I'm feeling guilty because I'm not doing anything to celebrate Bloomsday this year. I know that's a silly reason to feel guilt, but such is who I am as a person.
I probably could have found an event in the city, last year there was a reading at a bar in FiDi led by some famous dudes (Colum McCann? Colm Toibin? Both?) that I assume is happening again, and I know there was a reading at Symphony Space tonight. But, this was my only day to try and get Shakespeare in the Park tickets before Julius Caesar is over, which entailed me going and sitting in line (lying/napping in line) from 6-12, and since I am a baby I then I had to go home and nap before the evening performance, which took both day reading/drinking in FiDi and night performance squarely out of commission.
It's okay though, I think that rabble rousing Shakespeare in the Park would be a Joyce-approved replacement, what with all the attendant drama, which I'm not going to bother to rehash here because of course everyone knows what side I am on. (As a once writer of inflammatory plays, etc.)
I made a joke on Twitter that I would celebrate by getting a line drawing of James Joyce's face on my ass, and I'm playing fast and loose with the term 'joke' here because I really was considering it/may still actually do it someday. But I'm wary to get another tattoo right now because I've been trying to give blood every other month and I think you have to pause giving blood for a year after you get a new tattoo. I have the type of blood that is the universal doner (I always forget if it's o negative or positive, lol, it's my own blood!) and I'm hesitant to give up one of the only things I do that actually seems to have a consistent positive effect in helping others, you know?
The world is so terrible and scary right now and I spend a lot of time talking about it and an incredibly unproductive amount of time thinking about it and worrying about it, but given that the nature of the terrible things is so driven by behind closed doors creepy insidious Republicans, I'm generally at a loss as to what I can be physically doing to help, beyond the calling senators/going to protests/trying to publicize what I can.
Beyond that, (the inability to give blood,) I think the only other reason I didn't get the tattoo is my actual time constraints of today, as previously mentioned. You may think this is absurd, like sure Becca that's a funny idea but why for the love of god would you get an ass tattoo of an author's face, but I think my reasoning is pretty sound. I love absurd things. James Joyce was all about crushing puritanical goons and being socially inappropriate, and I am also all about crushing puritanical goons and being socially inappropriate.
In fact, what have I done in the six years (oy ve, that is a long time) since I read Ulysses other than fight against puritanical and social norms? I feel that most things I do fall into that lane, from tweeting about my sex life to cajoling unsuspecting groups of strangers into playing ten fingers to the general everyday fact that I am a woman whose life is centered around the pursuit of fun and leisure.
Sometimes I am afraid that nothing of note has happened to me since college, but those fears have lessened in the past year or so. I look around my room (first, let me note, the sheer amount of time I am able to spend in my bedroom is a feat,) and I see my mess: most importantly, stacks and stacks of books, but so many other remnants of the (cheese alert) living and learning that I've done since Johnston, the places I've lived and worked and traveled and the people I've forced into friendship and the clothes I wear to go to the social and literary events around the city that I've wormed my way into and I think, it's actually going pretty well.
I may still rely on one restaurant or another to pay my bills, but I work part time and am able to dedicate the rest of my life to reading and writing (and some procrastinating and napping but what can you do) and trying to find other writers and artists to goon around with. Some days I feel like a hack for not trying harder to find a 'real job,' but just as many I feel like I'm hacking the system itself by making money from handing people food and beverages and then using that money to support a lifestyle around words. Capitalism can suck it and James Joyce would probably be down.