7/14/21There was a moo cow comin down the road and the road had a bit of a sway. Well it wasn’t really a moo cow and its wasn’t really a road, these two conlmpklidations aside. The road was a bridge. It waved in the wind, not that there was wind, but there was natural sway to everything that the baby saw, which is the third complication, for what the baby sees or thinks is to be accounted for. Of course the cow swayed while it walked but the road was not as solid a road as we might like. These two problems affect the baby who also sways, which to understand means just that the affronted sights and images and sounds come and go. The ones that stick are the moocow and the road itself waving back and forth in the waving world.
Like partitions that separate the rooms of first memories, the long white tile bathrooms, the mouths of children like himself just across the way from his back porch behind the bars of the orphanage, the cries of his brother being interrogated with matches about matches. They sway in permanent canvases along with many others. It suggests a caldron that cooks together all this and more, the smells especially of the homes and the feel of the air which lodge in his awareness and are remembered as they are but which justify turning the facts of moocows and roads into something else to state the absurdity of being born in the middle of it all, which is discovered sequentially in arbitrary bits and pieces which just occur; they are caused they are just there. So the baby at the mercy of the world and that part of it his birth obtains and that place and that family has to think it happenstance until proved otherwise, proved caused, but not by any power of causation he knows, as if whatever it is doesn’t matter. It is a test and the outer facts mirror the inner which demand them, as if he were already formed in his forming and reason he remembers these particular events because they were waiting for him there. It’s a good thing he only has to figure this for himself, but he wonders if anybody else doesn’t come over the same road. Surely they came by boat as he did, crossed the waters in their splashdown. So to make sense of any of it he makes up stories about it and mocks other stories. Eventually he comes to where his story is the only one that matters. By then the road bridge has stopped swaying back and forth and holds still. He makes it still. It is all that matters. Everything that matters to the child is already in him and when he sees he recognizes himself, whatever these things are that just happen get passed on likely. His grandfather punished his father for riding his bike and being late for dinner so the father demands the son be punctiual at meals. Simple things. Orphanges, bloody noses, honeysuckle arbors, white rooms, tiled hallways, extreme actions of exuberance.
[[joyce is the poet of memory of the moo cow coming down the road the memor without a memory until it is reminded by the voice. He remembers childhood, adolescence, young manhood, and most of all the mind of th woman feeling on her bed her memory of all that matters that she remembers but does not know she does because the memory passes as the voicde of her thoughts fade in the day, but the night coice remembers over and over and her thought stream unspoken is the unspoken that cannot be heard in the day and that is the cow in its barn that is a picture of the man in is life remembering not.Often of simple sensation, hot and cold, the texture of aface on a face, feelsings made up of thougandsds of daily sensations out of which the thouhts arise and come around to the mind as its memories of events, but all these have many tiny parts that built this house
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