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Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Random Musings on the Hopeless Crafty Madness of Writing...

Tennisplatz by A. Ersblof (ca. 1910?)


A beautiful monster –
rattling his cage.
He must get out! He must get out!
*

We fill pages with words
as if they were a life-saving vest —
but there is no vest, no ocean.
*
The archaeological traces of one's existence like so many  grains of sand.

*

What we see is often not what it is.

*
In the dressing room —
on the table remain apple tart leftovers
the rehearsal has ended.

The actors have left.

*

Tidbits and fragments,
titmice or chickadees —
what is writing but play?

 *

Tremendous upheaval, the surge of humanity —
one can almost hear
a bell ringing
in the void

*

Limpid skies made of glass
Breaking.


​*

When you meditate in the midst of daily troubles even if briefly one enters the ocean of infinite calm.  Nothing troubles the heart. All is well then.  Even the worst tidings are of no relevance.

*

In Tarragon your blood stirred like in no other place —perhaps a blood-thirsty Roman legionnaire woke up in your old blood and roared! Why Rome fell? Every Empire Falls.

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“Who are they?” is one of the old-doggy tricks of the American 'democratic' psychology. A luxury voyage out, Virginia...

*

 Bored by “Washington Square”, comparing it to other two books read at the same time, “Catch-22” and to Kerouac’s “Visions of Neil” — what a ride it all is: from the stiff upper lip to the loose proletarian despair; from the ice-cold wordcraft to the the red hot chaos of Jack.  
*
 Only when sun comes out the life then, but only then — lights up.

*

One day my typewriter says to me—
tap tap tap !  name is Kerouac. who are you?
What else to answer him but:
I'm Nobody.  Are you Nobody too?

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!



*

One of the pre-eminent poets
of the café-klatsch variety, Madame S.
is also (it seems) quite a ready-made wisdom dispenser.
She sez, Well, life is like a candy shop —
just point your finger
—choose what you like!
Maybe, Madame S. for you,
but for some there's
quite a chip on our shoulder. 

*
Life is like a pastry shoppe, the internationally prized Poetess sneezed. You only need too reach out, she opined, and take what you need at the moment.
One minute you are in Kuala Lumpur, the next you are in San Francisco
receiving the Women in Poetry World Foundation Prize...or some important bourgeois horseshit like that. 



*

If we could only accept that gloom is but another, albeit darker, Bloom in the rainbow sheath of human life... But we cannot, we are of the sun, we reject the sunless places! The sunless faces!  To the guillotine with the Sunless, D.H. Lawrence.

*

One of the most beautiful words in any language—Courage.  Even if one is but a Lion of Oz:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ak3J5DayiCk




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Too many words, like too many cooks,  spoil the meal.

*

Betimes, writing seems not much different from sewing; a writer like a crooked tailor, touchy-feel in his dark, cramped quarters for the right stitch, for seemingly elusive perfect seam that will have the best sartorial effect.

*
Rudeness, more than anything else, at first shocks a civil person, but then it also wears off if we do not take it too personally, which is of course difficult to do, especially in a polite society.  Imagine how rude person offends in a country where the sense of honor and politeness are paramount. 

*


What is arrogance but another form of anxious clinging to our fictional selves? Too often, we want to be constantly reinforced in the sense that we have worth, that we are unique and unlike anyone else before and after. At least in the west, where individually is so prized —while it is virtually unknown in the more hive-oriented human groups.

*


“Nueva York es el Senegal con maquinas. Los ingleses han llevado alli una civilizacion sin raices. Han levantado casas y casas; pero no han ahondado en la tierra. Se vive para arriba, para arriba…Pero asi como en la America de abajo nostros dejamos a Cervantes, los ingleses en la America de arriba no han dejado su Shakespeare.”

F.G. Lorca, Poet in New York

*
Same life, everywhere you go: dogs bark and pee on street utility posts; children forced to go to school in the morning; a big hassle; everyone in the yoke of $ global plutocracy (...)

 

*

Best writers often remain completely unknown, and best books often stay hidden for the longest time buried deep under the dense scoriae of Time, and an ever increasing dung of tens of thousands of average authors and books.

*

What after the check-mate?  Where do the checked pieces go? Is there a massive graveyard of the fallen chess pieces somewhere?


The cycle repeats, in a similar, but never identical way for the universe unfolds in a spiral, never in full cycle.  Nietzsche got it wrong.

*

Stand still like a hummingbird — the entropy will not follow.

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An educated Hindu English is long and ponderous, while the best American English stays abridged and primitive.

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The Renaissance, despite many of its crowning achievements in arts and science, alas had furthered the cause of the Judeo-Christian self-hating virus with its fanatical hatred of life, women, human body and, most of all, excellence.  For envious democracy hates anything healthy and full of vigor.

*

Venice, nowadays, quite a sadly decayed, tawdry place. When one imagines those ruthless Venetians that once had ruled the sea, those vicious cutthroats and bandits, that much jumps obvious even at a casual glance at its flooded streets. Have ruled the seas, but in comparison to Britons (e.g.) were mere children as to their ruthlessness.

*

Love in the ‘romantic’ sense was but an illusion that could have peaked and had been maintained only in the times of Europe’s leisurely indolence and its emerging affluence. Only northern and western people believed in and carried out with the sweet, rosy nonsense of Love. To other races romantic love is strange, unknowable, dangerous, counterproductive to the cause of immediate survival. Similar is the love of nature that seems so innate to pale faces, or loving and dotting on our cats and dogs.

*
What is it about poets and generals, that fascinate? Most though  love seeing the latter pulled from the pedestal and bowled down, humiliated, ruined, dragged through the mud, taken off the stage and tossed in the garbage bin of history.


The story of past poets and generals,  the story of knocked pins in a bowling alley going out of business.


Nothing survives individually, least of all the great 'classics'.  What survives is the essence, the spirit, or whatever you might want to call it.


*

One of the real annihilators of most contemporary literature, resulting in its grimly complete lack of humor, certainly is the dogma of political correctness; an oppressive,  self-censoring drilling mandatorily instilled in nearly every writer who undergoes the workshop brain rinse,  creating the system of obedient apparatchiks but never major works of fictional art. 

 Best writers cannot be manufactured, they cannot be 'schooled' or mass-produced.  Thus the premise of "becoming a writer" in an academic institution (workshop) is flawed.  In fact, today it's but a huge money-making scheme.



*

 Writing to live is prostitution; and all writers to a different degree are forced to be whores; those that ‘make their living’ by writing for newspapers are the cheapest among the harlots lot.

*

There exist some amazingly creative, abundantly fruitful small English words that, one after another, can make the whole series and clusters of meanings – jack is one such English root word;



*
Art must test the mettle of the adverse circumstances against the cancerous money-grubbing modern world put. And who will laugh the last laugh of this final Kali Yuga? Maybe it's not your laugh after all...


*

For the gist is to pare the bastard-words and stick with the gutty old Saxo-Germanic ones.

And so it all goes indeed...



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