Seeds I Sow

I've lately been in a negative rut. On top of that, I am reading Ulysses and Bloom's frequently untraceable streams of consciousness get a little discouraging at times -- until today, when I came across a passage that quelled my woes. 

From Episode 8, Laestrygonians ~

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs In the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweet and sour with spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky grumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her; eyes, her lips, her stretched neck, beating, womans breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.

...

Not only is this passage so vivid and warm, but the syntax is actually fluent to the content. If I have to read 160 more pages to reach another image like this, I am so in it for the long haul. ahhhhhhh sigh, pitter pat. Love, I can relate to, daily humdrummings of a guy rambling around Dublin, not sold yet. And there of course is the inevitable confusion of reading Joyce without companion be it prof or text. At least there is shmoop. On top of that, I have my own erratic stream to follow. I'm getting there. That's enough humble honesty for today.