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
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.