Why Read James Joyce?

Werefox Vaquero--just a non-arcane individual

   
   "Werefox Vaquero--just a non-arcane individual"

   Max was a bit curious concerning his cowgirl co-worker in the kinda/sorta cattle industry of what you might dub as agriculture--at least in a few circles of men.  So many metaphorical wolf-packs running around, and a lone human-hybrid canine (allegorical folks) every so often, also pranced on a set of all fours in search of sustenance; specifically, protein I'm talk'n.
  Yet there was more to this Dungeons and Dragons world, gelled with cosmic theories, angelic forces, conspiracy politics, and good old MLB.  However, Max understood the gist and the graveyard gestures.  The tombs built, the babies born, the rich, the poor, the squirrels--meaning--miser types, and the fornication of cheap thrills, but most of us have been there, from time to time.
   Max was singular.  Earth tones, in wardrobe, buzz-cut, clean-shaven, smelled like peppermint, took his C, D3, ate lamb and rabbit, beer when needed to calm the conducting shakes, and tolerated his own passion for singularity.  He tolerated it well.
   The Arizona nights were almost epic, every time the Daystar dropped and the Celestial Sparks shimmered, he took more than a glimpse, imbibing the grand scenario and cosmic battles.  As if a theoretical philosopher, pondering every and each possibility.
   Wished he had a surf board and lived on the Pacific.  California--too high-priced.  Oregon, well--there was always that.  And ducks aren't so bad.  He possessed no duck phobia.  He could tolerate ducks too.  

Werefox Vaquero

   
   "Werefox Vaquero"
  
   Ela didn't exactly watch over the cattle, living among the folk, being simply a Hoodlum or Little Mary, which in cowboy terminology means:  "Chops wood, peels potatoes, and chases around the chuck-wagon."  She was part Apache--how much she didn't know, and didn't care.  She knew what she fancied, and that was all that mattered to her.  And she felt a vociferous conscience tell her:  "You can do anything you want--just be nice; at the same time, let nobody label you, and if they do--label them right back.  Ela, you are a sweet girl, don't let anyone bind your decency."
   She had a thing for foxes.  Some say a trickster.  Others say fidelity and loyalty.  What did William Blake say:  "The fox condemns the trap--not himself."  Moreover, the visionary poet, a mere tradesman probed:  "The moral Christian is the cause for the unbeliever and their laws."  Ela had no opinion.  She was just a ranch-hand, more or less.  Tucson, or near about.  And driving through downtown Phoenix was always a treat, especially at night.
   She managed a little shanty when not hanging out with cattle, those sweet and holy eyes, and being able to mystically morph into a Kit Fox--small, gentle, agile, strong, loyal.  Too, a sense of playfulness.
  She had no boyfriend, yet was not out of the game, just adoring all that God had given her--a chance to be alive, no matter how chronic the pain.  A sense of Moon and Sun, of salubrious air, of poetry, and Eye-of-Round cooked in butter and water, along with carrots, sea salt, pepper, and thyme.  
   She drank her coffee as the stars lit the Heavens, and even though she never dismissed her heritage, she gelled with the pure spirit of sublimity, remembering the symbolic Eagle write:  "The light cometh, and the darkness comprehends it not." 

Tesla and the grocery market

   
   "Tesla and the grocery market"
  
   Had to venture further than 2 miles away from my suburban habitat today, a nervous wreck--in a way; specifically, what if I have to urinate, what if there is some Kojack with a Kodak in the bushes armed with a radar gun, what if some maniac opens fire?  OCD, in medical terms.  They say Tesla had it too.  Wiped his silverware off a certain number of times, only drank distilled water, ordered from the same place, his groceries, was reclusive, yet hung out with Mark Twain here and there.
   Into the market, sanitizing my hands, and have too many groceries to go through automatic checkout.  They touch my groceries, and I get a little nervous, viewing the microcosmic kingdom in the theater of my mind; next, I gently allow the older and beautiful man to push out my stuff.  He tells me there's a car show.  Talks about his life.  Seemed lonely.  I shook his hand, prayed for nobody to hurt him when I exited, sanitizing my hand, and my dog jumping around in the car.
   Everybody has gifts.  Everyone has beauty.  In a way.  Unless you inflict control over someone--that's what gives people an asymmetrical vibe.  It's a Free Country, they used to say.  
   I see people in my family.  A beautiful blonde boy, and he doesn't even know it.  My step-dad, and while all of his sons love him, I actually like him, so does another.  Not out to impress or sway with bologna.  They said I was allergic to people.  A nocturnal job for years; next, home and reading everything I could get my hands on.  That guy is arrogant others say.  No, I just like the simple things, as Plotinus may argue.  Maybe there was a time when I craved.  Had ambition.  Now, get in, get out, lock the doors, and wish I could play cards with Grandma all night and drink coffee. 
   Men followed my mother, locked her in cars, exposed themselves to her--it happened her entire life, and she never called a cop.  She never laid down any ground rules when I returned home over a decade ago, broken, infused for years, and knowing that everyone was instructing her, as if they were her Daddy, on how to live her life.  Like I said--everyday she would tell me, because I always confessed my sins to her; as a result, she would tell me:  "They said this, or they said that."  She told me every word.
   Haven't been to the bar for my two beers in months.  There's a cool guy that hangs up there with the face of an angel.  He knows sports and how to survive.  Maybe it is all pack related.  I asked my shrink once:  "Is it okay for me to have friends?"  He said:  "Of course.  Just make sure you find people like yourself."  

Ben Kenobi vs Darth Vader - A New Hope [1080p HD]

Voltaic Junkyard--cusp

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--cusp"
   
   Sheila had sincere empirical evidence that Adam drifted away; specifically, just a thumb, flashing it illegally, in most states, on the asphalt ballet of self-driven cars; however, there are still a few truckers swift in the radical reflexes.  The boy had made a soft exodus from his heritage, though--to never forget, head not low, neither crowned with superiority, just a seeker, finally inheriting his portion of a protracted vacation, wending his wild way into the American West, hoping cowboys still had good hearts, and that barrel-racing girls might fancy his features, give him a loving lasso, and be a little more tame than Bonanza Jellybean.  
   Sheila smiled at his courage, making a noble attempt to finally separate himself from her guardian fists.  And now, what would be her purpose?  No little brother to pamper and spoil, left all alone with a goofy dog and a plethora of wrecked automobiles.  She breathed.  The easiest thing to do in life, not minding the toxins, the metallic particles, nor the fact that she was a frigid asexual.
  It didn't matter anymore.  Her only purpose in life now--to survive.  And she would.  Some lonely guy witnessing her lean muscles at the grocery market would always have her image in his heart, and while she didn't exactly know--she could feel the love, here and there, between Earth's magnetic poles.

Voltaic Junkyard--Leopold Bloom, wondering

   
   "Voltaic Junkyard--Leopold Bloom, wondering"
   
   Adam, frightened by the reality of all the truths and falsehoods contained in a Sociology class, wanting to wander, roam, vagabond, yet a gentleman; however, more wondering instead of wandering.
   Remembered laying on his couch for two days and reading ULYSSES, which was illegal to own in the United States for a quick wrinkle in time; moreover, he read the judge's opinion on the book, the black-robe making it legal, at last.  The judge said it was boring at times.  Adam remembered the opening, Buck Mulligan, possibly a medical student--he forgot here and there, yet never the culmination--the reason it was illegal.  A wife's internal confession.  Her loins speaking.  Not a true Penelope, forged in fabulous fidelity; still, she loved the wandering Leopold.
   Even that kind of love, well--Adam thought it would be pretty sweet.  So your wife cheats on you--does it really matter?  Adam knew that's why we have Saints.  There are always stranger people than yourself.  People that give hope, and people that are anchors, sinking your smile into a frown.
   But Adam knew his part.  Little brother.  Sheila--the pedagogue.  Would he ever learn?  Lift weights or tear down a small block?  Be content?  Is that life?  Contentment?  Mere contentment?
   Adam remembered when all of his family was alive--as a child.  Friday nights and pizza @ Mr. Gatti's, Dad always smiling.  Sheila could throw down five slices, the She-Hulk, and she always was, like a paragon of ass-kicking girl perfection.  A girl who held her own.  Not very social.  No hair or make-up always on dynamic display for the masses.  A baseball cap and pony-tail.  Jeans.  Flannel shirt.  Tennis shoes.
   Adam wondered who he was.  Little brother, ignorant with the torque wrench?  Would he ever break down and tell her that he was fond of Japanese cars?  Swift.  Sporty.  
   He knew his place.  It was a pack, not a tribe.  They were poor.  Dogs.  It didn't matter to them, but how people gawk when the norm is not surgically followed.  Dub you an outcast.  And yes, thinking these things Adam admired Sheila all the more.  The She-Hulk, not giving a damn.  Loving what she loved.  After a quick wash, she'd eat green beans right out of the can; next, she'd go kick some tires and take a walk in the park with Wagon-Tail.  He'd accompany his sister next time.  Why the hell not?