Christopher WunderLee - Moore's Mythopoeia

More locality, less commentary, be Firthian if need be. These are scholars, they will not feign the darkness.

“Joyce has stepped off the ship and with ceremonial irises bunched together under his arm and a book on Gaelic verse occupying his thoughts, he treads silently towards his boyhood home. This was where his father sank them into poverty, unable to save his family, the anti-Odysseus. He stands outside for a brief reflective moment. His mother will die today and he cannot save her.

“The story begins, two boys in a protective tower, a phallic projection edging its way into the sea. One is testy, wry, verbose, the other is witty, dry, patient. The latter is the author, for a time. He is artist, he is prophet, he is jester, and he has been an expert on this subject all of his life. He tells us:

In a dream, silently, she had come to him, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath bent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of wetted ashes.

“It is the mother of whom he speaks, not as her son who has remained with her, but of her son who has voyaged out, away from home. It is Odysseus beside the blood river.”

A musing of confusion, I think.

“Is it so impossible to think that the voice that was so artfully manufactured is not the figure, a missing father, husband, and son? He left himself, a voluntary exile from his home and his family, with a woman who could not cling to him like her namesake, but gave him children, of whom, like his father, he would not return in kind any prosperity. He is Bloom’s lazy ease, he is Stephen’s masturbation and poetry, he is idle, he is thoughtful, he is as absent as a phantom, and he is the guilty protagonist. Do you truly believe that he did not plan for these attributes to be suggested, he is Dadelas, the father whose devices drowned his son, who’s own inventions imprisoned him and his family on an isle of labyrinth mythology. He is drunk in a maternity ward, of all places. For the day Odysseus leaves, is the day that his son shall follow in his footsteps.”

“But these theories about biography invading fiction, they are given too much weight. It is so unfashionable,” an audience member discarded.

“We have his words, we know the relevance of his own life upon his first books. To now say, well he was allowing himself a minor character but he’s changed his entire stratagem, the dreams, the allusion, it is all nothing to do with the author. Ulysses is a psychological biography of the multi-roles of humanity, Joyce himself is every character. There is a reason why Bloom and Stephen compare lives in the final chapters, they are quintessentially the same man.”

BLLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPPPP

“Good, good, tomorrow its onto the Wake . Remember they’ve organized a dinner for us at the Canterbury House. See you all there. Thank you again for coming. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

* * *

Very early one morning — after a night going room to room with her, she straddled him on the kitchen counter, he bent her over the kitchen sink, both of them standing in the hallway, the sideways entrance trick in the study, atop the desk, he feasting on her on the stairwell, her folded over the couch — Vincent woke to find her not in bed with him. He rose quickly, a little concerned — she’d been so well lately, no insomnia — and walked down the hall, with the pictures and knickknacks still haphazardly on the floor, having been knocked down while he bored into her. He could hear the sound of paper rustling, a small belt of light coming out of the study…

She is concentrating, rereading it over and over again. Snapshots of him from her memory, no clear words, sensations of protection, fear, concern, gentleness, nothing clear… they met in a room, they’re sitting on the floor, her hand is against his cheek, imagination: he is running, he is sleeping in a cardboard box, he is lost and alone. Her brother’s face, he is shocked, not angry, jealous… she’s in pain, a foreign ache, a man, or boy, a boy behind her, she’s on her hands and knees, nude, only a girl, baby pubic hair the color of honey, little puckered tits, straining against him… her brother is invidiously watching, her first squeal, like a small piglet as he penetrates the hymen, she feels it begin, further pressure, can’t see what’s going on, it hurts, a second squeal, this one an agonized plea, her brother is aghast, slow motion mouth moving, the boys, there are other boys, are chanting, she’s injured, feels a wetness in her groin along with the pain, he’s moving, a second of relief, intense pain, he forces it in, to the hilt, she’s collapsed onto her arms, can’t get away, he’s holding her backside up, his weight on her, her brother, red, contorted, through strands of hair… then that girl had said something at the sleep over: “do you know what sex is?” four or five round eyed little preteens in sleep-sacks and underwear… “it’s when a boy puts his thing in your cunny”, that spreading ardor, replay now with new information… “does it hurt?” abdomen reliving it, bloody thighs, the smell of crab grass, Graham’s voice, his covetous eyes… “it’s supposed to… because they put it inside your cunny”…

Vincent’s feels a little guilty for the hard-on, she’s thought about it before, he doesn’t ask about it. He leans against the wall and listens to her thoughts, she gives them liberty, he’s supposed to be asleep. She was too young… a few years later, holding up a blouse she’s considering… he penetrated her… she thought it was wrestling, all those boys, that creamy substance she sometimes found on her thighs or backside or crotch, dry-humping her, until the one boy… until he pushed himself inside her… Graham too, he’d touched her there… he’d suckled her nipple… he pushed his penis against her… he would throw her onto their laps, those hands roaming over her, foreign fingers stroking the little flaps of skin between her legs… the dancing, the gymnastics… when he had to study anatomy and asked for her help… laying on the floor, nude, he ran his hand around her, pinched her nipples, had her spread her legs, bend over and finger rolling around her anus… she’s started to weep, the blouse still held up, that uncontrollable shiver, remorse and betrayal… nights he would play with her, always some game with his hands on her… the pinching, small little slaps, him always coming into the bathroom… grinding against her, that poke in his pants… her hands were shaking, holding the blouse…

“it’s when a boy puts his thing in your cunny…”

He’s the first person she ever told, in that room, before Vincent… Joseph Moore, thirty-nine, the Director of the Continued Production of Isotopic Inhibitors for Immunex International, missing for ninety-two days… the report… Vincent looks into the living room where his coat hangs by the door… his briefcase no longer underneath it… she turns the page, the Moore file, FYI to all agents: missing man, repeat: missing man, potentially neurotic due to a self-prescribed alteration in cocktail regimen or misuse of assigned cocktail or due to halting of said regimen, proceed with caution, notify Section 9 upon sighting, do not, repeat: do not, attempt to apprehend subject alone, follow and notify Section 9 prior to acquisition attempt. She was re-reading it. Vincent feels betrayed, only for an instant… should have known… she’s gone through it before… trying to find out what he knows… she feels no guilt… There was a slight change in heart rate and breathing when she mouthed his name… Joseph Moore… an orphan… the very last, lived in a hospital… care-giver died when he was eighteen… married at twenty-three… Norma Greene… two children, Kimball and Alexzen, found digging large whole in backyard… subject associated it with a grave he claimed as his own… refused to communicate… evidence of severe delusional state… seen escaping out of the Rainbow Hotel dressed strangely and wielding a dowel… she laughs under her breath…