The Writer's Life 11/6 - Ulysses

A rainy day in NYC led to a lot of rest. Here’s an excerpt from one of my unpublished novels, American Ulysses. I've read James Joyce’s Ulysses twice and understood maybe ten percent of it, so I took a crack at writing a version that anyone with an interest in the unconscious would understand. Although it is one day in the life of the main character, based on me, it culls incidents from many days in order to be made more interesting. In this scene he is riding the subway to work, reading about the earthquake that disrupted the 1989 World Series. It’s a few minutes read:

He skimmed through a few articles about television and radio, bypassed the horse racing section, and came upon a page devoted entirely to the resiliency of the Bay Area’s baseball fans.
What’re they supposed to do -- wallow? That’s the way people are -- glad to survive. Life’s one test after another. Can’t believe the morons who wanted the Series cancelled. 70,000 cheer ed the ‘niners on at Palo Alto. 60,000 at Candlestick last night. Life goes on -- the harshest of realities. When you’re six feet under people’ll be livin’, partyin’, workin’, humpin’ and suff erin’. Let the relatives of the dead mourn. Rest of us’ll cele brate bein’ alive. Life, the biggest show of all, must go on. Never know when your number’ll be up, so you better do what you gotta do while you got the chance. "Gather ye rosebuds…."* Don't fritter away time. Do enough of that as it is. Shouldn’t wallow in grief when what we feel’s joy, relief at havin’ survi ved. Couldn’t get mad at Harlo when he laughed at Pa’s wake. That’s the way he is -- full of life. Only hope Ollie’s mother forgave you for sayin’ the "F" word at his father’s wake. Dumb, unbelievably dumb. What got into you? Leisurely pace threw you. Sick for months. Relief he was dead, atta pain. Ten feet from the casket. Forgot where you were. Classic faux pas. Talkin’ about the market, with enthusiasm, no less. "You wouldn't be lieve how fuckin’ stupid some of those guys are." Ollie’s eyes spread for a second. Peeked over toward his mother. Didn’t say a word, thank God. Knew you meant no disrespect. Surprised at the source. You, who hardly ever cursed, least ‘til you started workin’ down there. Second nature now. Momentary lapse. Never live it down in your own mind, either. Can’t take it back, ‘nother one of life’s harsh realities -- no editin’ once the word’s atta your mouth. Least it wasn’t malicious, somethin’ to be really ashamed of (you’re not ashamed of it enough?). And over what? -- the market! You -- who couldn’t care less.
*To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

Vic's 4th novel: tinyurl.com/bszwlxh

Vic's 3rd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3

Vic's Short Story on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/k95k3nx
Vic's Short Story Collection: http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
Vic's 2nd Novel: http://tiny.cc/0iHLb Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/kx3d3uf
Vic's 1st Novel: http://tiny.cc/rP7o9

Vic's Rom-Com Screenplay: http://tinyurl.com/kny5llp

Vic's Horror Screenplay: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3f

Vic's Blog: http://vicfortezza.blogspot.com/

Vic's Web Site: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/