Feels like
Sometimes looking out at world, out beyond that thing I do to maintain sane, which is whatever it is -
To remain sane and yet continue to engender descenders, prolong freedom to write as hung wrung and sprung, aperture open to the capture.
From inside my “book” where all is “enlisted” to assume its own identity, altho when I think about it as identity - shies away from assuming thats what it is.
Assigns as more a proclivity, than an identity.
Pessoa clusters — always in transformation, switching allegiances ?
No no no — thats a hand me down, from the yard…
My liege and all…
I mean from that era… of duty and bounded ness to, as proof of loyalty to the context itself -
Yeah, while bounding in and out of eras, even ? Does Yeats bound in and out of eras ?
Sick and Sound: Yeats too?
I am up to his fifth or sixth poetry book now. And he is not a happy camper. Indeed in his poems he snarls at himself, groans, moans, foams, roams, chews on its marrow till touches its sickness… Yeats too?! YES.
Not in trills like me, but as if to bust out the form from its history? and yet still remaining as itself - and him being stuck in the mud with it.
Thats where it feels like he is now, with the audacity and the encumbrance of what poetry does to his life, including its destructiveness...
Language under the tongue depressor. Shambles, shine and rut, he isn’t examining infinity per se, as much engendered in the shape shifting of what I call the infinities, trapped inside tantrums of Time. Unraveling through poetic eruption, tropes and sorrows where language confides.
Why find play in language
Attaches itself to genre within genre ? If I hear Shakespeare, I can think no matter the insanity it gets in at of what life feels like when tragedy erupts, there still is play, moment I can feel that playfulness even midst what appears as greek the eek, sanity becomes its lover ?
Pegs to time line of its own referencing, as part of its persistence in the metaphysic as history reawakening, as discovery. Clue cloister roister and milk (ing the) carton.
Phrase like energy creating a new conduction as between words, Wittgenstein gets into this —
A feeling tho, as to its heaviness, its corruption, its thickness, its sufferance, its noose — does and has taken over here as a totality surging up against reality, that is in a brutal struggle with truth.
And yet — still capable of impressionism! on the fly.
Without letting it kill you…