Pondering the arcanum through sequestered nights "with strained and sore eyes," mapping the Hero's Quest, restless as smoke, from organelle to organelle, sealed in a Joycean jar. What have we been seeking all this time? What is there to find but oneself?

Sometimes the elusive goal of more
than ten thousand years is so close.
Then a child appears and it evolves
into another opportunity.

A long strand of dark hair lands on my notebook. Did it fall from a goddess's coiffure, stringy on this wet October day? A woman speaks to me. Though not able to hear well over the traffic, I do catch that she was born in Chicago, and James Joyce returns to the monotony of the wanderings of Australian Heroes, filled with religious significance. We are filled with wonder and admiration, just like the Australians, that Leopold Bloom stops in a bistro and visits cousins in New York every few years. I smile and nod in the appropriate places. We part, still strangers.

 

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