Losing My Way

She was a happy lady/ despite all the blood she's seen shed/ in her homeland far away/ across the sea/ across the tearstained sea.

Each mighty tower raised/ means something elsewhere is lost./ For each glittering prize/ someone else will pay the cost.

What a strange man James Joyce was, as clearly illustrated by his final novel. Or is it a novel? 628 pages and all I can think is what did I just read? Why didn't someone help that poor man? His literary journey from 'Dubliners' to 'Finnegan's Wake' reminds me of pictures done by a man who only painted cats, who became schizophrenic: by the time his malady had finished its course, one could barely see that he had painted a cat. So it is with Joyce and his work. He could only write about Ireland, and in this final book of his, one can hardly tell it's about Ireland. Still, despite some initial shock (I had to read a different book after the first two chapters), I managed to get through Joyce's great joke on the literary world, and found myself captivated. After I finished the book, I went back to the start to complete the sentence at the end that he finished at the beginning, and I found myself wanting to start the book all over again. I resiste

I need to have a place to play music all the time. I could have a lot more fun if I could. Next time maybe I will just play the piano, then I won't get messed up by the short strap on Neal Dimick's guitar, or maybe play Fripp style and sit. Naaaah I like standing. Almost done with Finnegan's Wake. It will be strange when I read a book with a story, that's not full of invented words. More on that later: this is supposed to be about musesick. I belonged nowhere/ I loved no one/ and no one ever cared/ especially me So I drifted/ was I a phantom?/ the nightmare endless/ as I was meant to be? No tears could I cry/ as I felt the laughter die/ consumed by the pain/ that at last drove me insane/ as I sang the song/ that would have no refrain

Something in E por favor...make it minor, make us cry. Too much happiness can kill a man; sorrow please and the warmth of tears, to make us glad to be alive.

Gather around/ and I shall be profound/ or at least not as dumb/ as I usually am. There's one thing/ the sillymillies understand/ and that's the joy to be had/ from his pussyfundling hands. The news makes me sick/ different views of the same shit/ but he'll have none of that/ spoiling his fun. Gather around ladies/ and be thankful for his touch/ When it comes to pussyfundling/ there can never be too much. All the Joans will moan/ it beats being alone/ and there will be no pain/ for the lovely Janes. The Sheilas and the Sues/ they'll know just what to do/ no lass will be damned by the touch/ of his pussyfundling hands. They all demand the touch/ of his pussyfundling hands

Words...mean something I guess....just too many of them. Can't keep up with the verbalvortex, sweeping away all that's sensible in its path. So whom am I to add to the endless torrent of information, expanding constantly until every word is meaningless. Yet somehow I am compelled to cry out from beneath the ocean, as if the right words could rise above the waves.

And will you deny the Armageddon that's come to shake your land? Not very hospitable, are you? Show him around, sing some rounds, revel in the mystery that's come to bring you down. O sweet death, this is the place meant for thy cold touch. So much innocence makes fertile ground for the final exposure of our guilt, for so long built on the lies that thy present makes come true. Rejoice! Our sins shall be cleansed. What more could we want? Music maestro air on a Gspot, sweet sound of life to make death feel at home. O the fires that shall soon burn! Imagine the mutations to arise from our final celebration: freaks to seek a truth that's real, one we could never face, even though we knew our illusions were sure to doom our race. That's show biz. What remains want an encore.