(Oh dear. I have only ten fingers. So I need to borrow before suicide-entists in order to count the sites and sights and sleights of hands and paints and hands-in-pants and panting in anticipation and anti-fascination and that is one small view of the world or of a painting but otherwise a scarily wide and long and wholly unchoded view of the world which is unrealistic only in the sense I know about nothing but there goes intelligence like that center named after bush, or dissenter of sex, a deserted piecemeal unwise function. YOU’RE A FCUKING IDIOT (thief).)
Byron, the poet of note Albabian national costume fetish fame, wrote a poem that cuts across many of our lives. And abuse it or peruse it, there is a layer to skim for all. Mine starts out obviously enough, then embroiders that needle(ss) work. But it has a darker vision than that, one requiring those military green night eyes. And a certain type of fortune telling, perhaps most like “O Fortuna!” So, the poem:–
Darkness
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum’d
And men were gather’d round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other’s face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain’d;
Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
Extinguish’d with a crash—and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil’d;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look’d up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash’d their teeth and howl’d: the wild birds shriek’d
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl’d
And twin’d themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought—and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour’d,
Even dogs assail’d their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish’d men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur’d their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer’d not with a caress—he died.
The crowd was famish’d by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap’d a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak’d up,
And shivering scrap’d with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek’d, and died—
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr’d within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp’d
They slept on the abyss without a surge—
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir’d before;
The winds were wither’d in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish’d; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—She was the Universe.
Noted in the http://www.2020site.org/lord_byron/darkness.html site I grabbed this from, though I saw it on a friend’s blog but it seemed so pertinent that I had to check for other sources (not disbelief, just raising the odds, etc.). Wasn’t 20-20 the name, coincidentally, of that librarian movement to have 20% of all libraries in New Hampshire vote for free membership, or something? I recall this from some biblically named movement of people quite a number of years ago.
Commented on the site, which goes into L.B. a fair amount: “In the spring of 1822 a heavy and unlooked-for sorrow befell Byron. Allegra, his natural daughter by Claire Clairmont, died at the convent of Bagna Cavallo on the 20th of April 1822.” Let me see. That year Jean-Philippe Rameau wrote his
Traité de L’Harmonie except a hundred years earlier, worth making a hullabaloo about; and Napoleon Bonaparte was exiled on St Helena and died there on my birthday (Karl Marx’s) except a year earlier; and my friend Reuben was born on the 20th of April but something more like 1966, which is a hundred years after Erik Satie was born (except on the 17th of May, and he was born as Eric) and he himself just a year after Claude Debussy NO he was born in 1862 but 1865 was when the KKK was born, and my brother David too but a century later, and back to the 20th of April, something Nostradamus predicted ha! Not. How many words, how many possibilisillities. Like, 2005 came and goed. And the end of the world is nigh—’tis a trope to trip upon. Like a skipping trope, kind of not so much a fetish as faddish? Like hopscotch or knucklebones, kind of universal.
Well, I found my path. A lot of forks, and I might stumble, but I found my path and its temporary destruction might have been caused by dark clouds or by a mantra said wrong, but that is well-passed and well-tumbled down a muddy avalanche of [reminds me of someone in the Christchurch earthquake being from Bury St. Edmunds, who was obviously singled out by the press], and liars or truthtellers at these forks, WE HAVE LOGIC.
More people should weight-lift. In 2003 I saw a picture and imagined that there were instructions to fly a small one-person plane into Dunster House at Harvard University. That is about as stupid as I have been. Other than telling someone mildly important about it. But at least he was a specialist in lies, so I was somewhat off the insane hook. But, as to the phony hook, they are going as spare as the ribs that might be on them (well, tenterhooks). I was dumber than actually possible, with a strange IQ or HQ whatever they call it striptease days, worse, so musical a near-CD. But I saw a lot of things and read even fewer. It was all in preparation of what was to come: my arts and real writings. I let s(l)eep into what I do my sweating neurons, sweating from doing double jeopardy: my thoughts and someone else’s, since I am possessed of the notion that a little something in my life has got to go. And that little something is:
Jury is still out. Verdict out, in, whichever, very very soon, and that weight-lifting will no longer be wait-listing, nor will I suffer the osmosis of fretting
sans recherche liking a badly strung-out
lutte. Speaking of
La fête de Lutte Ouvrière and
ouvres which definitely
travails, Arvo Pärt’s
Fratres means “brothers” in Latin. The Wikipedia article on that specific work is informative in general. Not in what it says, but more a deconstruction of that, quite strictly: “A performance by the Hungarian State Opera Orchestra conducted by Tamás Benedek, recorded in 1997, was used in the six-part BBC documentary Auschwitz:
The Nazis and the ‘Final Solution’ produced by Laurence Rees in 2005.” Pretty good for a barely existing article! When reading Wikipedia, we are reminded that what is terrible in the world can be turned good: the abundance of references, stated or implied, to things facsimile or fast scimitar or scatological, can be made good; remind us, lest we forget. Forge it. Or forgive. Or even for an ogive (Satie wrote some pieces with that name, presumably because he used to play the organ in his spare time in a Gothic church in Paris no less—
d’uh, said in French, he barely left the city other than to be born in Honfleur). Or better yet, a spherically-blunted tangent ogive. Why, that sounds to me like a typical shape of the nose of a rocket or other missile! Thank god that latter term is not called a hit-ile, for a few reasons. I am not drawing your attention to rocket design, er, I am at MIT currently, so that would be somewhat redundant, or I might be, but I got to thinking today about a conference I attended part of today (I left so I could eat cheesecake! And why not?). On a Brain Jukebox. Beats other BJs NOT, especially not BJ and the Bear. Cover the head with EEG electrodes (for their negligible latency) to localize over FAST time (FAST was the conference) something that will make music out of our brain patterns as we imagine music—tht connection was not made clear; nor was the whole phase-locking issue.
Here is a picture of sphericallybluntedtangentogivegeometry, to end this spiel. I have many photos and musics to put up tonight. I slept 22hrs last night and, well, I got time to burn. A perfect match.
