Gentle lady, do not sing
Sad songs about the end of love;
Lay aside sadness and sing,
How love that passes is enough.

Sing about the long deep sleep
Of lovers that are dead and how
In the grave all love shall sleep
Love is aweary now

– James Joyce

was originally published on Meandering home

June 26. MJ.

Outer space, comin’ in. Got some Joycean interminglings here, I’m gut at it. Get rugged again, ruggged and tough like Miller and Hemingway and thick-fingered writers with a typewriter in a suitcase with a strong smell of leather. I want more words, more sounds, braid and weave them to a napkin of language you can blow your nose and blow your mind. What is the strength of prose? I mean not its effect on society, its influence as a text that may becomes be canonical. I mean cramming words and connections and associations, commas, dashes, transliterations of sounds, lulls, cramming it all into a few sentences to leave the reader stunned and to change him. To tore his identity as a reader to pieces and challenge him to build it up again. To make him jump smile cry laugh and be good.
In one of the many coffee place I write here, I see a jacket on a chair and think some guys left it there. I see them walk out the door, think not a second, pick up the jacket and follow them, “hey is this yours?” Another guy comes running at me and grabs my arm. I am wrong. It is not the jacket of the businessmen who left. It is the jacket of that other guy who was just ordering his coffee. I apologize and – he apologizes too. Remember I am in Asia. We have a short conversation about cultural deference and difference, about working in coffee places and reserving your seat by putting your jacket on it.
I have a delicious dinner and then a long walk home, enjoying a detour through Namsan park with its soft green road made of rubber. I am singing Michael Jackson songs because he died yesterday.

June 26. MJ.

Outer space, comin’ in. Got some Joycean interminglings here, I’m gut at it. Get rugged again, ruggged and tough like Miller and Hemingway and thick-fingered writers with a typewriter in a suitcase with a strong smell of leather. I want more words, more sounds, braid and weave them to a napkin of language you can blow your nose and blow your mind. What is the strength of prose? I mean not its effect on society, its influence as a text that may becomes be canonical. I mean cramming words and connections and associations, commas, dashes, transliterations of sounds, lulls, cramming it all into a few sentences to leave the reader stunned and to change him. To tore his identity as a reader to pieces and challenge him to build it up again. To make him jump smile cry laugh and be good.
In one of the many coffee place I write here, I see a jacket on a chair and think some guys left it there. I see them walk out the door, think not a second, pick up the jacket and follow them, “hey is this yours?” Another guy comes running at me and grabs my arm. I am wrong. It is not the jacket of the businessmen who left. It is the jacket of that other guy who was just ordering his coffee. I apologize and – he apologizes too. Remember I am in Asia. We have a short conversation about cultural deference and difference, about working in coffee places and reserving your seat by putting your jacket on it.
I have a delicious dinner and then a long walk home, enjoying a detour through Namsan park with its soft green road made of rubber. I am singing Michael Jackson songs because he died yesterday.

June 26. MJ. was originally published on Meandering home