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
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
...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
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
All artsy academic bally docks left aside. I just felt like coasting idly through my mind and writing whatever I crash into.
I've given my blog 5 stars, so that's good. It's a positive response, so I'm optimistic.
For a while I considered having a honest-to-goodness reflective blog with a catchy title, and the subtitle "A Midwestern Girl near La-La Land" and then I jettisoned the idea because I was too busy to notice much about being near LaLaLand apart from the same five or six though
I think this is my favorite poem I ever wrote. It would make a nice song, I think.
While you paint the fence
I see you looking back at me from my mirror
And while i imagine you seeing me
I try to guess what
I am thinking
While you paint the fence
When you come to me
And say, what is wrong with you
Who have you become
--which you don’t—
i am in here somewhere
and please just be patient
while you paint the fence
Another poem I wrote a fews years ago. It was the final poem for a while...
I feel like a phoenix risen
From the ashes of my solitude
Which ignited it self
While my self
Against the emptiness holding
High into the night
Long into the day
A pyre i pushed
Me around in
My eyes it sparked
While i broke
The wind of anger
Or pity blew some
New skin wet with tears
From the pain, and mourning
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
For a long time now I seem to use this blog as a space to tap around in when I am not sure what I want to do. It's a kind of lost space, a space I'd describe with a word I can't find at the moment...liminal. There, I found it. That's why I come here, I suppose. To find things that aren't really anywhere.
It's a Friday night, it's been a tightly-wound week, and I'm not sure what I want to do. So here I am again.
I wonder what I'll find. I found liminal, which by nature is a weird thing to fi
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
It began last fall. It's escalated since. Now even my students know I have a seriously academic fascination with not one, but TWO culturally distinct pop phenomena: Kate Bush and Lady Gaga. You may be gasping and sputtering. You may be nodding. Distinctive as they are, Kate and Gaga have aesthetic similarities that appeal very much to the poet voyeur in me, and if Kate Bush ever came to town, you can bet I'd fork over any amount of cash to see it; Gaga IS coming to town and I've forked over a re
Time is unto itself as grammar to language; I sat in a candlelit cafe reading the woes of war in verse and thinking form, when suddenly a sentence in time, some mantra I've been saying for a cosmically long stretch, came to its end and the mantra collapsed under its emphatic conclusion. I was exposed to all the things that mantra mantle had been meant to hold at bay and a moment of total honesty encircled me in the dark. For a second I cried like I'd forgotten I could and it was aweful.
Often I have written of moments of blitz, the artistic condition that smites the distant eye and traps the artist between observance and feeling. But blitzfast as these moments are, they perhaps are born of an impatience, a ceaseless wish for something to happen.
I sit outside, it is past midnight, the moon waxes over ridges and a river roars close by. When will they come? I can't sit here all night! When does the next thing happen? I could be inside with the others watching a movie, but t
The food of poetics and the poetics of food, and not particularly in the grotesque sense but I suppose so, excepting I am less interested in expulsion of said elements and much more concentrated on the ingestion, since words can be like food that is digested but not processed or released, it seems to me, and so the grotesque, so much about the 'ex'-factor, seems to me to play less of a role where one is incapable of removing words from the system by force or otherwise--for even when we repeat th
"this is J. Evans-Pritchard as rewritten by the man who played the sublimely obtuse General Melchett in the “Blackadder” series" (--David Orr)
We can have armies of academics marching forth, measuring poetry. Certainly. But whosoever thinks one can measure the greatness of a poem through a ratio of form and meter to the appropriateness of topic is marching forth under a banner that above all seems to dip sideways, like blinders on a horse. I suppose having poetry explained by Lord/Genera
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
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.
I write not of art, not of what I know, and yet in the artistic condition, under the premise that a theraputic attempt to record the artistic condition is all I know to do. I stand at the bottom of an abyss, and feel nothing.
If I could only write a song...
Midnight in my heart and I wish the sun would go away. The time when I could be really alone and the night would seem bigger than it ever has before. Just the light of the pagescreen here and a star or two in the black black sky;
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
...is worth two in the bush, said Basil Fawlty (or something similar). The point is, his head injury put him in a liminal presence of mind, like those slot machines with the three picture wheels, and you pull the lever and the pictures spin and then may or may not line up--his pictures weren't lined up properly. This provided him the unique opportunity of escaping the logical confines of language...which now I think of it is sort of redundant--logic and logos are after all one and the same...ish
Fiction, rum, roses.
Why escapism belongs to summer is beyond me. Actually it doesn't, come to think of it. My mind has been known to wander in every season but spring. But it's the places my mind wanders in summer...and the creative collisions that surprised me the other day listening to B-sides. That is summer.
Pretty Nell the handsome cabin boy. Yes I've written that as well. But without the childbirth. Obviously I'd come up with the idea before childbirth was interesti
by bees and a supermarket
Three minutes I can brush my teeth in three minutes alright so go and I'm brushing my teeth 3, 4 I think 1.5 minutes bottom and 1.5 minutes top and that makes three even with my bizarre sense of numbers I'm late I said not by me of course by you who else you silly dunderhead I wasn't hurt I wonder is that always the first reaction not that I want it any more worst timing ever worst timing ever ruin everyone's life no one would want me I'd be all alone really ALL al
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 theme-cum-strange phenomenon of the day. And perhaps something worth keeping in mind embarking on a blog.
Inspired by so many others, particularly here, to make the blog whatever one wants, encouraged by the common link we share, to be read or not to be read and anyway perceived by a kind, intelligent, international community. A sentence that isn't a sentence; hardly a suitable beginning. I will keep them, as all things should be, in moderation.
I miss moderation. I long for a p