Her hair was red.Â It burned of poetry and stubbornness.Â I was a afraid of her.Â Her eyes flashed.Â She was not like any other girl I had ever met.Â She had the spirit of a prize fighter. She would use language like the writer she was, then knock you out in the ring with her tight fist.Â Was it her red hair that made her like fire?Â Dublin was hot that summer.Â She had no air-conditioning in her flat.Â I loved the multitude of freckles on her chest, like stars in the sky.Â You could spend forever counting them with your finger.Â But she was too impatient for that. AfterÂ a few freckles counted, she’d be saying, “Let’s get on with it!” The Irish are like that.
At San Francisco’s St. Patrick’s Day Parade today —
(and we didn’t drink one beer all day)
Sophia “Molly Bloom” Lansky
James Joyce at work on his blog