James Joyce: An Exhaustion at the

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                                                                                Gurpreet Singh

                                                                                1st Period English

                                                                                Mr. Little

                                                                                December 5th, 2003

James Joyce: An Exhaustion at the “Araby”

        I doubt there are book logs that commence with a note directing a reader, specifically you, even though I get the impression from Mr. Little to whom riding between pairs of glasses suggesting that in order to gather a bounty against my beloved head I must be obliged to  fathoming on how to receive topic sentences with cradling arms and craters of dimples (have to love formalities, even of those lolling head-stumps,  after all, it keeps  NATO  all trite and content with tying bow ties  as a substitute for tying “no comments” with the press, or if there are annotations, they habitually orbit around: NATO headquarters dinner order for "take out the Chinese" was grossly misunderstood). Nevertheless, off it goes: this specific book log was completed in a week’s time past upon that of receiving an anthology of Joyce’s works, and thus focuses on a signature piece that I would be akin to exhausting minus any previous impressions received from Joyce’s complementary works as that of the portrait. The following is a hub of focus for a sole work that I first put my eyes on, one I inherently had the benefit of, and then again, a reassurance that Mr. Singh did not instigate a recall of Joyce’s added works; they merely came after. And for all the rock we taste as Mother Earth, the preceding just came out as a declaration of copyrights as a liability against litigation funds (a perfectly fit moment to mutter a: my bad).

        Canadian navigator busy extolling virtues of Celine Dion. The foremost most moments of virtue. Yvannah Persuad. A pixie-like face. Stern. Brown eyes clouding with concern. A sharp detour in the upper folds of jaws, an overlapping tooth in the midst of twenty-eight more. Seven creases. Three under the eye of right. Four under the eye of left. Weighing the eyes down towards the nose in that exotic oriental downcast of the eyes. Those almond eyes. Oh, how much I would give to peel those almonds, skin them alive, crack them in half, and enjoy. Oh how much would I. As much as a conception of a two-month venture to be in of six inches from her face. The New York State Fair. Soft, bubbly, curvy. Tall, foaming, jolly. And yet I scoffed at the brandishing of sluts. Seducer. Outright cheat. Bitch. Queen of flirts. The invincible Gurpreet: how can his first love of choice be nothing but bliss? My choice was seldom wrong. Seldom. Was. A characteristic bliss at that, those means of achieving it as a two-month grueling streak. Smeared in the aftermath of deodorant in evidence of wet-spots. I must’ve has an allergy to those seventy-nine cent deodorants. I must’ve. That gosh darn liquor store. Two months in its wake. Two hours a day. Everyday. Ever a day. An odyssey of its effect: a bulging right pocket of a pair of three-day old Levi’s jeans with a tatter and fray up three inches on the right leg. My tests with bleach. A fashioned Yankees cap pulled to the side. My tests with razors. Shining lips. My tests with Chap-stick. Hash tests. And her gosh darn plea: “I forgot.” Sure as hell you did, because you know what Ms. Persuad, at the very least, the three twenties, seven singles, two quarters, and 6 dimes, were catered off to a lone cause. My cause. Screw the shared causes. For then again, I too just so happened to have forgotten.    

        Chinese embassy "just too shiny to ignore." Head over heals. The heals never left the soil. Effectively implying that the head now deserves a round of Band-Aids? Effectively implying that the head could not altogether infringe upon the impact of soil? Mangan’s sister. Joyce’s correlation with virgin ecstasies. The prostitute with a motherly bosom. A warm welcome. M’s sister, an effective name, caught in the ever so expanding pupils of the eye. The more of the radiance she received. The more hoots the pupils threw forth. A tribute of howls by the time Joyce was through with sudden strokes of effective hands. M-sis equates with light. No M-sis, a y-intercept with gloom. “Her dress swung as she moved her body and the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side.” Everything freezes. All the anthologies of Mother Earth. A halt. Not a step forward. Not a step tracing the preceding step. In utter conviction with silence. Yet that orbit of rendezvous drawn between two pupils and a trace of light, exists, unfrozen, molten. The exceptions of Mother Nature. A true love. An arousal. Holy shidders. Joyce’s hand had it going. Effectively exceptional. Exceptionally well. All the power to him.

        Just tryin' to impress the chicks. That orbit traces. Multiple circles of beauty. Exotic erotica. The circles clutch. The circles mock. The circles squeeze. The circles juice. The circles mop. Amen. Psychologists brand it as the flux of discovering a sexual identity. All the power to you as well. Do you then believe that confusion of one’s passion relies in an erect penis? What confusion? Analyze the mind of the male, not the fact that adolescence brings it to the knees, or the lower hips where the limbs meet so to speak. Permission to speak. Has been granted. The mind of a male not in total respect to passionately hammering M-sis. Yet the mind of a male to what extents it would conceive to achieve that goal. Strategize. Organize. Improvise. To what extent will a scorching path drafting circles, paths unfolding at the seams of eyes, those seven creases divided into that ungodly conformity of three and four, ever so do the favor of attainment? Joyce’s personification, J-per (an effective name as well of improv, one minus the sexual drive), coincides with a rebuttal of sight, sound, taste, smell, and let alone the touch. That suave touch to driving the margins. External stimuli. A process. A correlation of internal stimulus. An output of external stimuli. Then the reception. Seek a figure. Dwell the figure, either of those of wet-dreams or thyself in scolding firewood. Mopping those wet-dreams. The figure effectively welcoming the drift. A clear-cut definition of a human process minus a few quirks and the steam. Is then not love a human process? A clear-cut definition of love on my behalf: a mutual exploitation of traits. Mine. And not yours. Not then a dried out version, no clear cuts. No clean cuts. The question abounds to as for J-per, is it then love or the diction of hailing the great dictator, a hormonal excessiveness equaling that of the downfall of Viagra? One can “waste my waking and sleeping thoughts.” One can most certainly chaff “against the work of school.” One will, without a doubt receive an “Eastern enchantment” as the “soul luxuriated” into “wandering thoughts.” Double-meanings. Love or sex? The folly of man-kind.                   Pilot playing Kosovo bingo needed B5, not G2. Is there then an indoctrinated privilege to point fingers? Whom to blame, whom to blame? “Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.” Swirling emotions, all in the head of either a penis, or that of a schoolboy, either that of love, or hammering M-sis. Either way, the micro-cosms of blame revolve not around the instigators themselves, yet what instigates them. After all, blame is an integral part of our society, or perhaps Mr. Kevin’s (am I progressing down that ladder of formalities yet?) mother may have not been born if there were no mass-producing facilities that her father hadn’t been employed in support for the birth of a child. No war. No Mr. Little. Driven and derided by vanity. J-per’s reflections on the “charitable” life of the priest who occupied his house. A small wonder if the priest led a life of vanity. A small world it is. His early obsession with Mangan’s sister now seems, as a matter of fact, it is, in vain. “I had never spoken to her ... and yet her name was like a summons to my foolish blood.” Ashamed and ridiculed. The blame: the handicapped ability to communicate with M-sis. As for the disability, I’m sure J-per compensates with effective strokes.

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A waste is blame. A waste of breath is blame. A waste of bed-time thrashing is blame. The distraction of anticipation. A recollection of the “hardly any patience with the serious work of life.” The thwarting bash of his face.  The near total worthlessness. The time J-per arrives in vanity. Driven, fueled by vanity as well. Simple conversations with M-sis focus his orbits to regarding the bazaar, the glory that will be the bazaar. Every minor detail in connection to a radiant love/lust is hyped. Every curve. Every road. Every eye. Every lamp. Every smile. Every dawn.

        Male pilots ...

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