ulysses

Gaits, barnacles, and the abacus of three lefts

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Visit https://almostmeaningful.com/gaits-barnacles-and-the-abacus-of-three-lefts | Reading Ulysses in Montana #101 | Oil painting in the style of Monet of landscape with basketballs and high top sneakers across the quicksands of yellow time.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #101

Mincing reunions came easy to Marian under abrupt surplus of naval supplies–deltas of Polestar River be damned.

Gordon’s triangles of triangulating alpha spheres taught him three things about Marion’s gait that he had only guessed at in the long summer of empty winter. But Marion didn’t mind. She discoursed on Gordon’s quadrilaterals with token signals of disputed moonbeams.

Gordon rather liked Marion’s moonbeams and the way she used them to prove his theorem of heavenly delight–might not always making right but three lefts always do. Brave balls of spherical circles sent tidings of Gordon and Marion’s nervous journeys to the land of mathematical brilliance, lands unnumbered in the pages of the tomes of slavish threats.

Unnatural recursions left Marion wanting more, but Gordon got his revenge a month later when guiltless chambers cursed the desperate sun and left no rendered cheeks behind.

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Pawned shingles of tin dusk

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Visit https://almostmeaningful.com/pawned-shingles-of-tin-dusk | Reading Ulysses in Montana #322 | An oil painting in the style of John Constable of a young woman in a pale, wilted hat peering over a vast eroded embankment at twilight beneath crowded rain-heavy clouds, a weathered wooden boat beached nearby, a gentleman in a dark coat wiping his mouth as he holds out a single roof shingle to her, soft tin-grey light breaking through the storm sky over the English countryside

Reading Ulysses in Montana #322

Crowded showers of twilight account for the jealousy of Cissly when she peeped her head over the great breadth of attrition.

She crept a little jolly turn over the mystical venture, the saddest vessel, and turned her wan hat with contrition to the brim of the gentleman.

The gentleman wiped his mouth and exchanged his heart on a shingle for her assent. Her bright hope of double singular devotion abandoned fleetingly for a toiled laugh.

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Forensic fetishes and lapsed heroes

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Visit https://almostmeaningful.com/forensic-fetishes-and-lapsed-heroes | Reading Ulysses in Montana #332 | Oil painting in the style of Georges Braque of hero on a heavy island slowly circling a boy and a girl.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #332

Debating the social aspects of inveigling the monstrous goose, Arthur traveled across the backdoor to the sands of Richmond.

Mary said the hotel must have gotten lost on the way to the burning of the heavy island, but in concordance with Arthur’s favorite grapes, speeches of purity and masses of growing quality dissipated in the slaking of the vessel in significant seas. Worthy of verses sewn by Mary’s aunt, Arthur’s digestion indicated the globe was turning as slowly as ever. The wronged hero bungled his way to an understanding of rendered fetishes, but the witty fellow lapsed into an understanding all his own.

Winning the debate was never a question, but the social aspects had come undone three years before along the river–the river of monstrous geese.

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Photonic delight as Malabar wins!

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #145

Clandestine intestines intertwined along the connections of purple conventions and ochre ogres.

Ginger, on the other hand, felt the opposite and told George so. George told Ginger she must be right because she had left the right shoe in the left-most cupboard after cleaning it with the other fly swatter, there not being a fly in the house for ages. Pages and reams of unseemly reeds and thistles whistled at the other end of the spectrum to see where the radio waves met the gamma rays and transcend into yet a third degree of photonic delight, at only half the speed of its predecessors and intercessors of high-energy prayers.

Weary, Ginger forgot what George had absconded with this time, if not Malabar long past his rocking-horse prime.

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Forgetfulness of aghast omelets

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #307

Avast at last, Agnes entered the shallow realm aghast at the merry crowns of scores of critters leaving the door ajar.

A jar of strawberry preserves reserved the right to party into the very painting that Monet had sold for cost of a veritable feast, the moveable feast having already been cornered by a posthumous Hemingway, calling out from beyond the grave. At some point the bell no longer tolls–for thee or me–and the silence reminds Agnes of the joke about the dead ringer for his brother whose face rings a bell, but she forgot the punchline. Agnes book her trip to the Azores but never arrived due to confusion over whether to have the omelet or the fish sandwich.

From afar, Agnes called out ahoy to those who had ears to hear, but she remains adrift to this day on the shallow realm, aghast and annoyed with overused ploys.

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The Bohemian lyre forfeits the moon

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Visit https://almostmeaningful.com/the-bohemian-lyre-forfeits-the-moon | Reading Ulysses in Montana #92 | Oil painting in the style of Picasso of the moon over a woman waiting under a willow tree for the swallows to land and the bears to leave the beach.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #92

Engagements of small mercies say merci to the depending moon, sacrificing holes and east trousers to the dig.

Jugs of your best consent riot in batches of pendants smitten with the small teasings of curdled mockeries. You’d rail against meddling streams of virtues if you could spell the strange senses of double meanings and the divine right of bling. You’d sooner be pursued by a bear while exiting the coast of Bohemia than scorn a humble lack of maladies with lilies, primroses, and oxlips, slipping over the taunted shepherds dancing on the green with a driver and putter to spare. Sparks of gardens rich in folly tune the strings of the lyre half a step too low.

Small quantities of mercies and large qualities of merci dictate the sneezes of swallows that bury the candid moon a month too soon.

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Mistral canticles of wilting heliotropes

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #333

The book delighted the slight friend of another dozen books on the subject of nights in blight action.

Ginger said why do you always choose me? George said you are my one and only, only I would think so and only you would be so. The fright took hold of the book and looked the other way as a dozen more books frightened Miss Tuffet away. Ginger said but what about my taffeta dress. George said it’s in your ear. Ginger said you don’t know what that means, do you. The curds of words and the whey of all milk fleshed out the rest of the story in George’s mind and maybe Ginger’s ear.

The thirteenth book declared a mistrial of mistral winds and wound down the jewelry box to the wilting strains of “I’ll Be Reading You”.

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Lard, augury, and the extinguished afternoon

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Visit https://almostmeaningful.com/lard-augury-and-the-extinguished-afternoon | Reading Ulysses in Montana #423 | Oil painting in the style of John Constable of a desert with high cliffs and Constable clouds, a moody day with a woman looking at ancient ruins.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #423

With bacon and butter, you no longer need to imagine the marginal gain from partial differences in the morning sunshine.

Moonshine is a different story altogether, but then it would be given the historical context you find yourself in every month end or so. Withered withers bespoke the last of its country fairs of fair maidens and clunky knights in the armor of sausages and spiral hams. Detested contestants of ancient mariners took the A’s into extra innings where the albatross fluttered over the outfield as the local eye in the sky, asking why the lights are so dim. You finally breathe a sigh of desire when the eye of the fire unleashes the tiger of destiny.

But whatever you did with the bacon and butter did what needed doing in resolving the partial differences in the evening sunset, the afternoon sunset being so long forgotten.

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Heirlooms of lukewarm mirrors

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Reading Ulysses in Montana #198

Hungry for more, you took less than they deserved and served the curved partita on a plate of banana-encrusted stoneware.

Next up, the founding flounders of Flanders that you heard about as a child on your uncle’s knee, but even then you suspected he was only joking, or simply lying through his teeth. You wouldn’t fall for that now, but you might be perpetuating such silliness in the stillness of the night of nights, longest days and shortest nights notwithstanding. Pins and needles are no match for the vague smiles you throw at the mirror at the close of day, but mirrors have secrets of their own, and begrudge you nothing but uncertain jars of library jam.

Your aunt in Hungary plays the partita on her banana-encrusted piano, and you know the joke’s been on you ever since.

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Catering the errant harbor

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Visit https://almostmeaningful.com/catering-the-errant-harbor | Reading Ulysses in Montana #363 | Oil painting in the style of John Singer Sargent of the cook in the kitchen and the cat on the window sill. Yellow.

Reading Ulysses in Montana #363

So you arrive at a place, but not your destination, and you wonder how far you have left to go.

Or to put it another way, having contemplated the cat on the window sill, maybe the place was your destination after all, or would be if you could see your way clearly enough to disengage your vigorous eye and see things as they really are. Refinements in some attributes profess the urgency of moving on to your final destination, but winds of change in scenery bring doldrums from time to time in which you give the cook the night off. Better spirits with heart and noble pratting urge you to put down the sails and your roots.

But no, you still have a destination, and this place is not it, so you join the cat in the window, the cook in the kitchen, and move on down the road, the winding, everlasting road.

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