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Joyce, James

A Painful Case

I’m sitting on what may be the most beautiful beach in the world, trying desperately to avoid dropping my computer into the chasms dug in the sand by last night’s hatching turtles, and trying even more desperately to explain to you why it’s been so long since I’ve flooded your Eustachians.

But the beach is no place to explain these things, and Bloomsday’s no day for self-absorption. I’ll come back soon on something nominally resembling a schedule, but in the meantime, Happy Bloomsday and keep your ears clean.

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Joyce, James

Clay, James Joyce

In some parts of the world, it’s Bloomsday already, and in yours, it may be at the end of a summery Friday work-day, so perhaps The Big Day will greet you just as you’re weeding through your feedreader with an icy drink by your side while you dip your legs in a pool full of barely-clad beauties, or something.

But even if your drink of choice is presently milk, and the only thing you can actively do with the human form in its natural state at the moment is admire from an envious distance, happy listening and Happy Bloomsday. If you’re still catching up, here’s the Bloomsday collection to-date.

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Joyce, James

Two Gallants by James Joyce

Bloomsday is here again, as you surely know, and as is my ritual, here’s another story from the Dubliners. This is the 7th such reading, and sometimes, the thought of keeping this up for eight more years to finish the collection is one I tend to avoid.

But to keep things spicy in the meantime and extend the celebration, I have recorded a hidden bonus track. Now, before you go randomly link-clicking, if you’re offended at all by utter filth, if you think the things that two consenting grownups do with the bodies of each should should only be done with a chorus of angels humming hymns in the background while doves fly overhead, then go elsewhere, please. If none of this is true, go listen to my joyous retelling of a naughty letter from Joyce to Nora. I mean it. FILTHY. I’m warning you.

Whatever your kinky streak, happy day. Here’s the Bloomsday collection to-date.

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Joyce, James

After the Race

Looking at the Bloomsday readings I’ve done to date, it’s evident that my written prefaces have become an absurd equivalent of squealing fangirlish bra-tossing. I may (OR MAY NOT!) be an excellent bra-tosser with perfect aim and pitch, and we all know that Joyce wouldn’t be one to have a problem with women’s undergarments tossed his way. But my first exposure to Joyce was in a sleepy little black shoebox theatre, where a troupe of mild-mannered turtlenecked barnstormers read from Dubliners from a stage decorated with high stools, and where I, underexposed and underage and over my head, had too much to drink and fell asleep in mid-performance.

It’s a confession I was embarrassed to make for years and years, but now I think it wasn’t so bad (my young indiscretion, that is; to this day, I still think the performance could’ve benefited from a little bra-tossing). If you’ve used the Joyce readings to-date successfully as soporific, here’s where we are, in reverse chronological order:

An Encounter, Eveline, Araby, The Sisters, and The Boarding House.

As you can see, only another few hundred years until I’m reading annual chapters of the Wake to you. Whether you snooze or send your undergarments airbound, Happy Bloomsday.

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Joyce, James

An Encounter

I’m so excited about Bloomsday that I’m sharing the love a day early this year. In fact, I was so excited that I almost went ahead and read all the stories from Dubliners that I haven’t yet done for you, but then it hit me that I’d have to move forward next year with my plan to do Ulysses in its entirety. And, well, I don’t know if I have the pipes for that yet. And I don’t know if you have the perseverance to listen to me indulge the Joyce itch. Because then I think, well, if I were to consider reading Ulysses, then what I really should do is find some balls and put them on the table (eh, proverbially) and read the Wake to you. And that’s just crazy thinking.

Meanwhile, Happy Bloomsday and here’s another from Dubliners.

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Joyce, James

Eveline

Were I a listmaker, and perhaps I am, you would be the warm recipient of many reasons to be grateful when the internet goes for broke on Bloomsday. This list, were I to make one, would include the subcategories: FOR ME and FOR YOU. Topping the FOR YOU list, were such a thing to exist, might be an extended two-day belated story from Dubliners, a way of bloody-marying your hangover into oblivion.

And in the FOR ME column of our imagined list, not in the treasured top slots but up there, would be the gift of Joycean spam upon a digital reemergence: boltmaker stippled scrapy heartedness burgoo overplentiful unended hydrophobous.

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Joyce, James

Araby

Happy Bloomsday to you, and happy third Bloomsday podcast from your Miette, an event which many of you will remember is dear to me.

And I can hear you now: “Oh, that’s nice Miette, but Bloomsday is about Ulysses. When are you going to read Ulysses?”

Well, I didn’t do the entire thing (maybe next year) but with my friends at Librivox, we’ve managed to satisfy the best sort of Bloomophile. I’m serious. Really so.

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Beckett, Samuel

Texts for Nothing (VIII)

Because nothing says Hither Holiday Season like the Kris Kringle of Krabby, and because as you will soon hear, your Miette has learnt that nothing says Hither Holidays like a Headcold, tonight’s story speaks for its self.

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Joyce, James

The Sisters

When we compare tonight’s with last year’s Bloomsday podcast, just t’ pose a friendly comparison, we see an almost incredible improvement in sound quality, due either to a highly paid audio engineer or a reluctant purchase of a piece of equipment. At this rate, I can’t help but think that next year’s podcast will be accompanied with super-surround-sound and Smellavision. So a girl can dream, anyhow.

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Dunsany, Lord

The Ghosts

Don’t say I didn’t warn you about today’s story, because admittedly, I didn’t warn you yet, but I’m about to:

it’s a scary one. Frightful! It might cause you to go to sleep with all the lights on, and even then, you might suffer nightmares. You might find yourself short of breath, or you might get jumpy when a rat rustles a garbage can while you’re walking the dog in the middle of the night. In fact, you know the warning signs on roller coasters? Same rules apply here– you shouldn’t listen if you have high blood pressure, epilepsy, don’t like roller coasters, or are under four feet tall. For the rest, to further simulate the experience, why don’t you wait for two hours prior to listening, then after 45 seconds, throw your arms in the air and scream. It’s -that- scary.

And now, don’t say I didn’t warn you, because I just did!

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