an alternative look at Joyce's writing by placing his language at the intersection of various critical perspectives: linguistics, philosophy, feminism, psychoanalysis, postcolonialism and intertextuality. Combining close textual analysis and theoretically informed readings, an international team of leading scholars explores how Joyce's experiments with language repeatedly challenge our ways of reading. Topics covered include reading Joyce through translations; the role of Dante's literary linguistics in Finnegans Wake; and the place of gender in Joyce's modernism. Two further essays illustrate aspects of Joyce's cultural politics in Ulysses and the ethics of desire in Finnegans Wake. Informed by debates in Joyce scholarship, literary studies and critical theory, and addressing the full range of his writing, this volume comprehensively examines the critical diversity of Joyce's linguistic practices. It is essential reading for all scholars of Joyce and modernism.

7) Daniel R. Schwarz: Reading Joyce’s Ulysses

Reissued to commemorate the 100th anniversary of Bloomsday, Reading Joyce's 'Ulysses' includes a new preface taking account of scholarly and critical development since its original publication. It shows how the now important issues of post-colonialism, feminism, Irish Studies and urban culture are addressed within the text, as well as a discussion of how the book can be used by both beginners and seasoned readers. Schwarz not only presents a powerful and original reading of Joyce's great epic novel, but discusses it in terms of a dialogue between recent and more traditional theory. Focusing on what he calls the odyssean reader, Schwarz demonstrates how the experience of reading Ulysses involves responding both to traditional plot and character, and to the novel's stylistic experiments.

Schwarz's sensible, conservative reading of Ulysses emphasizes that "Joyce always returns from his fascination with stylistic innovation to focus on his characters." Though his approach is traditional, Schwarz does justice throughout to the novel's radical ambiguity and to contemporary critical theory. Chapters on how Joyce's fiction "signifies," Joyce's concept of the hero, and the role of the reader are followed by a substantial episode-by-episode reader's guide. The Iliad , Wilde, Yeats, Dante, Milton, Tennyson, Swift, and Blake figure prominently, and Schwarz argues strikingly for the central importance of the "Scylla and Charybdis" chapter. Though not a radical departure from earlier readings, this is a thoughtful interpretation that serious students of Ulysses will welcome. Keith Cushman, English Dept., Univ. of North Carolina, Greensboro

8) Katie Wales: The Language of James Joyce

This book presents an analysis for students of the language and style of Joyce's major prose works in the light of current work in language studies, stylistics and literary theory. Each chapter addresses a particular aspect of the style of a prose work or text, rhetoric (Dubliners, and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man), speech and thought presentation and word-play (Ulysses) and sound-play (Finnegans Wake).

---Amazon blurb

[junker-town]

The mutually assured destruction of the Spurs and Kawhi Leonard

The San Antonio Spurs are in the playoffs. Kawhi Leonard is nowhere to be seen. The saga continues.

The San Antonio Spurs are unlike any other NBA franchise, but they are still an NBA franchise. And weird things happen to NBA franchises. When you have ultra-talented, prideful young adults worth tens of millions of dollars in high-stakes careers with lifestyles you can’t comprehend, the environment is susceptible to drama.

So it goes with the Kawhi Leonard saga.

This weekend provided more material for the future dramatic retelling of the chronicle. First, the Spurs were bludgeoned by the Warriors in Game 1 of their playoff series. Kawhi was not in attendance. There was no real explanation as to why, other than the fact that Leonard remains in New York rehabbing his hamstring injury — an injury sustained last offseason, just after the Spurs last played the Warriors in the playoffs.

Kawhi’s absence from the arena seemed to spark new lambasting of his decision-making. Fans had already begun questioning why Leonard wasn’t playing given that the Spurs have said they have cleared him to play. (Kawhi’s own medical team wants him to continue to rehab, apparently.) Even if Kawhi can’t play, couldn’t he sit behind the bench in a suit and cheer his teammates on, maybe even offer his younger, less experienced fellow Spurs some tips? Wouldn’t his mere presence be a tiny little boost in San Antonio’s Odyssean task, if for nothing more than morale? Wouldn’t it show a tiny bit of commitment to the organization beyond this episode? Couldn’t those rehab specialists, whoever they are, travel to Oakland to keep working on and with Kawhi during the series?

Alas.

The drama wheel turned again on Sunday when Spurs don Gregg Popovich was asked whether there was any chance Leonard would suit up during this series. Popovich, already exhibiting a lack of patience in conversation with the media, wasn’t terribly diplomatic.

Any chance Kawhi rejoins the team during the series, Pop? Pop: "You'll have to ask Kawhi and his group that question."

— Jeff McDonald (@JMcDonald_SAEN) April 15, 2018

Hours later, Yahoo!’s Shams Charania cited league sources who said Leonard is expected to miss the remainder of the series and, thus, postseason. Still no one is declaring it so on the record — not the Spurs, not Leonard. Charania reports that Kawhi’s rehab is being done “in collaboration and with the approval” of Spurs doctors, but it’s clear there’s some disagreement on when that rehab should have turned into maintenance for a player actually participating in NBA games.

I mean, it’s evident right there in the Spurs’ description of why Kawhi isn’t playing. In the box score, Leonard’s DNPs are being registered as “return from injury management.” What the hamstring does that euphemism even mean? Is it management of Kawhi’s return from injury? That suggests, like, an administrative or logistic problem. Does it imply that Kawhi is slowly making a return from injury management? That implies that the Spurs are disputing that Kawhi is currently injured: he’s simply in injury management, from which he is in the process of returning. Is Injury Management the name of Kawhi’s doctors’ practice, and are the Spurs awaiting Leonard’s return from that office?

Whatever it means, it’s a little passive-aggressive. The Spurs could stick DNP-Hamstring in there and skip the sniping. This is becoming a theme: San Antonio officials aren’t willing to flat-out say that Leonard should be playing, and that they are frustrated he won’t. But they clearly think that and are frustrated by Kawhi. So it leaks out in unflattering ways. You can’t keep complicated emotions like this plugged up without some leeching.

Leonard could also, you know, say something. He could explain himself to his coach, his teammates, and Spurs fans. Perhaps he’s talked candidly with Popovich and the players; there has been no reporting to that effect, though, and Leonard has been radio silent in public, which in fairness is not particularly odd for him.

It’s all such a mess of insular drama, something we never associate with the Spurs because of their run of success, their professional posture, their quiet excellence.

Here’s the thing: we’re inching closer to a point of no return. Leonard decided to remain in New York instead of joining the team in street clothes or a uniform. That pushed the fandom, Popovich, and quite possibly other Spurs further away from Kawhi. Now Leonard appears to be done. Some bond of trust is either broken or on the precipice of snapping.

With Kawhi one year from unrestricted free agency, and given the divide that has opened up between Leonard and the organization this year, there is a real possibility that the Spurs will decide to trade their franchise cornerstone this summer. If they don’t, San Antonio will spend all of next season fearing the worst and questioning Kawhi’s commitment on every play. Heavens help us if Leonard were to get dinged up again!

We have collectively and rightfully spent so much energy supposing where LeBron James and Paul George might end up this summer, if they leave their teams. We’ve analyzed those franchises’ struggles and where the lawns might be more lush. But perhaps the Kawhi saga was the real story to watch all along. This might end up being the most impactful drama of a season rife with them.

[sisterofshahrazad]

Shirley

To say that my most recent work has caused a stir in the contemporary literary community is something of a great understatement. Indeed, I have probably received more postage in these past two weeks from people I would have never known by name otherwise than I have in all my 32 years. Oh, and how vibrant that mail has been! If this, dear reader, is how politely you request information from authors, I would hate to hear what you have to say without the anonymity borrowed from your pens. In any case, I suppose I feel drawn to my typewriter today not in the interest of  explanation, but simply in the hopes that my ordinary story, the product of a boring commute for groceries, finally reaches an equally ordinary conclusion. 

It was a day most would remember only for its warmth. In a place with so much snow that Hell itself seemed preferable to finishing my last year of high school, why was anyone ever surprised at my self-cloistering? For that matter, who thought it a good idea to send me out of the house at all, let alone for some trivial luncheon of Sister Adeline's? These things and more, I pondered, light from the midmorning sun trickling down onto my face, my mind only half attentive to whether or not my skirt matched the color of my blouse and whatnot (it was 1934, those who used to care about such things had probably jumped off high rises like lemmings by then), the remainder of my energy fully devoted to that odyssean task of moving me not only out the bedroom door, but the foyer's one, as well. Success in this was, as in most pursuits my mother had set out for me, less of a cause for celebration than anticipation; people, after all, were not books. They had semantics and custom and all things I considered welcomely absent in books. At the very least, this wasn't another of father's evening parties, more onslaughts of comments on my weight and lack of friends than real gatherings; no, this was for errands. Bread, beef, blackberry jam. Bread, beef, blackberry jam. I would have giggled at the sing-songy alliteration if not for the circumstances. 

Bread. You know, it really wouldn't have been so bad if all those stores were closer together. At this point in my journey, I had already rehearsed my order to the butcher three times before exiting the bakery (a sign of a good day—often, only once or twice was typical), and had two more stretches of sidewalk to traverse before reaching the shop. I wondered if, had Tessie been there, it would have seemed less sluggish, the whole thing. What was the Latin phrase? Yes: Tempus fugit. Time flies. A glance at the ticking clock above the counter (10:24) assured me that this was most certainly not the case that day.

Beef. Tessie was an interesting girl, now that I think about it. Her family had only moved in a few years ago, and, as a result, they had not yet picked up on some of our- the others’, subtler precepts of etiquette. I found it difficult to judge; it wasn’t my people that had been driven out of land after land, only to find that this place, once the greatest industrial marvel of the world, had not only collapsed in on itself come 1929, but bore pointed hoods and smoldering crosses as welcome gifts. “We must be thankful”, Mother said, “that we do not tolerate such barbarism in our neighborhood”. I really did pity Tess, on some level; the only person who could somewhat qualify as her friend was me. I even debated making a sudden addition of pot roast to my purchase, as a gift to her and her mother and father. By the time I reached the end of the line, I decided against it. Adeline would see the receipt and think I was pilfering more for myself again, and I didn’t even know then whether it was beef or pork that wasn’t kosher.

Blackberry jam. As much as I despised these occasional outings, I would be lying if I didn’t ever so slightly enjoy my visits to the fruitier. He was one of the few who could tell when that which was inside me was better left undisturbed (that is to say, always), and the rows upon rows of preserves gave me a sense of vicarious nostalgia, channeled through the stories mother told of the time before; before the crash when you could buy reams of vivid linens and velvets for pennies; before the era of unabashed revelry regardless of your middle-agedness gave way to meagre, prescribed get-togethers amongst women who fancied themselves cultured.

In essence, before I was alive.

Somedays, I would take a jar of whatever struck my fancy—be it rhubarb or raspberry or current, never intending to buy it, but only to turn it over in my hand, admiring how the light from the windows made the thing’s contents shine like amber. Perhaps, if I was feeling particularly neurotic, I’d realign all of them so the modest pencil-on-tape labels were facing the same way. Never did I dream of putting one back where it didn’t belong. Mother, in matters organizational, taught me to associate such behavior with impropriety, and impropriety with scolding.

And how vicious her discipline was. So many afternoons spent in the living room listening to lectures on the merits of friendliness and agreeableness; “We didn’t birth you and clean you and dress you and feed you all those years to never set foot outside of a library.” Ironically, reaching out to Tessie yielded a similarly caustic response: “You know, dear, that she is a child of the Lord as we all are, but must you associate with people who refuse to see it?” I paid no heed to those words then, at the time simply an obstacle in the path back to my books and my privacy. Only now, as I walked down the street to Adeline’s and saw the embroidered signage on her door (Corinthians 15:33, all in green and blue cursive) did they ring in my ears again.

“Shirley, dear! Ah, I see you’ve brought all that we need for brunch. Virginia, won’t you help her into the dining room?” 

It was Mrs. Graves. What a befitting name for a woman who looked so close to death, if not for a thin layer of cosmetics. The proceeding few minutes went as I’d prepared for; introductions to various newcomers from the church group, feigned showings of gratitude and cheerfulness (on their part, for spending time with “them old ladies” instead of the great assortment of friends my own age I presumably had, on mine, for their inviting me in the first place), typical things. The meal was set out (an unexceptional one, but still substantial enough so that we all could have a piece of meat and a teacake), and we said grace. It was only about 10 minutes into the entrée when there came a knock at the door. Such things were no surprise; mail came and went sporadically then. It was Mrs. Adams’ turn to let them in, or, if not that, then at least to get off her creaking feet. A few seconds passed, giving me enough time to nibble once more on my bread (well, the bread I bought, anyways), before she spoke. “Well hello, there! Tes-“

And then, they were upon her.

Not even finished with her greeting, and already the others were upset as if their drinks were suddenly spiked with vinegar. Not in the way I was accustomed to, of course. The discomfort they conveyed was in their eyes and the shifting in their seats and the hiccoughs they supposed would go unnoticed if they were quiet enough, not some gossipy whispers or giggles. A queer thought, that the body’s words were more truthful than any of the tongue’s. 

“…Tessie.” 

“Y- yes’m.”

“Well, might I ask why you’re here this fine morning?”

“O- of course, miss. You see, my father and mother—the ones right down the street, well, they got to thinking and figured that we’d greatly enjoy a meal with you all. We’d seen the flyer for it outside on the church bulletin, and…why, won’t you let me come in?”

“Well, of course you can! Just give us a minute to find you some space.” As a lifelong sufferer of social anxiety and expertly covert recluse, I trust you believe me when I say I have never heard- no, felt, such a forced tone of joy. 

“Oh, thank you, miss!”

The window of time between the door shutting and locking felt painfully long to me. As much as I would like to say I did something of any worth then—be it tossing my napkin in disgust and walking the girl home, or smearing the jam onto Mrs. Adams’ Saturday dress in disgust, even raising my voice for a glass of water, this was simply not the case; some more of my mother’s words, “some people simply can’t tell when to change for the better” had resurfaced in my mind, albeit with an entirely novel meaning. The women’s looks of disgust morphed back into comfort (or at least the aura of it), and the luncheon proceeded as if nothing remarkable ever happened. It was minutes later when Mrs. Graves had gone to the washroom that we began to hear muffled sniffling seeping in from the entrance’s all-too-thin walls; at around 1:00, when we were reaching the end of dessert, I indulged the urge to glance at the window, and she had gone. 

On my way back to safety, past all of the “thank you”s and “call us anytime”s and putrid lavender perfume, I visited the fruitier for the last time in a while: I wasn’t leaving the house in flames, at this point. I handled the jar I last lifted from the shelf (I’d left that one—peach marmalade, tilted an iota to the left), and at last committed one tiny act of defiance against those fools. Now, on the shelf partitioned for blackberry jelly, laid a single orange growth, alone, yet there nonetheless. How ironic, to think that the most surprising thing I’d seen that day was the jar still there by the time I walked out the door.

So, there you have it. The story of my story. In all honesty, I’m surprised The Lottery garnered as much attention as it did; as if the average reader had enough time to read my work in such detail, let alone articulate how terribly my name will be remembered in the ever-expanding oceans of history for having the Tessie of that story receive a stoning rather than a washing machine as a prize. Will it really be the piece I’m remembered for, my legacy? If so, entertain for a moment the comedic potential of my epitaph: Shirley Jackson: Loving mother, brilliant novelist, and fantasizer on the stoning of children. If not, I still hope it lives on for some people, even if only for students of that school I attended back then, a dusty reminder that, “yes, someone from Brighton wrote this, and somehow emerged from this town more sane than those around her!”

In fact, I wouldn’t mind like a legacy like that. 

Not at all…

[glaucussubmerged]

Unidentified Bird

Unidentified bird, Hear it calling, shrieking Shriking Enunciating every Syllable like Falling bricks of Demolished houses Articulated in disaster Hear the sound of Tornadoes swooning Catastrophic plumes in Flight.

When you say my name the bird turns clearer Ever-turning, an Odyssean Ever-questing, ever-playing Turned to ashes, feathered dust.

I await at night to hear its call, Every night I'm always waiting Sleeping, dreaming Eviscerating, Dying, living, Extricating, Pondering on what I've lost not gained.

Unidentified bird, See it preening, foisting Flailing, Eating, aiding, Talking through its hollow bill Crying calls through Upset sound-off Upturned rounds of Closed-off bounds in Cave-like dwellings Buried under cries Unheard.

Please speak softly, don't be brave nor proud nor haughty Don't undo the things you've thought of Things that were not meant to be.

I yawn at pieces, cropped and Creeping, Seeking something Never cheating Laughably unstable Feathers caught Beneath dark gables Laughing, choking on Plumed fur Like the pavement Reaching, slapping Footfalls, meeting Upwards- downward Clause.

Try to say what can't be said and hear the bird-sound dying, dead. The life you find and grow is tidy, but hope and certainty are flighty, Burned in bark against my door.

Reach for silence, Retching, writing Stretching across Golden canvas Smeared with paint Like gaudy Headdress, melting in The light of moon Satisfying every Whim in trailing Sorrow for you then When cast in bronze My hand extends Killing fields will Guide your plume.

Pity, shame, and guilt defy you, the bird replies in cross-hatched my-toos. Hearken to that inscribed tone, the one you sing when you're alone I remain listless by you.

Unidentified bird, Plashing, plying Found in heaps Directed, flying Intricately vivisected Underneath A microscope Like ants devouring Thrashing locusts Torn from wings and Legs divested Gruesome hunger set The pace in Nature's gait: The will to live.

Careen through forests Internal mixtures Ribald talons scratch Your fixtures Undeniably exposed In proper form Like sounding eagles Reeling, roiling Martyred regals Crises cry inside A cavern Echoing a queen Dethroned.

My smoky altars keep on burning, so long as soulstuff attempts at yearning. Healing, hurting, these things keep learning what it is they're kept on for. And then the knocking continues more.

Unidentified bird, Weeping, whooping Please, I beg Forgive my Looping Like your call I Hear the stooping of My fractured Spine in turn And I'll resume The task unending You, your will, Hold fast unbending Show me that grove Concealed and hidden I'll hide it from the world unbidden, caring not but Caring for.

It's lies, deceit for what I'm famous, we're the birds no one can tame us. I've tried defeat and giving up, it didn't measure up enough And that's why I'm still here, espying That poor bird in endless flying. The secret is I've known its name for quite some time But knowing names is not like when you know mine.

[homers-filing-cabinet]

The possibly Odyssean task of figuring out what’s for dinner.

“Let me interrogate the pantry. I’m thinking of pasta”

Pantry is borderline empty, so is the fridge. Theres Orzo but I made orzo yesterday.

“Ok what about rice and eggs”

Barely any eggs in the fridge

“Ok what about chicken”

No chicken.

“Okay what about potatoes?”

No potatoes

“Let me then make some mango sticky rice”

No mangoes. No coconut milk.

So now I have to go get mangoes and coconut milk, but I also just need to go grocery shopping because the kitchen is BARREN.