dead drunk dublin and other imaginal spaces
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She walks away. Not away, exactly, but turns away. In turning a grace, in walking, a minor misstep as filled with balancing élan as the feminine is capable. A pocket full of quarters, she’s simply heading down the hall with the laundry, but if some world traveler happened upon her halfway down there, he’d probably look around for this pristine Nausicaa’s companions, surprised she’s by herself. That first shy glimpse of her in a chapter some scholars theorize was added long after Homer chanted his version of The Odyssey, seems an incongruent, almost modern touch. It’s not necessarily that I prefer it, the dirt surrounding the straps of Homer’s sandals is the same dirt he washed down with wine to make his words clean. But here, just here, the masculine stink of ambition, avarice, & war, are nowhere to be seen.



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