Writing in English is the most ingenious torture ever devised for sins committed in previous lives.
—James Joyce

My fave story about James Joyce; (I only have two and neither of them actually includes him.) is the one with Pete and Eric and the Guinness Fleagh. (say FLA for those of you who are Gaelic impaired) The three of us (this is back when we didn't so much as fart without one another) were attending this splendid festival of all things Irish. We had WAAAY too much Guinness and it was very hot. It was so hot (easily +90F) that the event was giving away free water. Huge galvenized steel troughs filled with bottled water and mostly melted ice. Some random guy picked me up and "threw" me in one of these bathtub sized buckets. WHY? because I asked him to!! There was NO shade anywhere, so hot-- the only thing hotter was all the live music/bands. (NOTE: This anecdote sometimes masquerades as the Van Morrison Orgasm story but that is a diff thing entirely.) This event was a rocking good time. Swing dancing drunk with pretty strangers. Ask me about the hooker on the fence sometime.

ANY WAY--James Joyce..right--
This day was very sunny, white hot bright. I think I lost my sunglasses. My alcoholic memory fades but it was hot-- and steamy-- and very drunk and the guys have toddled off (as they were wont to do) and I spy a tent. A big white canvas thing.

It was creating an oasis of deep lush shade. Dark and inviting. The grass was not trampled down by thousands of feet. The grass was heavy and soft, like a meadow. and what was it that I heard? Not the crazed and amplified jig of another folk band, not the dulcet tones of Elvis Costello, no this was calmer...a deep baritone of spine caressing manliness. This person was not singing--he was reading...FROM ULYSSES!!. I sank down on the green grass. In my blurred vision I could see a long lean black Irish dude, gorgeous, he stood on a little stage--he held THE BOOK. and he read. The sing song patter of Joyce's nonlinear ramblings connected viscerally with my disjointed and heat addled brain. So cooool-- I drifted off on this sea of happiness. The beautiful accent wrapping around my dreamy little head. I glanced around the darkened audience--singles and couples, less than 50 people total. I was in heaven. Poor silly boys if only they knew--ah...magically Eric placed my feet across his lap, Petey resting my head against his thigh. Pete handed me a full cold pint, we listened as Leopold stumbled along to his funeral--his journey a mirror of duplicitous fiction so beautiful and raw.