MuseLetter \’myüz-‘le-tər noun
1: a personal message, inspired by a muse of one's own creation, addressed to a person or organization, in the course of which, the sender becomes absorbed in thought; especially turning something over in the mind meditatively and often inconclusively.
2: a letter from a poet, or one who envisions oneself as such, in which he or she “muses” on that which is perceived to be news, or newsworthy, usually in some ironic or absurd way.
Here Comes the Sun, and Here They Will Come
If we thought summer had already arrived because in accordance with an outdated rule of thumb– first issued by the fashion police in the 1950’s– that white clothing should only be worn between Memorial Day and Labor Day, i.e. the summer months... we are mistaken. It will not officially arrive until Thursday June 20th (4:51 PM EDT). In one case, literarily, making its way through stone. As in Stonehenge. And they will come. Almost 10,000 strong. If not at that exact time, then on that day.
These revelers will include Druids, pagans, old-time hippies, local residents, and tourists, many dressed in colorful costumes. Some will sing and raise their arms, and try to touch the ancient stones. (Roped off and no longer permitted).
It is also expected that well over 150,000 people from around the world will view the sun making it's grand entrance, by way of livestream. Which I will do if I can figure out how. Though while I’m “old school,” not quite 3,000 BC old-school. Which is when archeologists believe construction of Stonehenge first began. And took much time to complete. (Did you ever get a contractor who completed a job on time?)
At the risk of TMI...
“Archaeologists believe that Stonehenge was constructed in several phases from around 3100 BC to 1600 BC, with the circle of large sarsen stones placed between 2600 BC and 2400 BC.
Erected in two concentric arrangements – an inner horseshoe and an outer circle – and the bluestones were set up between them in a double arc.
One of the most famous landmarks in the United Kingdom, Stonehenge is regarded as a British cultural icon. It has been a legally protected monument since 1882....'Pendulous rocks are now called henges in Yorkshire'..." (Wikipedia)
While it’s situated in a rather remote area of the U.K., it is only a two-hour ride out of London, so I'm told.
But what’s up with that sunup? The view of the solstice sunrise from Stonehenge is so perfect, scientists have wondered for centuries if its builders intentionally made it as a stage for the solstice. For on that day,the sun rises behind the so called Heel Stone in the northeast part of the horizon and its first rays shine into the heart of Stonehenge. Now, most experts are somewhat certain, that this alignment was intentional, and that the rocks were strategically placed to showcase both summer and winter solstices. But with no writing from the era of its construction (via styluses and tablets of course), a lot is left to speculation and imagination.
In the 1700s, William Stukeley, an English antiquarian, physician and Anglican clergyman, popularized the theory that Stonehenge was a temple for, and built by, the Druids. Practitioners of a Celtic spiritual tradition considered to be similar to modern Pagans. Some of whom, to the present day, believe it is their given right to worship there. An equivalent of coming to a church, cathedral or temple such as done by those of Judeo-Christian beliefs. Whether or not that may be the case, the need for ritual seems timeless and inherent in the course of human existence. And if there is an excuse to celebrate, why not?
Though no Druid am I, nor a particular fan of the sun, having once written a poem within which I referred to it rather disparagingly...
That some would lay themselves bare
To a devil’s eye that seers the flesh –
Fools that they are for daring to adore
That which never asked for their love –
It’s the flowers who are the children of the sun
... I plan to tune in.
When it Was More Than Just a Game
Boscia was this big kid bopping baseballs
over chain link fences—
he hit one once
off Butchie Castellano
a rainbow framing the Manhattan Bridge
that might have ended up in Canarsie—
it brought Castellano to his knees
as if about to sing an aria;
face buried in hands
a bleeding goat on the mound.
At short, Vazzano assailed the ground
with big league language
and a wad of fake chew
as Boscia rumbled on by
each giant step closer to home
leaving us naked, alone with our names
to face the father
who we the son let down;
the Holy Ghost
nowhere to be found.
Quote of the Month
The conclusion of Molly Bloom's 22,000-word soliloquy:
"...I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."
Of course, this is Ireland. But in lesser fashion, Bloomsday is celebrated in so many countries including the UK, Italy, Australia, Canada, New Zealand, the Czech Republic, Switzerland, Hungary, France, Latvia and right here in the U.S.
Here’s a thumbnail of some cities in our country, which celebrate the day; some of which might be surprising.
-
Washington D.C. (Georgetown) A 33-hour marathon reading of the entire book. What with its concluding soliloquy of Bloom’s wife Molly, which goes on for 2 ½ uninterrupted hours in itself.
-
Los Angeles, with selected readings from the book at the Hammer Museum (an annual event which I’ve attended)
-
Syracuse (at the James Joyce Club)
-
The Portlands...Oregon and Maine
-
Oh little town of Bethlehem, PA (Pop. 78,000)
-
Of other larger cities...Philadelphia, Cleveland, Phoenix, Kansas City
-
Of other smaller...Wichita, Norfolk, Tulsa (University of Tulsa publishes the James Joyce Quarterly)
-
New York, of course.
Regarding this last, there are two events that I will be attending. The first, as a member of the Irish American Writers & Artists (I, being of Italian extraction... a variation on the old "You don’t have to be Jewish to love Levy’s real Jewish rye" ad comes to mind)—the annual Shout in the Street Bloomsday Celebration! With the reading of excerpts from Ulysses and special musical guests. (Scheduled on the 15th so as to avoid potential Fathers Day conflicts). This event is partnered with the James Joyce Society and Dive 106 Bar.
And with...”Buck Mulligan came from the the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed....” let the book and that day begin.
Ulysses
Considered a literary masterpiece, it is not an easy book to navigate, steeped as it is in a stream of consciousness. Predominantly, by way of the mind of one of the book’s three main characters, Leopold Bloom; a half-Jewish (?) advertising sales rep.
How could it be smooth sailing when Joyce, in indulgent defiance, wrote in a manner absent any literary guardrails. Changing writing styles as he went along. A novel. A play. A soliloquy. A what-have-you.
This changing of genres in mid-stream struck me as something similar to what Melville had created in Moby-Dick; my last summer’s reading project. Yet I’ve read nothing suggesting Joyce was predated by Melville in this manner. And by 70 years no less. Which is unfair in my view, to attribute this ground-breaking style to Joyce. Not to suggest that the two books at their core are alike. No, Melville was of the sea. Joyce was of the universe. Which is how he viewed Dublin in its day-to-day particulars.
Certainly he was unprecedented what with his “complex network of symbolic parallels,” allusions to other novels, invented puns, plays on words (“I beg you parsnips,” say Alf. And who by the way is Alf?), and with malice aforethought in the murdering of virtually every rule of grammar. And how to describe that interior monologue of Molly, Bloom’s wife? Which goes on for 22,000 words with virtually no punctuation? Yet, so readable. So compelling. Which single handedly may have been responsible for Ulysses being banned.
One prosecutor, who only read that part of the book, declared: “There is a great deal of filth and obscenity.” And to think such “obscenity” coming from the mind of a woman? Which is what must have been an underlying reason for cultural and sexual shock.
Clearly, Joyce believed that as there is no limit to the subjects on which the mind might dwell, so there are no longer any limits to what can find its way into fiction. And even in the confusion at times as to what exactly is going on here, I would be stopped by a piece of high-brow humor or a low- brow dirty joke.
Take a discussion about Shakespeare for example, wherein one character (and there are 112 of them, as I counted in a Cliffs Notes summary) says:
“Shakespeare is the happy hunting grounds of all minds that have lost their balance.”
And as for William Shakespeare’s wife Ann Hathaway, there is a bad pun suggesting that the bard is a cuckhold?
“If other’s have their will Ann hath a way.”
Yes, the struggle between men and women, their wants and needs, gets a going over. Afterall, Bloom’s wife is about to embark on an affair that day in their very bed.
Bloom: (Bitterly) Man and woman, love, what is it? A cork and bottle.
In the midst of it all, a line of pure poetry might suddenly appear.
The summer evening had begun to fold the world in its embrace.
You find palindromes fun? So does Joyce.
Madam, I’m Adam. And, Able was I ere I saw Elba.
And perhaps prescient of the priest scandal in the Catholic church that would one day come, this line veritably jumps off the page:
The tree of forbidden priest.
This last hardly being a fleeting one-liner. Joyce being born and raised a Catholic and now forever assailing the religion (think Bill Maher), the book is venomous in regards to the Holy Roman Catholic Church. Often reverting to the Latin of the mass in his mockery, which was the spoken language of this rite in his (and my) day. As an altar boy, pre-1960, it brought back memories. One particular prayer response, I still find myself saying in the muscle memory of the Latin at Sunday mass. And getting a weird look from those around me reciting properly in English.
Vere dignum et justum est.
(It is right and just)
Joyce’s obsession with Catholicism begins with the opening lines of Ulysses, in a parody of the beginning of a Catholic mass.
He held the bowl (of shaving cream) aloft and intoned:
—Introibo ad altare Dei.
(I will go up to the altar of God)
With Joyce's repeated disdain for the church throughout the book, I couldn’t help remembering that line from Hamlet, "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."
Finally, just why is it titled Ulysses I used to wonder? Especially as it bears no obvious resemblance to Homer’s Odyssey. At least as far as I can remember from having read it over 60 years ago in a Greek and Latin Lit 101 course. But the best explanation that I’ve read on this score, in summary, is that Ulysses is more of a spoof than an homage. A sort of Alice Through Looking Glass view of Homer’s classic. Odysseus goes on a journey of twenty years from which he returns home to a faithful wife. Leopold Bloom goes on a one-day journey, from which he returns home to an unfaithful wife.
So, what is Joyce’s book about? Literature, life and the whole damn thing.
Word of the Month
Hibernophile Hi bern o phile
noun adjective
a person who is fond of Irish culture, Irish language and Ireland in general.
. . .
Despite the island's small geographic size, Ireland has traditionally been a phenomenal wellspring of significant cultural output, which historically had a strong influence on other neighboring countries in Britain, such as Scotland, Wales, England, and the Isle of Man, in various ways, especially in the areas of religion, education, art, music, and literature (Wikipedia)
Etymology
Originates from "Hibernia", the word used by the ancient Romans to refer to Ireland.
Used in a sentence
Everyone is a Hibernophile on St. Patrick's Day.
What Hath James Joyce Wrought?
An unintended day of celebration, born of a very much intended book. One which he said would... “keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that’s the only way of insuring one’s immortality.”
Bloomsday: “A Big F------ Deal”
To borrow Joe Biden’s expletive reaction caught on a hot mic to President Obama when “Obamacare” was passed, applied here, in reference to this so called Bloomsday. An unofficial holiday for bibliophiles and Hibernophiles.
Big in the sense of, what other day on a specific date coming out of a work of fiction is so celebrated worldwide? And at such a variety of locales large and small in our own country? Big, yet, under the radar really. Sooxymoronicllyjamesjoycean.
Bloomsday. A single day which encompasses the entire “action” of Joyce’s Ulysses; a plotless novel spanning some 780 pages. June 16, 1904 to be exact. An ordinary Thursday in Dublin. And seen mainly through the eyes and mind of the book’s protagonist Leopold Bloom, from which this day draws its name.
Bloomsday as we have come to know it, started in 1954 when a novelist and a playwright, John Ryan and Brian O'Nolan, organized a Ulysses-centric tour of Dublin, starting at Joyce's Tower in Sandycove, where the book begins. And in current day Dublin, as you might expect, they go all out. It’s not exactly Fat Tuesday in NOLA, but it goes far beyond a simple one-day acknowledgement of the book and its author.
Since 1994, their Bloomsday Festival is a weeklong affair involving a range of cultural activities which include Ulysses readings, dramatizations and pub crawls. Some enthusiasts even dressing in Edwardian costumes, and retracing the exact route that Bloom took that day, from the time he left his house that morning until he returned in the wee hours of the next day. In itself, not always an easy path to follow, as Joyce’s writing hardly has a GPS precision about it.
MuseLetter \’myüz-‘le-tər noun
1: a personal message, inspired by a muse of one's own creation, addressed to a person or organization, in the course of which, the sender becomes absorbed in thought; especially turning something over in the mind meditatively and often inconclusively.
2: a letter from a poet, or one who envisions oneself as such, in which he or she “muses” on that which is perceived to be news, or newsworthy, usually in some ironic or absurd way.
pre 2019
Here Comes the Sun, and Here They Will Come
If we thought summer had already arrived because in accordance with an outdated rule of thumb– first issued by the fashion police in the 1950’s– that white clothing should only be worn between Memorial Day and Labor Day, i.e. the summer months... we are mistaken. It will not officially arrive until Thursday June 20th (4:51 PM EDT). In one case, literarily, making its way through stone. As in Stonehenge. And they will come. Almost 10,000 strong. If not at that exact time, then on that day.
These revelers will include Druids, pagans, old-time hippies, local residents, and tourists, many dressed in colorful costumes. Some will sing and raise their arms, and try to touch the ancient stones. (Roped off and no longer permitted).
It is also expected that well over 150,000 people from around the world will view the sun making it's grand entrance, by way of livestream. Which I will do if I can figure out how. I’m “old school,” though not quite 3,000 BC old-school. Which is when archeologists believe construction of Stonehenge first began. And took much time to complete. (Did you ever get a contractor who completed a job on time?)
At the risk of TMI...
“Archaeologists believe that Stonehenge was constructed in several phases from around 3100 BC to 1600 BC, with the circle of large sarsen stones placed between 2600 BC and 2400 BC.
Erected in two concentric arrangements – an inner horseshoe and an outer circle – and the bluestones were set up between them in a double arc.
One of the most famous landmarks in the United Kingdom, Stonehenge is regarded as a British cultural icon. It has been a legally protected monument since 1882....'Pendulous rocks are now called henges in Yorkshire'..." (Wikipedia)
While it’s situated in a rather remote area of the U.K., it is only a two-hour ride out of London, so I'm told.
But what’s up with the sunup? The view of the solstice sunrise from Stonehenge is so perfect, scientists have wondered for centuries if its builders intentionally made as a stage for the solstice. For on that day,the sun rises behind the so called Heel Stone in the north-east part of the horizon and its first rays shine into the heart of Stonehenge. Now, most experts are somewhat certain, that this alignment was intentional, and that the rocks were strategically placed to showcase both summer and winter solstices. But with no writing from the era of its construction (via styluses and tablets of course), a lot is left to speculation and imagination.
In the 1700s, William Stukeley, an English antiquarian, physician and Anglican clergyman, popularized the theory that Stonehenge was a temple for, and built by, the Druids. Practitioners of a Celtic spiritual tradition considered to be similar to modern Pagans. Some of whom, to the present day, believe it is their given right to worship there. An equivalent of coming to a church, cathedral or temple such as done by those of Judeo-Christian beliefs. Whether or not that may be the case, the need for ritual seems timeless and inherent in the course of human existence. And if there is an excuse to celebrate, why not?
Though no Druid am I, nor a particular fan of the sun, having once written a poem within which I referred to it rather disparagingly...
That some would lay themselves bare
To a devil’s eye that seers the flesh –
Fools that they are for daring to adore
That which never asked for their love –
It’s the flowers who are the children of the sun
...I plan to tune in.
In Search of the Fountain (Pen) of Youth
According to myth, in 1513, Ponce de Leon went to what is now Florida, in search of the Fountain of Youth. In accordance with reality in 2024, I went to New Orleans in search of the fountain pen of my youth. And not coincidently of course, I also happened to be in town for Mardi Gras.
I didn’t find it exactly. The pen. But did do better than señor de Leon. At a place called Papier Plume. A name, not only the French, could love.
For one thing, they don’t make fountain pens any longer that have a side-lever refill mechanism. (And you're just finding this out?). Most come with cartridges. Although you can buy a “converter” so as to be able to fill it by hand with real ink. Which can be at times a bit messy, though ritualistically satisfying, as I have rediscovered it to be. For another, a “retro-looking” pen, in say, a tortoise shell design--- that my father had passed on to me (even a bartender had a great looking fountain pen back in the day)--- well, as an old uncle would say when something was expensive: “You go for your lungs in that place.” Thus, I settled on something modestly priced. And rather plain. A “Pilot,” made in Japan (of course).
Just as well. As in a senior moment, I would come to leave it in a pair of jeans that were literarily put through the ringer. Washer, dryer; the whole array of cycles of cleanliness. With the pen coming out capless and with the nib slightly bent, but still in working condition. (You might say in this case, the pen is at least as mighty as the sword?)
As I've written before, I learned to write in cursive at a tender age. And by the third grade, at nine years old, I was quite proficient at it. And perhaps, pathetically, I still have the paperwork to prove it.
The nuns who taught us, would only allow the use of fountain pens. And only filled with blue/black ink. Not black. Not blue. But blue/black, mister. At a time when the ballpoint pen had taken the nation by storm with the mass-marketed BIC which was introduced in 1950. But the good sisters thought that its usage would create bad writing habits. And so ballpoints were forbidden. (Perhaps even sinful?)
As for penmanship, almost a year ago, I waxed rhapsodic on the Declaration of Independence. On the words for as much in the beauty of their formation, as in their meaning. Not to mention the many benefits that have been attributed to writing by hand. Most recently...
“A study published in January found that when students write by hand, brain areas involved in motor and visual information processing "sync up" with areas crucial to memory formation, firing at frequencies associated with learning.” (Jonathan Lambert, Science Journalist).
But this time the emphasis is on the writing implement in and of itself. Capturing the essence of the writing experience, which I have missed all these years by trafficking in gel pens. A step up from ball points for sure, but not the real deal.
“Writing with a fountain pen is a sensory delight and a nostalgic connection to the art of penmanship. The joy of using a fountain pen lies in the experience itself, from the first stroke of ink to the final flourish.”(woodfountainpens.com)
Publications on and off-line are dedicated not only to the joys of writing but to the beauty of the pen itself. More than a hobby, for many, it is an obsession. There are a surprising number of “stilophiles” out there as I became aware of while purchasing of my second pen last month, at the Fountain Pen Hospital in Lower Manhattan. A place I had not known to exist until recently, though it has specialized in the selling of pens and ink almost exclusively, since 1946.
This time, and at more than double the price... I bought a .. A brand name that goes directly to my youth. But actually, more in terms of its iconic Tip-Fill design bottle of ink. Which I purchased in its original box online follow-
ing that aforementioned New Orleans purchase. With its definitive geometrically shaped prominence, it strikes me as being on a par with that of the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey (I can almost hear the swelling refrain of "Thus Spake Zarathustra" playing in the background).
But for all of the joys I’ve read about and experienced now regarding the fountain pen, beyond all of that, the use of one takes me back to a sense of my beginnings. And in so doing, am amazed that given the responsibility that is required in the care and maintenance of a fountain pen, I can’t imagine one in the hands of a nine-year old today, when you consider our snowflake, helicopter-parenting culture. (“Watch out for that nib; you’ll stab yourself!”).
But of little concern to me, for I have found my fountain of youth! And in so doing, harken back to the words of Wordsworth I've typed out and posted often over the years on these “pages,” that so resonate. And now with literally a new point to make of it.
Word of the Month
Hibernophile Hi bern o phile
noun adjective
a person who is fond of Irish culture, Irish language and Ireland in general.
. . .
Despite the island's small geographic size, Ireland has traditionally been a phenomenal wellspring of significant cultural output, which historically had a strong influence on other neighboring countries in Britain, such as Scotland, Wales, England, and the Isle of Man, in various ways, especially in the areas of religion, education, art, music, and literature (Wikipedia)
Etymology
Originates from "Hibernia", the word used by the ancient Romans to refer to Ireland.
Used in a sentence
Everyone is a Hibernophile on St. Patrick's Day.
What Hath James Joyce Wrought?
An unintended day of celebration, born of a very much intended book. One which he said would... “keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that’s the only way of insuring one’s immortality.”
Bloomsday: “A Big F------ Deal”
To borrow Joe Biden’s expletive reaction caught on a hot mic to President Obama when “Obamacare” was passed, applied here in reference to this so called Bloomsday. An unofficial holiday for bibliophiles and Hibernophiles.
Big in the sense of, what other day on a specific date coming out of a work of fiction is so celebrated worldwide? And at such a variety of locales large and small in our own country? Big, yet, under the radar? So oxymoronic. Sojamesjoycean.
Bloomsday. A single day which encompasses the entire “action” of Joyce’s Ulysses; a plotless novel spanning some 780 pages. June 16, 1904 to be exact. An ordinary Thursday in Dublin. And seen mainly through the eyes and mind of the book’s protagonist Leopold Bloom, from which this day draws its name.
In Dublin, as you might expect, they go all out. It’s not exactly Fat Tuesday in NOLA, but it goes far beyond a simple one-day acknowledgement of the book and it’s author.
Since 1994, their Bloomsday Festival is a weeklong affair involving a range of cultural activities which include Ulysses readings, dramatizations and pub crawls. Some enthusiasts even dressing in Edwardian costumes, and retracing the exact route that Bloom took that day, from the time he left his house that morning until he returned in the wee hours of the next day. In itself, not always an easy path to follow, as Joyce’s writing hardly has a GPS precision about it.
Of course you’d expect something on this order in Ireland. But in lesser fashion, Bloomsday is celebrated in so many countries including the UK, Italy, Australia, Canada, New Zealand, the Czech Republic, Switzerland, Hungary, France, Latvia and right here in the U.S. of A.
Here’s a thumbnail of some cities in our country, which celebrate the day; some of which might be surprising.
-
Washington D.C. (Georgetown) A 33-hour marathon reading of the entire book. What with its concluding soliloquy of Bloom’s wife Molly, which goes on for 2 ½ uninterrupted hours in itself.
-
Los Angeles selected readings from the book at the Hammer Museum (an annual event which I’ve attended)
-
Syracuse (at the James Joyce Club)
-
The Portlands...Oregon and Maine
-
Oh little town of Bethlehem, PA (Pop. 78,000)
-
Of other larger cities...Philadelphia, Cleveland, Phoenix, Kansas City
-
Of other smaller...Wichita, Norfolk, Tulsa (University of Tulsa publishes the James Joyce Quarterly)
-
New York, of course.
Quote of the Month
The conclusion of Molly Bloom's 22,000-word soliloquy:
"...I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."
Anchor Runs Out of Steam
It was only around for 127 years and was the oldest craft brewery in the United States, having begun in 1895.. Based in San Francisco, the Anchor Brewery, with its signature brand Anchor Steam, became as much beloved to the to the locals , as the Golden Gate Bridge. Which wouldn't arrive until 1933---thirty-eight years after.
.
"
"
The akrasia of New York Yankee great Mickey Mantle, can best
be summed up in his own words, in which he once said, that if he knew he was going to live so long, he would have taken better care of himself.
graphic design by Ron Vazzano
—Ron Vazzano
