A Dream

Oh boy, did I dream a dream I really liked…
     The other day I was thinking (now that in itself is a concept). These are my own personal categories of dreams, developed by many years of living, and attempting to be positive at the most trying periods of time. I doubt many of you out there haven’t experienced a bad dream now and then.
     Today, more than any other time in my life, I find myself desperately attempting the removal of the average things life keeps offering up. Plainly speaking, at the highest level a human may achieve we all remain in search of goals in what to date remains seemingly out of our reach.
     Before continuing to read, please imbibe a genius’s discriminating words from his glorious observations of life as he alone perceived it to be. I speak of a man; an Irishman I knew but never met, James Joyce.
James Joyce quotes from his novel, Ulysses:
“Think you’re escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.”
“Every life is in many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love, but always meeting ourselves.”
 “To learn one must be humble. But life is the great teacher.”
Molly Bloom’s 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.
– All from the pen of James Joyce –
     He spoke then, and they all listened to his words of love as he depicted it was, or should be, and he prayed though he had disclaimed himself from his rightful rearing as a Catholic in his country of Ireland. James Joyce knew in his heart he would one day become a Catholic again if only in fact he was the only other to know his heart remained open and truthful influencing the words he so gave the world.
     They say James Joyce was one of the first true modernist writers of his time. His credo was to say yes to life, with or without reservations for what it might or might not deliver. No minor truths were to be kept from his readers’ reach. James Joyce the scripter wasn’t a man of algorisms. He was driven by the truth of, and from his heart, and the rich overly and discernable use of alcohol. He died at age fifty-nine.
     Today, that guy, da harv, exists and creates his dreams within what he allows himself. His is an abstract “peace” while at the same time of life bearing a deep mistrust for those who choose to think for him; today for his children and new generations to come. 
     When da harv dreams his wonderful dreams, they come free form, void of mitigation, and free of judgments; never with a political bent driven by spirals, trying desperately to stay aloof from those in my employ or life’s work, in their sacred attempts at telling me what I should or shouldn’t be thinking.
…And if you like, a touch more about James Joyce:
     “James Joyce was born in Dublin in 1882, the oldest of ten children in a Catholic family. He attended Jesuit schools and, in 1904, moved first to Trieste, then Paris, with Nora Barnacle; they married in 1931. After publishing his first novel. In 1916, Joyce developed glaucoma, and his eyesight steadily diminished for the rest of his life. His seminal novel Ulysses was published by his friend Sylvia Beach out of her Paris bookstore.”
Source: https://www.mhpbooks.com/books/the-dead/
     Often, but not told and understood by, our youth of today is beautifully responsible for the endearing successes of the vibrant constant searching of our American intellectual expatriates of the very late and early years of the nineteen-hundreds.
     Like so many literary strugglers before he arrived, James Joyce was in his own constant search. Paris became truly his city of lights. Sylvia Beach was a glistening tribute to those creatives who had the courage to venture forth from their own beginnings in Ireland. Joyce considered Sylvia Beach not only beneficial as his publisher but his financial backer during his most lean years.
The immigrants he loved dearly
His books treasured sincerely
Taking this poor lad
On trips around worlds
He dreamed of
Alas, he never had
All those places
Above all the people
Not seeing them
Yet seeing them
Come to life
If only when
In his life
He’s living a dream
Image(s) Source: Google Images

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