...she presented a naked white countenance to the faultfinding light of spring.

"He must be always on his guard and devote every minute and module of life to the decoding of the undulation of things. The very air he exhales is indexed and filed away. If only the interest he provokes were limited to his immediate surroundings, but, alas, it is not! With distance, the torrents of wild scandal increase in volume and volubility. The silhouettes of his blood corpuscles, magnified a million times, flit over vast plains; and still farther away, great mountains of unbearable solidity and height sum up, in terms of granite and groaning firs, the ultimate truth of his being."

What many mistake for narcissim...

And here we are. Ready as ever for round two. I've been hunting the ghost, and mostly successful in my attempt, until this weekend, when I was foolish and trotted, cantered, loped backwards only to awake with a terrible headache.

that is precisely what Franklin Delanor Roosevelt said moments before his death. His last words, in fact: "I have a terrible headache."
If I have to liken it to a death sequence then I will gladly interpret my apotheosis. I tire of needing love. Disappointment is cumbersome. I'm eliminating the memory of him and all my silly short-comings. I want to walk off the tarmac, shoulders erect, anxious and anticipatory of all the beauty to follow. I know this is possible, even if Nabokov (see: above) negates it.

Stumbled upon an incredible compilation of independent and electronic artists who cover James Joyce's "Chamber Music" poems.
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=91757715
It's nothing incredibly inventive, but the lyricism and supplementary illusive sounds- the cadence, the verse lifted in beat is pulled off in execution. I think differently of the poem when presented in such a medium. That's to suggest, I don't often attribute an electronic base to grandiose verse, so in listening I'm more apt to summon newfound meaning. Something saucy. Something contemporary. Sure, that may cheapen it some, but it has me reassessing Joyce, and that's something few contemporary artists can do to date.

My post-secret was posted. I was so concerned that the he it was not written for would assume I had him in mind, but in the end what does it matter, his interpretation? I chose to sleep soundly. I've excavated the pea.

I am madly in love with this life.