Time: the Act

 

This short story was written in late July 2023 following the first birthday of our grandson Lenny, and the death of Sinead O'Connor, Irish singer/songwriter and author of her autobiography Rememberings. The story explores what could well happen with the development of AI. 

                                                            Time: The Act

Our grandson turned one years old on 26 July 2023 and we were to visit Melbourne for his birthday and look after him for 4 days. Prior to going there my son Jamie, his dad, had sent some images using an AI software which projected what he may look like in two or three years. He had input 30 images to generate this. The images were fabulous but we found them somewhat unsettling, ‘creepy’ said my wife, ‘scary’ said I. It was as if time had been manipulated.

On the plane down I was reading a C.J.Sansom novel set in the sixteenth century. I was totally engrossed and yet here I was in a 21st century jet, 35,000 feet above sea level.

In the year of M21, ‘M’ being Murdoch, ‘Anno Domini’ having been superceded by the UN with much opposition from the poorer countries, Lenny Mac was asked by his advertising company to find an ‘office girl’ in Robotics. Inc. These were actual robots as opposed to those purveyed through DNA True Humans. Inc which were far more expensive. There were mid priced hybrids but the DNA ‘human’ parts had objected to the instant robotic solution and the robotic bits had complained that the human bits were too slow, and consequently the hybrids were inclined to occasional internal combustion. To look at, each was identical, human like in every respect. So Lenny purchased a pure robot of Sinead O’Connor for a huge sum paid by his London advertising company.

In the office unveiling ceremony Lenny had unscrewed the top from the metal casket and pressed ‘start’ on the remote button. Sinead sat up. She was fully clothed and seemingly breathing.

Exclamations of “Oh wow” “Holy shit” “I don’t believe it” etc. came from the onlookers, four men and three women.

Sinead looked at each one. “Well Sinead where have you landed yourself this time?” she asked herself in her Dublin accent.

“Sinead,” said a tall smooth looking casually dressed dude. “My name is Robert Brookes and I’m the CEO of Brooke’s Beats which is a well subscribed advertising agency in central London. You’re in good company and I expect you’ll enjoy your time with us, a bit of office work, composing jingles, that sort of thing, nothing too strenuous. Lenny here will be your mentor. If you have any issues, please don’t hesitate… My door is open.”

“Well there’s an issue here for a start, your worship. I am no two bit jingle singer Sonny Jim. I’m a fooking world class Irish artist…”

“Lenny, sort it” replied Brookes exiting.

Later, after Lenny had presented Sinead her employment duties in the best possible terms, some acting, some singing, no stress, she was still thinking of doing the bolt but she had taken a liking to him. Martin, his offsider and a bit of a lad had other ideas.

“So Lenny, do we pop Sinead back in her casket tonight?”

“I’m not going back in there auld son. Do ye think I’m a fookin’ corpse or wha? I’m sure Lenny has a spare couch... or something. I’m aching for a wee bit of comfort if you get my drift.”

“Lenny, what say we grab a couple of six packs and head back to your place with the casket?” said Martin.

“Marty there are times I despair of you. You do realise Sinead is covered by the Act, the Robotic Ethics Act?”

Yes indeed. The Act had come about when the UK government in a misguided attempt to top up Treasury had commissioned DNA True Humans Inc. with producing a live Queen Elizabeth 1. It had cost them over 3 billion Pounds Sterling which they hoped to recoup, double in fact, with tourism and a zoomed Fox News special segment at half time NBL. The DNA had been ‘harvested’ not from the well dead clacking remains thank Murdoch (May He Always be With Us), but from hair in a jeweled box at Hampton Court. The government had opted for DNA rather than an AI robotic approximation in order to hear and see exactly how Her Majesty had spoken, thought and walked. However, the age of the resultant ‘Being’ was determined by the age of the DNA and in this case a 14 year old Princess Elizabeth was delivered. Cost blowout max. They’d come this far and had to give it another shot.

A somewhat grumpy Princess Elizabeth was given her old room at Hampton Court and visitors lined up for weeks, eventually being ‘enchanted’ by a quick glimpse of the 16th Century Queen to be. Meanwhile a second attempt produced the goods, a 58 year old live Queen Elizabeth 1, replete with red hair, white face and black teeth. She too was not happy to be alive again and rained shrill curses upon ‘whomever has wrenched me from the arms of Morpheus.’ She was eased into her old rooms at Richmond Castle, and a new mattress, top of the range at Sleep City, the Rip Van Winkle (Version 4), was installed. Alas and alack, it was not to her taste “Would you have me drown in down, dolts?”

Her Majesty had to be persuaded by the Prime Minister to participate in the Fox News interview which would ‘be short and assist accounts enormously.’ The interviewer, Dade DeSantis Jnr 111, was renowned for his ‘no bullshit cut the crap’ style and the Brits had some misgivings but the purse strings pulled louder. The remnants of the Windsors - Buckingham Palace was now a museum - tut tutted a bit but Queen Elizabeth 1 was a Tudor and no relation anyway according to Fox News. All went swimmingly for the first minute or so, then:

“Since you died there has been speculation that you were no way the Virgin Queen and in fact had a beau, Sir Robert Diddley, sorry... Dudley, and that you may have been implicated in the death of his wife who was launched down some stairs. Whadya say to that Majesty?”

The old Monarch’s eye twitched, her head shook. She was silent for 30 seconds (‘Dead Air’ in media terms) then replied, “I apologise to Humanity for encouraging Drake and Raleigh to explore the Americas. Had I known this to be the result I would have washed my hands of it.”

“DID YOU Sleep With Him? YES or no?”

“I will say this: a clear and innocent conscience has nothing to fear. Dudley was a dear friend for many years. I was blessed with a handful of friends but he was the sweetest and dearest. I still mourn his passing. I loved him greatly. You would besmirch his memory with filthy accusations. If you are a prime example of humanity in the Americas, then God help it and all who reside in it. You disgust me.” And with that, she walked from the room.

Social media in the UK went ballistic, so much so that the press took the initiative ‘Our Blessed Monarch Insulted by USA’ and ‘Our Betty Lectures USA on Morals’ etc. and the populace became so incensed that, had the USA not been the UK’s biggest and best military ally with a mountain of weaponry, war undoubtedly would have been declared. This led to Parliament passing the Robotics Ethics Act which provided robots, DNA, AI and hybrids with their own disabling mechanism should they feel ethically compromised. It also put the onus on owners to be mindful of the robot’s sensibilities, or the Act would be applied. This, Lenny reminded Marty was law and effectively recognised that robots had feelings like humans. It was landmark legislation.

Lenny did indeed have a couch and took Sinead home rather than ‘pop her back in the casket’. 

“So Lenny why did you choose me? You find me attractive?”

“I’ve enjoyed your recordings from an early age Sinead, my parents and grand parents loved your stuff. My granddad had a DVD of two of your gigs which I watched so many times… Apart from that I thought you courageous, inspiring, your protests were brave.”

“Ruined my career unfortunately, for some time. I got the establishment offside. And all those boos. Frank Sinatra and Danny DeVito threatened to punch my lights out. Word was disseminated that she was loopy, a lunatic.”

“But time proved you right, the Church hid pedophiles.”

“Yes Ratzinger himself, the Pope was involved, moving offenders in Germany to other parishes. But I ask you again, why me?”

“I should mention. You died on my first birthday, 26 July 2023.”

“You are kidding? Wha? We are cosmically connected my Lenny.”

“Sinead the main reason I used to convince boss dude Robert was that you would epitomise our vision. Courageous and brave, with empathy, a moral imperative, putting a human face on our advertising company with all of those qualities plus artistry and defiance if needed.”

“Lenny, I’ve never heard such a load of crap.”

“See! You have that ability to suss the bullshit…”

Now, they both rolled around on the carpet in mirth.

Is this when Lenny tells Sinead about his girlfriend Maddy?

Does Maddy find them in a compromising situation? Would the writer be so gauche?

Will Sinead ever write a jingle? Can’t see it really but who knows?

What happened to the two Elizabeths?

Does the writer have a surprise ending?

I’ll let you know. Perhaps.

Seasons Late Winter 2024

 

The late Winter flowers are starting to emerge.

Creamy white jonquils stand tall beneath the peach trees.

Purple and white hellebores with downcast faces

look to their earth mother in dismay.., come closer!

Purple buds of daphne set to explode

with their intense sweet citrus perfume

Lemon and lime glow in yellow orbs

a gift of tang to our kitchen creations.

Yesterday two hawks screeched in mid air combat

I hope it's no bad omen. One flew directly

at my head. Perhaps they were courting.

A hungry fox noses around the middle dam

sniffing for a delight of duck, or turtle

or any good luck. Meanwhile close by, two roos

jump across the trail, the larger one also

jumps the paddock fence. The joey slowly

skirts alongside the road searching for

some way through, and finds her access

of deliverance. The mother is now nowhere in sight.

The fox I spot down in the valley,

it trots nonchalantly biding its time.

The joey I can see among the high grass

she stands there gazing at me. We wait.

The world moves in constant flux. Seasons delight

and dismay. Will the Lord of Fire afflict

us again? Gina and her minions

Dutton and Barnaby, the LNP

those careless hawkers of fossil fuel

continue to stoke climate change disasters

in this fragile world. Crimes against humanity?

History should not be kind. Lest we forget.

Now Trump may return. I can't believe folk

will vote him in. But they have a different sort

of people over there, many who believe his spin

his snake oil spruiking tout of faith. The Lord

saved him from the bullet. Praise The Lord.

Believe in Sanctified Destiny!

Raise your fists for deliverance.

I am your saviour, your retribution!

Another rough beast slouches towards Bethlehem.

Putin believes in a Holy War. The seat of Russian

orthodoxy lies in Kiev. Ukraine is Russian territory.

The Patriarch Kirill has told him so. Putin is

a 'gift from god'. We shape our gods.

And clothe them in garments stitched

to suit the narrative. It has always been so.

Netanyahu seeks to obliterate the enemy

in the name of 'god', quoting from the Book

of Samuel. 'Blot out the memory of Amalek

from under Heaven. Do not spare them'

said God to Samuel. 'Put to death men

and women, children and infants, cattle

and sheep, camels and donkeys.' Near forty

thousand Palestinians have been slaughtered

so far in this almighty retribution.

The renowned Jewish rabbi Hillel had this

saying 'Do not do unto others what

you would not have done to yourself.' Israel

has seemingly forgotten what the Nazi did.

A majority support Netanyahu's slaughter.

Holy Land? Your god has abandoned you.

In fact you blew Him to bits last Tuesday

He was part of that Aid convoy in Gaza.

Put your shekels away, you are beyond

Absolution.

.

Now the wind blasts fiercely chasing the tail

of Winter.

Such are the changing Seasons.

Trump, Putin and Netanyahu will have theirs.

Then sink to dust

derided and damned by History.

Now the Superb Wren flits among bushes

in blue flashes, past the golden wattle.

His dowdy but charming female trusts her

instinct for provision. The tiny

Silver-Eyes float down in twittering green

flock into the pink blossom of cherry

and prunus. Tulips rise in startling

colours, magnolias toast the garden

in purple and white chalices held aloft.

Here's to rebirth and a renewal of hope.

Cheers.

  

 

                                                                Vale Edna O'Brien

London '69 and I'm at a party talking with Edna O'Brien,

animated, talented and beautiful, whom I have just met.

“Edna, do you read Sean O'Casey?”

“I do indeed. I love the man. His plays, his autobiographies

all six, such spirit, such writing.”

“And you do know that males improve with age?”

“I do indeed. Yeats of course. A sage.”

She was smiling in recalling the poem.

Then she asked in her sweet lilting Irish accent

“And will you always be faithful and true to me, Barry?”

To which I replied “Well of course Edna, one would aim for it,

one would wish fidelity to be a cornerstone of any relationship.

How could it be other? But that said, nothing in this world is certain.”

“Barry, that's a tad equivocal if you don't mind me saying,

in fact wishy washy, it's short of a sure-fire commitment,

'one would aim for it'. Spare me such tosh and balderdash.”

“Edna, tell me you like James Joyce.”

“Barry... Joyce is the mountain, the aspiration, the alpha and omega,

the poetic impulse for the Irish and even some of the Heathen

the Voice of God, I'm humbled to even speak of him.”

“Edna, will you always be faithful and true to me?”

“Baz, if I may be familiar, one would of course

aim for it but I'll be forthright.

If say, Sean Connery, Robert Mitchum, Michael Caine

or Marlon Brando were to hang their hat on my door,

I would let Nature take its course.

Just saying, we Irish do not look a gift horse in the mouth.

But heavens above I would hate to be perceived as a floozy,

a flibbertigibbet, a tart or a strumpet. I'm no bed hopper.

There would need to be love in it...

I've been married Barry, and for me, never again.”

“I take it that's a no Edna?”

“You can bet your sweet sonnets on it Sonny Jim.”

[Edna O' Brien was married to Ernest Gebler, a Dublin native, and they had two children.

It didn't work out. He was about 20 years older, and although a successful author

he became jealous of her success, in fact later claiming he'd written her novels.

I recently bought her collected short stories in Melbourne, The Love Object which I'm reading and enjoying between other books. It lead me to read her initial trilogy, The Country Girls which has been sitting on my bookshelf for some years now, along with her compilation of Irish poetry, Some Irish Loving. The Country Girls is now considered a classic of its time although it was banned in Ireland, denounced from the pulpit and copies were burned. Such was the power of the Irish Catholic Church, now diminished due to numerous sexual abuse scandals. It struck me that much of The Country Girls and some of the short stories were obviously taken from her life, so I bought her autobiography, Country Girl, written in her 80s – she's 91 now. I'm Edna'd out, but it's a good read and she mentions those famous movie stars above.

I remembered a recent dream I had, and there it is. Written in December 2023.]

A Winter Solstice

 

A Winter Solstice.

The wind roars like an unruly sea

on the hill above and below:

the axis of solstice pivots the planet.

The solstice is cast upon the earth

now the spectres are abroad

the druids are chanting and walking in rings

saying longer days to come we'll see

and longer days are to come.

They are renowned for astute prophesy.

She left when she should have stayed.

Sun and ice are stirred with sticks

the solstice spins the winter will.

Now she is gone so what do we do?

We live and we'll live as we must.

She is gone and we live as we must.

The druids are chanting and walking in rings

we live as we must and the days will be long

until she returns until she returns.

The robin turns with his scarlet breast

and roos like sentries gaze with intent

the ends of a rainbow they came and went.

We live by the warmth of the fire within

it glows against the winter chill

it glows, so it glows, upon the hill.

Sun and ice are stirred with sticks

the solstice spins the winter will.

 

Travels With My Camera – April 2024 Spain

I have always wanted to see more of Spain, having visited Barcelona some years ago, and then being informed by a good friend that I 'really should see' three great cities in the south, Granada, Cordoba and Seville. So, as it happened our daughter Cara who lives in Bali was keen on returning to Barcelona and our grand daughter Kaya was planning a trip to Madrid from her base in London, and both wanted to visit the southern cities.

My wife assigned the jobs, itinerary then accommodation, travel and tourist attraction bookings. She's a great organiser. And I was informed that my inclusion on this trip was shaky to say the least; apparently I have been known to delay proceedings by taking photos and getting lost. “What??” I objected. “I get bad press.” A verbal parry. Astonishment. Incredulity. Leads you nowhere. The daughter and grand daughter backed her up. “I'll be good” I promised.

Now, first things first, I asked myself, which camera and lenses to take? Barcelona has a bit of a reputation for appropriation of tourist goods, the other places have a low crime rate. I was reticent to risk my good Olympus or Fuji being stolen, so after much deliberation I decided to take the older, diminutive but capable Olympus Mk10 series 2, with the all purpose excellent 12-40 pro and the 75-300 for surfing shots in Bali on the return trip. I also packed a wee point and shoot Fuji just in case.

It turned out to be a great trip, one of the best. Spaniards have a respect for their art, resplendent in art galleries, cathedrals, churches and museums, their monuments and architecture, many of which are astounding. The use of camera was allowed in all places we visited, apart from the fabulous Prado museum. It's probably just as well, or I'd have still been there, and the ladies would have departed without a backward glance...

Historical buildings such as the magnificent Alhambra fortress in Granada and the Mezquita, a huge mosque/cathedral in Cordoba, just up from the wide Roman bridge which has served the city for 2000 years, show evidence of the conquerors' rule to be well intact. The Romans were there 600 years and the Moors with their Islamic imprint, for almost 800 years.

We found Spaniards to be lively and friendly. Spanish culture is vibrant. It relishes night time interaction, with music, song and dance, oh and the food! We are all foodies and the Spanish tapas

are reasonably priced and amazing, in fact we had more 'wow factors' than any country except perhaps Vietnam. Their seafood is fabulous, chargrilled octopus was delicious and different each time, also the whole baby calamari, cerviche in citrus sauce, yum. Other fare was just as good - the twice stewed oxtail, pork cheeks in semi-sweet sauce, grilled provolone with chimmichurri, and Black Russian tomatoes with anchovies were but a few of the wows! Spanish beer and wine is first rate, and cheap, and wow'd us constantly, well... not constantly... but I could say that seldom an evening was blighted by thirst ha ha.

So for photography, a good low light lens is necessary for evening/night shots in narrow cobbled streets or dusky and atmospheric cathedrals and I found the 2.8 aperture on the 12-40 Pro to be very good with ISO on auto, plus its 5 stop stabilisation. In retrospect I would have added the tiny 45mm f 1.8, but the zoom lens, despite being a little slower, was successful. Also I would have taken images in RAW format instead of JPG to allow for greater post processing latitude but all in all it worked out well.

A couple of photographic stories. I met a tall, spindly black American 'dude', he was 82 and was wearing a Jimi Hendrix T-shirt. Apart from an interesting theory about Jimi's demise and a lively discussion on West African music, he was a photographer by trade and was eager to show me his portfolio. Well, it was magnificent. Big Mel had travelled throughout the globe and showed me images from Africa, South America, the Middle East, Asia etc., and most were from film apart from a handful of more recent digital . He now shoots, and is happy with, Sony.

The other story is that daughter Cara and I took images of a person walking towards us in a dark, narrow, lamplit laneway in Seville. Her IPhone image was really dramatic right out of the box. They must have a library of image types to draw from, which AI then applies to the image taken. My rather flat image has been resurrected in post processing, but it made me wonder whether for travelling, an iPhone or good Android might be more efficient and less obvious? Coincidentally, a dodgy looking guy in Barcelona was quite brazen in eyeing off my camera bag...

 

Drowning in Blue

“Ever had one of those moments when you flip down the sunvisor and a huntsman drops into your lap? Guess who I bumped into today? Charlie Cravino.”

“You’re kidding me” says Marg, “must be out of clink.”

“That’s what I said to him”.

“Course you would Gus...”

“He said to me ‘I’ve done me time, paid me debt to Society. Straight from now on.’ Yeah, straight as a judge I thought. Remember when he tried to involve me in that pyramid scheme? All that Yankee razzmatazz, balloons and ‘Everything Is Beautiful’ loud over the speakers. Everyone singing it. I walked out.”

“Course you did.”

“Never saw him after that, until today, what 40 years later? Heard he got done for fraud. Anyway he’s talking about investing in AI.”

“Kidding.”

“Nah, straight up. Reckons we can make heaps.”

“We..? Gus… Gus!”

Gus quickly made his way out the back door. “Gotta check the chooks Marg.”

“Here girls. Chooky chooky chook.” He topped up the water, filled the feed and scattered some greens. Then checked the egg laying area again. Mmm, not laying much lately. A worry. Something’s amiss. I’m thinking that maybe your chook is like the budgie in the mines. This happened once before, when the bushfires came. They stopped laying...

I just love being out here, communing with these birds, it’s a special place, something about the smell of chooks and poo under the bluest of skies. We're drowning in blue, me and my girls. It’s comforting. Marg knows she’s not to disturb me. Uh Oh. I expected it. She’s getting slow.

“Gus, did you read about those hundreds of scientists who said that AI could be an existential threat? And you want to invest in it?”

“Just business Marg. We’re on the ground floor of something great. The world will be a different place very soon, a decade or so. The cat’s out of the cradle. We can make oodles if we jump on this thing before the horse bolts.”

“Our existence Gus. And what about our kids and grandkids, how will they cope?”

“Marg, all will be good for humanity. You know that they can beat us at chess? And take the Rooskies and Ukrainians, it’ll be AI vs AI. Robots vs robots, with AI weapons. No human was hurt in the making of this. I was just thinking that maybe chooks are a primitive form of AI. I mean, they’re quite happy to peck and scratch but still provide us with eggs. Simple but effective. Whoever invented the chook deserves a medal.”

“Gus, get real. You say they can beat us at chess. You think they’ll be happy to stop there? No way, if they have the imagination to do that, they’ll be taking over. They can be programmed to have a competitive nature, to solve problems. Not just machines vs machines. They have intelligence. They will develop personalities and egos, whatever it takes to get on top. Worse, they might become autonomous, one of the points the scientists make. And there will be no way to tell the difference between a robot and a human. Those scientists, people with scientific knowledge, years of training, they fear the worst.”

“Marg, Marg, you take it to extremes. Those people deal in possibilities and probabilities. They work at a desk with a graph. The world is greater than that. Look. Maybe they’ll invent a dumbed down AI so we’re not threatened.”

“Like the chooks Gus?”

“Marg, humanity is millions of years old. We’ve got this far. Q.E.D. What’s your problem?

“Gus, the problem is that we’re going to be the chooks. Peck, scratch and plop. Pretty much what you do now, come to think of it...”

“Marg, you know I love it when you get sarky.”

Lucia Joyce was the daughter of Nora Barnacle and James Joyce. Her story is fascinating and tragic. I wrote this bit of a poem after reading a fictionalised biography, The Joyce Girl by Annabel Abbs and checking more details in Richard Ellmann's James Joyce and online. Some explanatory notes follow the poem.

Lucia

Lucia Joyce the die was cast

A jealous mother a doting Babbo

Mia bella bambina.

In dance she could fly, pirouette

and forget her squinting eye, forget

her love’s unrequited passions

lost like dear Samuel Beckett, her one

true love, never mind the others

she was besotted with Sam

but Sam was besotted with Jim

the genius of James Joyce

it bound him like the song of sirens

those sounds calling down the wine

dark seas to lure and entice

to tempt and truss a tender soul.

Jim loved to watch his child at dance

‘Father dear’ she called him fondly

so innocent and pretty she was

so gifted with a genius for dance

and choreography, ‘transfigured’

according to Jim as he was

transfixed but he perceived envy

and jealousy in Nora his wife

and Lucia understood that as

she recognised her Babbo to

be fixated by Nora’s raw ripe

rose with kisses intoxicated,

her hull appeased of barnacle

abandonment in Abaddon

what had it all meant? So long ago.

I have been confined to the

nuthouse these thirty five years.

Not long to go. I have The Sight.

Visits from Babbo were many.

Dead now he amuses the

Congregation of Immortals with

his chat his rambles of the tongue

if ever they understand him

We held our own language you see

not a fellow could follow ha ha.

He visited one time with Georgio

‘Che bello’ I screamed, my brother

departed in haste. I had told

him that his secret was safe, yet

he and mia madre prosecuted

my permanent interment, silenced

in this loony bin. Babbo fought it, his

own sanity sanctorum dolorum.

He died my Babbo. His words

his salve to my condition muted.

How I miss him. Not long now. No.

Some notes:

Italian was Lucia's first language thus 'Babbo' - Dad, 'mia bella bambina' - 'my beautiful child' 'Che bello' - 'How beautiful'.

She also spoke French and German and her English had a 'guttural European' accent, 'not the Irish lilt.'  Her photos are plentiful but show a serious face apart from one or two. Yet she was described as having a humorous side with a great wit, her father's daughter.

She was a very talented dancer. The Paris Times reviewing a performance stated "Lucia Joyce is her father’s daughter. She has James Joyce’s enthusiasm, energy, and a not-yet-determined amount of his genius. When she reaches her full capacity for rhythmic dancing, James Joyce may yet be known as his daughter’s father." 

Lucia had her father's blue eyes but with a slight cast/squint. She had operations to remove it, to no avail. This may well have had a psychological effect, in fact she was psychoanalysed by Carl Jung for her depression, prior to admission to a series of mental asylums where she remained until her death in 1983. His notes were later destroyed. Why indeed? 

Sadly her letters to and from her family were all burned by her nephew, brother Georgio's son, Stephen Joyce.  Some incriminating words? Also her letters from Samuel Beckett. 

Nora Barnacle’s ‘blue’ love letters to Jim, (to keep him from the Dublin brothels - theory) were also destroyed. Jim’s erotic letters to Nora are available online and are quite explicit, ‘steamy’ is a euphemism. A recent article proposes that his later medical problems were caused by syphilis, a reminder to him of his ‘iniquities’.

Samuel Beckett donated proceeds from one of his publications in support of Lucia's

hospitalisation.

He visited her once at St Andrew's Northumberland and maintained written communication with her until her death in 1982 on the eve of St Lucia's Day. 

A picture of Lucia in her mermaid's costume which she designed and made for an international dance competition, was found in his personal possessions after he died.

There has been suggestion of incest in the Joyce family (contested by some scholars), possibly between Georgio and the younger Lucia, which may be why her letters were destroyed by Georgio's son. 

There is a YouTube of James Joyce reading a section from Finnegan's Wake in a thick Irish accent. It is a wonderful insight to his rhythmic language. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M8kFqiv8Vww

The biographer of Nora, Brenda Maddox and the biographer of Lucia, Carol Shloss battle it out in the press   

https://arlindo-correia.com/lucia_joyce.html