March 29th, 2010

we owl float on owl right

a pale dead moon in a sky streaked with grey

* about 1:00 a. m. earth time.

"we shall see," stated i-gos.

"what shall we see?" asked a warrior.

"we shall see whether o-tar visits the chamber of o-mai."


"i shall be there myself and if i see him i will know that he has been there. if i don't see him i will know that he has not," explained the old taxidermist.

"is he quite mad, mr. hastings?"

"i honestly don't know. sometimes, i feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, i find there is method in his madness."

"i see."

in spite of her laugh, mary was looking thoughtful this morning. she seemed grave, almost sad.

"are you incredulous, crito?"

"indeed, i am; for if he did say so, then in my opinion he needs neither euthydemus nor any one else to be his instructor."

"perhaps i may have forgotten, and ctesippus was the real answerer."

"ctesippus! nonsense."

"it is absurd," he says, "to imagine that the statue of a saint can speak, and that an inanimate object not possessing the vocal organs should be able to utter an articulate sound." upon the other hand, he protests against science imagining that, by explaining the natural causes of things, it has explained away their transcendental meaning.

"when the tears on the cheek of some holy statue have been analysed into the moisture which certain temperatures produce on wood and marble, it yet by no means follows that they were not a sign of grief and mourning set there by god himself."

agatha, having finished her book by dint of extensive skipping, proceeded to study pathology from a volume of clinical lectures. finding her own sensations exactly like those described in the book as symptoms of the direst diseases, she put it by in alarm, and took up a novel, which was free from the fault she had found in the lectures, inasmuch as none of the emotions it described in the least resembled any she had ever experienced.

"survey of cornwall," tells us a strange story of a dog in this town, of whom it was observed that if they gave him any large bone or piece of meat, he immediately went out of doors with it, and after having disappeared for some time would return again; upon which, after some time, they watched him, when, to their great surprise, they found that the poor charitable creature carried what he so got to an old decrepit mastiff, which lay in a nest that he had made among the brakes a little way out of the town, and was blind, so that he could not help himself; and there this creature fed him.

and so commending ourselves to god, we followed the same road which we saw the shepherd take, expecting every moment that the coast-guard would be down upon us. nor did our expectation deceive us, for two hours had not passed when, coming out of the brushwood into the open ground, we perceived some fifty mounted men swiftly approaching us at a hand-gallop. as soon as we saw them we stood still, waiting for them; but as they came close and, instead of the moors they were in quest of, saw a set of poor christians, they were taken aback, and one of them asked if it could be we who were the cause of the shepherd having raised the call to arms.

monday cxxxix
  • Current Music
    pull this thread as i walk away
oh snap!

reason won't win many friends. but don't lose your head over it.

i cannot imagine a reasonable person genuinely coming to any of the interpretations that the outraged masses subscribe to. to the extent that their hyperbole is intended to highlight what they see as insensitivity or fundamental inappropriateness, it's hyperbole that's being pushed as entirely literal.

what's with these homies, dissing my girl? why do they gotta front?
what did we ever do to these guys that made them so violent?
  • Current Music
    the things you do are so in tune / with what you said you hate

ha! the universe is sly......................

from time to time, lifting his eyes, he sees
the soft blue starlight through the one small window,
the moon above black trees, and clouds, and venus,--
and turns to write . . . the clock, behind ticks softly.

it is so long, indeed, since i have written,--
two years, almost, your last is turning yellow,--
that these first words i write seem cold and strange.
are you the man i knew, or have you altered?
altered, of course--just as i too have altered--
and whether towards each other, or more apart,
we cannot say . . . i've just re-read your letter--
not through forgetfulness, but more for pleasure--

pondering much on all you say in it
of mystic consciousness--divine conversion--
the sense of oneness with the infinite,--
faith in the world, its beauty, and its purpose . . .
well, you believe one must have faith, in some sort,
if one's to walk through this dark world contented.
but is the world so dark? or is it rather
our own brute minds,--in which we hurry, trembling,
through streets as yet unlighted? this, i think.

Collapse )

well, i have bored you. and it's growing late.
for household news--what have you heard, i wonder?
you must have heard that paul was dead, by this time--
of spinal cancer. nothing could be done--
we found it out too late. his death has changed me,
deflected much of me that lived as he lived,
saddened me, slowed me down. such things will happen,
life is composed of them; and it seems wisdom
to see them clearly, meditate upon them,
and understand what things flow out of them.
otherwise, all goes on here much as always.
why won't you come and see us, in the spring,
and bring old times with you?--if you could see me
sitting here by the window, watching venus
go down behind my neighbor's poplar branches,--
just where you used to sit,--i'm sure you'd come.
this year, they say, the springtime will be early.

and when you're drunk / you just write poems / like honey bees / that ain't got no honeycombs

interesting (to me) that sawyer and aiken had similar events shape their young lives.

interviewer: what do you think about the contemporary poets who talk about "mind expanding" or "consciousness expanding" -- ginsberg and his group? do you think drugs can expand a writer's awaareness or perceptions?

aiken: i've tried it long ago, with hashish and peyote. fascinating, yes, but no good, no. this, as we find in alcohol, is an escape from awareness, a cheat, a momentary substitution, and in the end a destruction of it. with luck, someone might have a fragmentary "kubla khan" vision. but with no meaning. and with the steady destruction of the observing and remembering mind.


to hear beautiful songs early in their creation is a gift.

moonday cxxxix ter

we'll take to the streets
and chant like an army
and doctor up this
  • Current Music
    wise up sucker to what you've got
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