Savannah, Jambalaya and Joyce.

Copyright © 2011 Bob R Bogle



By way of Minnesota, my friend Melissa left with her family this afternoon on a long arc to Savannah.  Contrary to the expectations of some who know me, I confirm forthwith that I did not smuggle myself on board her flight.  I did stop on the way home from work this morning for jambalaya ingredients, however, which have been in the crock pot all day.  Smells pretty good. . . .

Thoughts of Savannah and New Orleans. . . .But today being St Patrick's Day and all, my thoughts also bend necessarily to Joyce.  Always up for a quote from Ulysses.

Going under the railway arch he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly in shreds and scattered them towards the road. The shreds fluttered away, sank in the dank air: a white flutter then all sank.

Henry Flower. You could tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in the same way. Simple bit of paper. Lord Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure cheque for a million in the bank of Ireland. Shows you the money to be made out of porter. Still the other brother lord Ardilaun has to change his shirt four times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice or vermin. A million pounds, wait a moment. Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon of porter. One and four into twenty: fifteen about. Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter.

What am I saying barrels? Gallons. About a million barrels all the same.

An incoming train clanked heavily above his head, coach after coach. Barrels bumped in his head: dull porter slopped and churned inside. The bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing together, winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.

He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Stepping into the porch he doffed his hat, took the card from his pocket and tucked it again behind the leather headband. Damn it. I might have tried to work M'Coy for a pass to Mullingar.

Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend John Conmee S. J. on saint Peter Claver and the African mission. Save China's millions. Wonder how they explain it to the heathen Chinee. Prefer an ounce of opium. Celestials. Rank heresy for them. Prayers for the conversion of Gladstone they had too when he was almost unconscious. The protestants the same. Convert Dr. William J. Walsh D. D. to the true religion. Buddha their god lying on his side in the museum. Taking it easy with hand under his cheek. Josssticks burning. Not like Ecce Homo. Crown of thorns and cross. Clever idea Saint Patrick the shamrock. Chopsticks? Conmee: Martin Cunningham knows him: distinguished looking. Sorry I didn't work him about getting Molly into the choir instead of that Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. They're taught that. He's not going out in bluey specs with the sweat rolling off him to baptise blacks, is he? The glasses would take their fancy, flashing. Like to see them sitting round in a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. Still life. Lap it up like milk, I suppose.

Well right now I'm finishing the critique and criticism of a new novel by a friend of mine.  Three more chapters to go.  That's good because it gives me time to reflect on Memphis Blues Again before I start revising it.  Thrusting it down to marinate subconsciously for a little while before I start uploading it.  The first several chapters require some significant revisions and I have to decide exactly how to rearrange some of the furniture before posting any of it here.  But have no fear. . . .some of my fundamental structural concerns are beginning to gel.  So I do hope the first pages of the text will begin to appear on this site within the coming seven to ten days or so.  Stay tuned.