It is 10:15 am, 16 June 2004. I have applied for a job at an R.M. Williams store (renamed 'Williams the Shoeman') and am compiling my creative writing portfolio in preperation for handing it in. At 11:30 I will spend a second day trying out for a job at a sandwich shop, and at 6 I will meet some friends to drink and read Ulysses.

I've been following riverrun's advice in his A nice cool glass of Joyce node, anotating my copy of Ulysses with notes about the day. There's been a Boland Funeral Home and a toothless man on the bus raving random deathcries; both may prove profitable.

There are tirbutes on the radio and yesterday the Sydney Morning Herald ran an editorial noting that the entire novel is based on a wank and thus all who celebrate it are, by definition, wankers. I'm not sure how true that is.

While doing research for my paper, I found that Anthony Burgess adapted the book into a play. Being something of a Philistine I know him only from Clockwork Orange and a wonderful vision of this play has formed in my head. The image of Stephen Dedalus and Buck Mulligan walking around Dublin beating up old men while singing snatches of Irish showtunes is a plausible and entertaining one, made more potent by my tutor's obsession with Stanley Kubrick.

Episode 16: Circe 12:49am

Our hero, having met friends at the Clare Hotel for a Bloomsday reading that suffered from bad sound, has come home rather then face further dissapointment. He was chatted up by a young girl (18) who asked 'Are you a geek?' and seemed quite interested as he briefly summerized today's book... but left soon after without gving or getting a phone number. Later, after the readings, our hero spoke to the lovely Rose, who had dancing eys and told him (in what he suspects was a quote) to 'let your dreams defy gravity'. No numbers were exchanged or recieved (the friends our hero made that Sydney Writers' Festival thus remaining uncontactable, more ships in the night of the naked city.

To his credit, he successfully navigated his way to the bus stop and now, returning home, reflects on a day with no wanking, no handjobs, and no absinthe. The Guiness in his belly sits heavily as he realizes that, last week, he slipslapslopped together a paper on the very work he defends so eloquently and wonders why his mind, once again, betrayed him.

(I know i did the technique wrong-- mentally, i'm at Eumaeus, with thoughts skating every which way. I had Thai for dinner, but it was too small... i ate none of the food in the book unless coffee and Guiness count as food, though i am wearing secondhand pants and one of those Irish flatcaps)