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[thejejunejesuit]

[Voice Post;]
((The sound of waves, water, water on sand, restless, never resting. The sound of wind, wind on water, wind on sand, restless, never resting. The sound of footsteps, feet on sand, feet on stone.))

((A voice:))

Comments

[do_you_bleed]

You ever thought about writing a book?

[thejejunejesuit]

O, more than once. The depth and breadth and height of times I thought of writing a book. There are journals, there are the epiphanies, there are the notes. They would have letters for titles, deeply deep, and not in order, no. Not Aleph, Alpha. Begin elsewhere, let the letter stand for something more, unrelated. V. Yes, more than once. And more than once while here, the depth and breadth and height of the people crossed and crossed over with here.

[Voice]

[silk_for_calde]

I can't pretend to comprehend half of what you've said, Stephen Dedalus... But you've reminded me of something I had wanted to ask you, about language. They speak French, in your whorl? It took me a moment to recognize it, though I didn't understand much.

[Voice]

[thejejunejesuit]

C'est tordant, vous savez. Moi je suis socialiste. Je ne crois pas en l'existence de Dieu. Faut pas le dire à mon père. Il croit? Mon père, oui. Oui, oui, we have it in my whorl and o, to be in amidst it again. Paris rawly rising, sungold, sungleaming, strewn with bitter dews, and the slow slumbering turningoveragain waking of it. Why sleep? Paris.

Yes, French. Savez-vous?

[Voice]

[silk_for_calde]

Un peu, I think you would say? I understand a little of it, though I didn't study it closely. It's not a spoken language in my whorl, really; at least not in Viron, though perhaps it's better known in other cities. I cannot say. There exist some books, though, from the Short-sun whorl, I presume. Latin, too, which you have also spoken.

How curious, to hear it here. What is Paris?

[Voice]

[thejejunejesuit]

There such strange lap and overlap between your whorl and my whirl--whorl. Think of two whirlpools alongside--and it must be a whirlpool, if we are to take the other man, the scarred man, at his word when he speaks of the Apocalypse. Apocrocryptica, Apocrophica, Apolocryptica. I like to call it my whorl. I've adopted it, the world. Whorl. Because it makes sense, to think, spinning in infinity as we are, or so we are told, the great chain of being or the threaded spheres across the sky, aligned or misaligned. I preferred the stories of the augurs to the ones of the astrologers, but the ideas are still in my mind.

It is a city, like this one, but unlike this one, the place to which I flew, oversea and overland, and the place from which I was recalled with one line

--Mother dying come home father

It is a city.