04 February 2012


"like a goodish-sized sheet of letterpaper originating by transhipt from Boston (Mass.) of the last of the first"              --Finnegans Wake

     riverrun, passed MIeadT and BUdder's (of Silene's wiser sadder Cellar? No, Basement!), from North of Shore past Back of Bay, Kóxes us (up oars, weialala leia, stop, please stop, do please stop, O do please stop!) back to Havered Clutch and Endowments.

     Surd Vilanius Cuchumberlain, tempaxial sassenach plenimpotentiary, had not yet swapt away bad Czechs for farigold Deutschmarks; nor, tho varsouvianafter, had Hurtler spurspewed tygers versus warses so Warsaw saw war; Mussolman Ez Punt, valueur of gombeens, rover with short fuse, had not yet rearrived in Nord-Amerika on this side the crazy mishmosh of St. Elizabeth's (ora pro Ezra, Immaculata!) from Rapallo to repello and rue below, taraboom; nor yet had Sweeney Mac Suibhne offered no quarter, no Horlicks and zephyrs, no Daunty Gouty Shopkeeper, not on yer Nelliot!  No voice from Chicago bellowsed handers-on and her Zogs (ein augenblick, out of the Marzo-pan into the mire) to trillingions in their prides; nor had that Nobel Southron sung upraptoriously but inhaudibly to faraway pelegrims of the indubitability of the rumen spirit, in casque or p'int; nor had that other importently earnest Nobel earl Ham-on-Wray set his gaff-er to sea Savarin Rodolphe in flays (if ewe gnu sushi like I); nor yet had an Erste unnamable Franco-graf unmellowdramatized his chess Play (godot, caitiff!); and no red-letter end to Newton's artconceal (wilkommen aus Londres, sloths and he-heroes) had a pyncheon gabbled for his V's-á-vis, that crime ofFall 37.

     O tell me all about Shawm's Voice!  I want to hear all about Germ's Choice!  Tell me all.  Tell me now.  You'll die when you hear.  Tell hotel!  Well, your mann Shem, a Wol from Zurück (O Pooh!), currowed his dingy shirt sore-point crost the pond, inveighted to Horrored coz Gernsback? no, gemsbok? no, Pearlbuch was boozy riddling at the Why emcee, eh.  Yore nicens witto bhoy sealed on by a triremedial warping process, past New Hunshire, Concord on the Merrimake, to Boystown Whorebar.  Vesseling Charley's River is Ma Darlin and Hey Ho, Up She Roises, Reeve Drughad all sinistrous, he finned forrard on his flingcloudt whyskit, did Shame-us, to that nonCam bridge by the harbored Squeer.  And there he encred, our baby Tuckyoo, a Ming to read us mad from his Working Prigness.  Saints Lucy and George preserve us!  No femaly with him?  Nor a barnacle in sight?  Na, no, niver, only Cyrenes and Rheinmädchen in their altogether Waspasian nicelynicies.  Canoe believe it?  Phwat hoppen then?  Till me awl, noo!

     O the strut of him's elf on that Cam-less bridge (moduh Cam-bronne, not a Cam-era inside!), with his goaty phiz and his fishygods, his roystrygods and his blackGardaglasses, his wideawake hat and his cluck of molycoddlers, the King James Reversion!  Like the grattan Allthing of litter ashore, Joyous Jim, with his doublin R's and his putrid tryests (not suitable for Jung nor Mann), his owl eyeses and his finicking walk, Majorscule (actinic Captain) of the Mode Urns (no pomo he, brosis), strettin and fruttin his R up on the bridge.  And there was much reJoycing and congereelgreeting and Traumspieling and bridgehampton, Anna (Livia) variegate thyme it was, hied by all.  Reel pain for our sham's friends, Ice A.  And then Cutler, the pleasant then-present President of the Kludge (Ashley, Cutler's obit Offa forker) presented an unprecedented present to our Sunny cock-pheasant.   Well, gawain, wot vaziert?  You'll die, atolled you.  Wattwattwatt!  A ban-Anna!!  "Hava halfa banana, jimson, you most be-famoused.  Bananas, bossed frauight in threepublic.  One offer, O nurse, scented from lint Asians in platinum Erica.  And patch the wheel.  Eh?  I said, patch the wheel!  Eye mien, WATCH THE PEEL!  O pftjschute."

     A near-scribicide, this fall (bababadaldonderundblitzen) of a once wallstrait goldcodger is a taupe cigarette in minstrelsy (keep you mum now!), as your erst solid man slept a way über the parapeteia--zurück to Zürich, never to turn a fin a gain--a wake a long a live a splash a pun the

Sorry, I just couldn't help myself.  Besides, if Faulkner could turn a series of hillbilly jokes into a novel... at least I didn't portray anybody's dying mother as a fish.

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