She touched his homespun fanny, Lizzie did. Or didn’t, according to Albert. The twigs and the curbstone led him out of the House of Commons holding forth the cook sitting by the waves of his brain, his gull, his stew.
Poetry held the shirts by loose ankles, but Lizzie had forgotten the scarlet harness at the end of the world. The shadow of the octopus gave Albert something salty to think about while Lizzie tried it on, but the surgeon was afraid of the south orange peel in the bobbled forest.
Lizzie was her name.
Originally published November 4, 2023
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Dreamlike upon a Fisherman’s Wife, methings, or rather those boots!
When Spinoza was a fisherman!
And Leibniz was, er, remarking on Ginger’s monads.
As was his wont.
I couldn’t find this time anything to say… My mind almost confused.. What’s going on there, I told myself.. Smile. But there is only one sentence, I did, “Despite all the difficulties, Lizzie finally wore the Albert. No one would recognize her anymore. Lizzie was her name but She was Albert now.” Crazy. Smile..?
Thank you dear Rick, I really started to read Ulysses again.. Several ten years passed from my last and first reading. The book in my hand same but me…? For me, maybe it is early to talk now, but I find my own marks under some of sentences, words or passages and the interesting part is that I am now putting those marks too in the same points. Anyway this really exciting, You know, you inspired me for this. Have a nice day, Love, nia
Very nice.