The poetic meaning of "Werdegang" is: I have a book.
[this is not a universalizing "the," but a "the" that bears its own doubt, followed as it is by "poetic;" I could have written "my," but the "I" is implied in the poetic. Trust "the poetic meaning," but do not submit to it.]
The semantic linguistic meaning of "Werdegang" can be broken down as follows:
Werdegang: noun, masculine. German. signifies: a path to becoming. Made up of the nominalisation of two verbs: "werden," the mark
Tonight I did something I've never done before: I went knowingly to a place that is haunted, for the express reason that it is haunted. I've been to haunted places before, among them the Tower of London, but never thinking, "this place is haunted, and that's why I am going there." The reason for this lies firmly in the realm of the nebulously goofy. I've always believed in ghosts, but I've got no reason to do so (and therefore also no reason to doubt their existence)...but have always suspected
For me it is late and I am very active...almost euphorically active.
Yet slowly I am becoming aware of a feeling of uneasiness, as if something is coming...these periods of euphoria are almost always followed by a severe blow. Sometimes it is an earthquake...sometimes something else.
I hope I am wrong.
(A silly face to take the edge off.)
Where is there a more insistent form than rhythm? O we strive to keep with it, weave our dance steps into it or around it, but nonetheless in concert with it, we have people with batons who mark it for us and who yell themselves red in the face if the rhythm is in any way disregarded or not observed; we have both fascinatingly manual and electronic machines that keep it for us, since we cannot count upon ourselves to keep rhythm properly. Man is an inexact creature. We strive within reason to
I come from a town famous for producing expatriates. Our walk of fame is like a collection of memorials for those who turned their back on the city, the state, the country; a kind of expression of acknowledging disappointment, and catalysm:
We are the place that drove them away (to greatness).
Oh yes, this planted the seed in me, as well. I am an American. What I mean by that is, really, that I was born here, and I am familiar with ways of thinking and behaving in particular parts of
...I am actually not certain what this project is, or will become. Just this title came to me, and it seemed so certain that it would be a title. I feel it is my task to follow it where it leads, until I've met the title whereever it originated.
What is invisible? What are the ways of being invisible? Is one always invisible to onesself? Is virtuality invisibility or are these different things?
For now, it seems to have some link to an idea like this one:
When I saw a be
17 March 2010
I did promise to tell everyone about Lady Gaga's Monster Ball, didn't I. And then time slid away from me like...a slimy thing.
I am reminded of it though because of the recent release of Gaga's music video "Telephone". I said in my last post I doubted it would take long before someone starts to write critical theorily of her work, and I was right. A graduate student here in the US was even interviewed by one of our larger national TV stations (ABC) because of her extremel
Once upon a time, there was a lady who was named for a city in Spain. She lived in a small dusty town in northern Texas, and had 6 sisters ahead of her, one below, and a brother to boot. She had small hands, and was frequently tricked into cleaning the lanterns; that is, until her family got their first light bulb and they all sat around staring at it in wonder like idiots. There was a picture of her with her sister below her in a donkey cart, and she squinted in the sun. She always seemed to be
Whenever I am writing something academic, I fall into a kind of bubble. The rest of the world has to be shut out, I cannot be distracted by anything outside of my most selfish needs... writing is not just about writing, it is about watching other people create, listening to other people create and talk about creating; it is about ordering pizza and eating it distractedly all day, breakfast at noon, dinner at midnight, but eating all day, anyway; it is about 8-10 cups of coffee and no alcohol; it
Our syphilitic mad epistemological uncle Fred (Nietzsche) gave a lot of thought to the iniquity of humanity in its own mirror stage, the moment when society became aware of itself in relation to its own history (from which it had been blissfully unaware of its tethers, like a child is unaware of itself in the supermarket or unaware that its parents are actually people, with personalities)...he sat in his chair, aware of the long line of syphilitic madmen that made it possible for him to ask if G
When I awoke this morning, I came across strange things. As I glid silenty and slowly through that place in which I dwell, I became aware of certain things going on that would only happen if my presence was not suspected; indeed, the surity that I could not be present, and at all, was the foundation thereof. I stood stock still in my place, not intending to come across anything, and things were unaware of me. It was not any wanting to see, I didn't mean to be; as if when I had said goodnight
And it was high summer in the south of France. Work and the car, oven cleaner and scraping the oil off the grill were the escape and now life was real, like the marmelade that would have been roundly condemned under the auspices of science. It was contained in a giant mason jar as a gentle wind carried hints of the afternoon heat to come through the muslin barrier at the window; my bare arm in the shade of hundreds of years absorbed the heat and held on to the cool...I watched it run across th
I had never met anyone quite like him before, and he called me angel.
And I was beautiful, maybe. I exuded something, certainly, maybe beauty but something you can't quite see so much as sense, that I stretched through time and space, like Anima...or like an angel...
and angels only look backward in shock and horror and they can't do anything.
Because they exist through space and time.
Metaphor or not. The idea means an all-encompassing sense, around you, exceeding words, exuding aura.
Finding joy in the little things! At times I am good at it, but in my Costanza-like way I hang on a universe of begetting, with every peep of the joyful there will come the slight of the bad. One does well not to get caught up in the euphoria, distracted from the lurking demons ready to take you down a notch in every corner of life. I forgot that little mantra last week, and, euphoric over the joy of others surrounding me, I was utterly dumbstruck by the comeupance of rejection. A small step
Angrily I returned from the library, driven relentlessly by my compulsion to feel music. Earphones pressed close to my head if only I could get the music inside my heartbeat rather than the other way round. I know why string instruments are closest to the human voice, I can feel it as I hum along with the cello, the way my vocal chordes work just like a bow across strings. I need to be closer.
Wolfi I think you really are going mad...
Remember, George, remember when I was in the orc
I perceive that I belong to those who believe that what differentiates the human from, say, my cat, is that humans strive to overcome instinct. A vague definition of what I perceive as reason, the attempt to combat instinct, in favor of rational behavior, which overcomes the instinct when it calls itself into question. As soon as the question mark is thought, instinct has been impeded. But it never is completely--man is an animal first, and a tribal one at that. Behaviors exhibited at partie
A recent article, or several I suppose, have addressed the topic of a link between left-handedness and what is persistently referred to as 'mental illnesses', although scientists are hard-pressed to give much conclusive proof of such a link. Just, it seems left-handed people tend also to be different health-wise, especially where paranoia and dyslexia, and I am sure we'll hear other things as well, are concerned.
And...well I can't help noticing that almost inevitably these articles begin wit
The letter Y is simply medieval. By this I do not mean that it barbarically assaults you with blunt and fearsome weaponry, and of course it isn't illiterate [well, or literate]. I mean rather, it is, perhaps besides the þ or ð, both still in use in modern Icelandic although long since dropped from English, the most medieval letter in existence. It has the unique property of being a hermaphrodite, mostly a consonant (masculine) but sometimes a vowel (feminine)--name me another letter that can
I already wrote about my vampire dream. I think I will make that into a story...in a short story collection involving the following things, nightmarish and funny.
They discovered the marble tomb of St. Paul the other day. Paulus's tomb had holes, so that in the middle ages, pilgrims could reach in and touch his skull or some other artifact. In the story, someone as part of a group goes to put his or her hand in the hole, and Paulus suddenly comes to and bites the person. It escalates to
An Explosion, in several parts
Fassung fassen! jabberwalk!
Part one is that I part from grief
part to partial partitur, I hate, I love
I wear away, I'm here and why
my own words crack my head asunder
shedding tears and sobs like stress.
DAMNED! and Damning!
Walled in now, with music and my headphone towers
no one reaches me who cannot, willnot, write.
Mimetic? Stuffed! I build with words
the world I ought to see and don't.
Part one is that I part from grief
I've just returned from seeing "The Golden Compass." I feel the desire to write a review. Not an in-depth one, as I've seen it but once and I've not read the books, but it raised some questions and thoughts in me.
Or rather, it raised nothing but questions, in such a way that I found myself unable to come to any final decision on anything. And I am no longer certain whether that is good or bad. Is this the future of film narrative? That's what it all comes down to.
Granted, I am aware, vague
In honor of my 1 year anniversary on the forum, I am 'immortalizing' the text of the trick-or-treat aria I love so much.
Don't mind me
standing here by your tree
I am not a normal woman
my eyeballs are white
I am deceased...
aaaaaaand yet I'm waaaaaalking waaaaaaaalking around
I'm a zomby!
Dead, but living--
and that's why my hair's a fright!
yes, my skin is falling off
and my dress is stained with blood!
The artistic condition is when life is most tortuous, because it is the most vivid; it is when the painter, the poet loses him- or herself in the intensity of the living moment, when the artist transcends and becomes like a string resonating with tension and force. Solitary in his or her ob-con-servatory and suddenly struck like by lightening with the closeness and force of life around him or her, though not from within.
I cried different tears today than I have ever cried before, for shee
It isn't possible to love and to part. You will wish that it was.
And I hate it when she puts that lipstick on. Like a mortician painted on her face, a cold and lonely lovely work of art, a death role hanging in exhibition. She doesn't belong to me, those lips make her, acceptable and more gorgeous. That lipstick strips her to a photograph that does not recognize me and I can't touch her anymore. I wish that I could part from her but I fall before her, begging her to return, dying away