Stacking Bricks
At scent of its crusade
No Allowances
Oh man Novel is heavy rhyme lime. Straight thru to Chapter 25.
Set free from its stable, and yet that freedom is its stable.
Found ways be both, at same time. Without letting go of its intention.
Too bad too sad
There are passages that get to in book, all throughout, that reveal its prickliness, its sickness with itself, and then, knowing the depth of its gloom, suddenly kisses the moon -
Found a way to talk about it that is eternally grazed with love? At scent of its crusade?
Does Yeats
Oh yeats.
If your following my reading Yeats. Up to his next book. Its like 8 that fiend.
Has suddenly wrote one of his most famous poems, you may recall his last three books, he started messing around, letting go of writing really tight poems based on trad structs.
Began dabbling around inside, stopped making “perfect” to tightness of thread, loose, little mangly but also sketchy.
Then in next jumps back into structs again, playing more deeply.
And now he catches it, all sides, as sails through! His next poem in his next book, very famous poem of his.
Warning: its a thumb in gods butt. Many have stolen phrases from it… So Shall I says the Fly. But the ending slips under it in way that admits everything.
Yeats its verily unforgiving he is hissing into the wind the horror fresh and abundant, then cracks the egg!
The Second Coming By William Butler Yeats Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats (1989) POETRY FOUNDATION
I admit to being worse of all rocking cradle through and through waves of the passionate intensity. Slouching towards Bethlehem to be born, does jesus come into. For me? Oh sure.
SouthWestWard
But mostly south american offshoots of an intermingling st mary with jesus, is atomized as a skeleton scaffolding, life amidst the deadly, also american indian trickster addressing transcendence of nonsense that laughs with god, and a shookster all in shock at assassins showing up, and breaking eggs.
Gods in female form swing through it that are still worshipped as I understand it in South America. Constantly being reborn.
But also, in fights with its own tyranny.
Stretching hands finger limes toward Yeats intermingling with nature and rhyme…
Incentivized
How Didion uses the snake, mentions in passing, and builds off of, also incentivized by neil gaiman american gods?
And of course Dante wherever Venus cracks out through her shell. Its lush plush and orange crush…..
There is no politics in it. If any its been leibnized, its meta sized, foams up from inside meta, like a deer in headlights with Shakespeare — old as tree bark.
But also, inbred, as Sexual Personna…
Sexual Personae: Art and Decadence from Nefertiti to Emily Dickinson... Men chase by night those they will not greet by day. Eroticism is mystique; that is, the aura of emotion and imagination around sex. It cannot be 'fixed' by codes of social or moral convenience, whether from the political left or right.
Diderot we love you.