the murmurations of a reminder
work in progress.
warning: do not read aloud to active driver or operator of other kinds of dangerous machinery.
formula in process of refinement to an effective, but safe amount, found at the source, to add to the water supply
welcome
please use web view if reading on phone
right reading reminder:
please do not read with any considerations as to support or publication. read (when no-one is looking) just to hear the lovely pings when thoughts rhyme with things and for the pleasure and power that knowledge would bring were it not for the censors.. please while you're here, forget them... ohhhh it's already underway -- no turning back -- one cannot hide from the truth of hiding -- the octopus, the child or youth or elder, a fleeting camouflage, the veil that only gilds the grains as they pass through it -- nor would one want to, for one would then be totally lost ** -- the ample graces dancing in the Botticelli gauze of their names, then flying to where, just as they slip out of them, they tear through its own veil into the primal waters, the broken threads instantly weaving into the heavy cloak that carries them diving into it and pulling it aside finally to arrive at distant lands to take on, just as they emerge from the numinous nameless as from a ritual bath -- oh the luck of any youth (however old) who spies their arrival as the others laugh that what's immortal is a thing of the past -- sour grapes just ignore them -- other not yet nefarious names*** in which they briefly hide or openly abide to have moved on before daybreak or nightfall, the golden grains like starlings swarming, never to fail, for just as they start their fall, they turn to reform into novel beings and soar again, after that one death, perhaps if you lost yours, you will find it here, never again to have to die to be reborn... ohh I sway and swoon to this material music, the world before my eyes, the things in fluid transmutations driven by a wind that comes from where and where it goes no-one knows, though I can't control the visceral wish (especially during waves of nausea) to come off this stuff -- "where was all this thought bought? what is your source?" I knew you'd ask. I'm leading you to it, but it's a long way off, and time won't be clockable until this wears off. -- and get back out there where they shoot to kill the world into stiller and stiller stills more and more predictably uniform, strictly packaged and labeled for safety and security, the art apart as strictly labeled as such, so as not to contaminate the food supply, and they get what they need, though they're always hungry after their gods get their fill of the kill -- and I give thanks for the fuel that blood lust provides to launch me forth and keep me going; but I'm glad that in here -- ssshh don't let them hear -- the ammunition with a mind of its own veers from the target -- however I do keep going back to that significant public siting of starlings, over Rome I think, taking the startling form of a greater starling briefly claiming the sky, as the eagle made of angels bowed on high -- for then the hunt would end, the music would stop, along with this ecstatic heady fast from game, my passion pouring into this oh so seductively cold keyboard -- ohhh you will buy me one of those, really? I crooned, running my finger on her smooth, flawless, gently curved back -- that finally might be melting at my touch and after decades of foreplay pushing out a score that I might decide to have punched into a player piano roll, a score that, if it survives, won't forget me outside of, at best, a family tree and some quaint anecdotes, after five generations. Oh no, this world saving genius, the apple of my eye, will always be my own child, my shadow daily passing over it a message from the moving sky where I will fly, my handprint stamped on this cave to be discovered, perhaps, by an internet archiver on Mars curious about a curious comment on the Instagram page of one of my famous friends... yes yes yes oh keyboard keyboard keyboard I'm burbling in your ear not just my mangling of the Molly monologue but the entire uber-sexed text of Finnegan's Wake, murmurating thousands of your adorable names in your native tongue. What better ado to make much about than what I'm holding, spite of scornfully snorting Harry, oh progenitor of little faith, who's supposedly got some respectable stuff and ready to see me and raise me until I fold and show I got nothing, or so he thinks, so he can finally break me and hear me admit I wasn't cut out for this game, but the okay I say today only pertains to my conceding, soonish, to stop and pay the ConEd bill before they shut off the service, and yes yes mama I'll soon go out and play on this beautiful day -- ssshh distract him when I sneak out, I'll pay the ConEd bill later, if I can find it. His pals nudge him... slow down, that Mona Lisa smile looks dangerous, while even without being too vain to get reading glasses (he used a magnifying glass to read the newspaper), they too can't see the shallow tracks I'm following, light as a sandpiper's -- true, poker is not my game -- no doubt the censors shriveled and atrophied their elephant ears and lopped off their trunks too, they too will have to grow these back as they grow or shrink to hear the music at the tempo at which the notes break into it, while they reach out far enough from where they stand to touch it and breathe it in. Until then, pals, if not now, just record the sounds and score to play back later, breathe deep as you can, stay quiet and listen, each overlain line of melody like a coastline is self-similar, and you will hear intermittent strains even at the outset. Meanwhile the sounds will help you regrow sensors sufficiently serious about stretching over to this that's way over here, so as to feel it and know it and let it serve you by its own gifts, just as you now grow, now shrink, tuning your strings to the size of the music. A human, this long self-forgotten species, is everything and everybody. Welcome home! This motion is the meat and sacrifice, this water is the wine ... How dare she? Who does she think she is? I say forget them! those are not your voices, but don't react, just let them come and go... Leave now, who is she to tell you what voices are yours, she wants to control you! well ha ha, if that's not the pot calling the kettle black, I'm not -- at the keyboard at least --the flakey melting glittering stuff of driven snow, as you can see with your own eyes, oh dear they took those too, look here's a box of brown green blue...... how dare she call me blind! oh come on, we all are...we only have our metaphors,the murmurations of starlings, however mesmerizing, however graceful, their darkness intractable, nameless, until knowing that we know only that names and gilds it known unknown, as swished around in the chemical of knowing unknowing, I mean knowing unknowing in the bone, now buried but sniffed and we're digging, the negative of the world turns positive, I only have a gift, and also a testimonial, elsewhere on view, authorizing me a reminder, perhaps an indispensable one. oh no, none of that... right right of course not...just please consider that avoiding my type is a typological avoidance, and rather prejudiced against mutants whose form fits the function of representing that reversal of the negative so as to fill a long empty seat in legislature, the form not as imagined, but as is, on the other side of the world. I propose suspension of judgement and seeing how it unfolds... "We are the ones we have been waiting for." It sounded a proper cheer to help Sisyphus daydream with his chin up, but then it happened.
I did not ask to be a poet and try to avoid it whenever I can, the common folk I like to joke with don't take them seriously, and even if they might, there seem so many pressing problems including many flowery poems pressed into forms to address them, but the dried flowers and even the ones that have not yet been plucked and pressed release more seeds to create more flowers, and then the seeds make their way into me and spill out over the keyboard. Oh the censors; the closer I came to realizing their visions, the more offense they take, not able to receive the clear report that the walls they sought to protect have already tumbled down in breaking into the promised land, as the seer we know from Selma promised, the ferocious battle now ensuing for full possession not fought as widely thought by human minds and hands, but in each heart being torn apart by it, where this near unbearable inner conflict is almost always -- for shame, I'm sorry I must say it, for shame! --projected without... but the stars are so bright and, held to its proper arena, the fight is so right it can always be night and I for one will be all right my trunk holding tight to my whispering clover... and please do keep picking my nits fellow gorilla, beloved, and flicking them to the wind.
warning: the mongrel discourse is not a "safe space", only samurais like Marlena Dietrich who don’t flinch when a stormy director suddenly pulls out and points a gun at her head and pulls the trigger (then, spoiler alert, don’t read! a flower blossoms from the barrel) are allowed to enter this guerrilla training camp by the front door. Those seeking other means of entry will barraged with stinging bibis.
footnotes:
*and when there's enough of us -- literalists need not apply, and don't necessarily take that literally! -- we'll go public, but you're free to opt out at any time, no terms, no conditions, you're not being tracked, and if you deny us under duress out there, not just once, no worries just say you're sorry, all is forgiven, but woe unto the critic who moves with concerted intent to wipe this dangerous phenomenon off the face of the earth, however destiny may decree it to assure its longterm impact, as the crowds gather around the curiously sweet smelling corpse, and the critic awakens to his big mistake..
*** sticking with a lick to a nick in the nameless numinous, a nick nicked out of what surrounds it in a particular way, comes with a lifetime supply of biodegradable stickers, do not buy the more permanent kinds, they're all toxic, so if you're using any, soak in this and other meditative vehicles until the name slips off the thing, and if any permanent sealant remains stuck to the name, carefully, wearing protective gloves and mask, place in a toxic waste container and send into outer space as soon as possible or at least practicable
*** one cannot hide from the truth of hiding -- the octopus, the child or youth or elder, a fleeting camouflage, the veil that only gilds the grains as they pass through it -- nor would one want to, for one would then be totally lost... far from what scientists say today, but what science constantly proves, only the immeasurable exists; and if forced up against it, since they can't own that toy, it belongs to art, they then deny anything exists at all enough to worry about any risk (wasn't it last time comparable to the statistical risk of dying of Covid for somebody not already on the way out?) of sucking it all into a black hole if that's what's required to keep refining their measurements of the verifiably non-existent, which they continue to claim is the only thing that exists, however their holy methods (perfected by a believer whose faith survived torture) defy and deny it. Because in the absence of respect for other than professional philosophers, a contradiction in terms, these functionaries functioning well as science's servants, to promote themselves to the level of incompetence professional behavior requires rush in to fill the gap. Poor science, born servant to art, in the hands of these dangerous clowns truly convinced they're saving the world with their miscalculated calculations. Poor art, divinely ordained, in exile from the royal palace. But wise as the pussy catty owl until, with the world's most sonorous sound, it spreads its wide white wings and vanishes into the night, gentle as the low waves of the bay beating beating beating at the bulwark when I'm nowhere in sight, because I'm everywhere, I do not complain. I act!
****other not yet nefarious names...
like what sounds like a nickname for the "niggardly", which the niggardly jiggled into the name Negro conveniently projecting their niggardliness onto the victims of it -- and subliminal suggestion works; it's amazing how many people don't see anything there but what a thing is called connected to other calls of unseen things -- the victims being folk blacker to the optical nerve, but the brain tissue, analyzing the data, sees their bodies as whiter, as they absorb more light, rather than throw more of it off, as the inner blackers, those "whiters" do. However the heart, a part apart, quite off the charts in smarts - "To draw, close your eyes and sing." (Picasso) -- smarts at the only overtly odorless, hot air farts of the overextended - optical function and the cerebral function as such, those useful but limited functionaries that some supposed serious servants of science want to give free rein to partner with metal ones and take over the world; I think therefore I function, maybe; I feel, therefore I AM; my toes know, I'm a bird brain crow who can add up the numbers by winging it. Indeed my sweetheart brother, when his seriously systematically applied, even somewhat street wise cerebral function fizzled in fathoming the material, out of the blue aced with flying colors the midterm in the reputed hardest course (some kind of physics) at Yale University by Not studying and just feeling his way, driven by his heart's desire to win, make mama proud, and meanwhile thrust a torch into the devouring darkness blinding the cyclops. Sadly, his brain protested and made him study for the final, the frabjous day (he did pass though) was thus delayed, that jabberwok be still at large this very day. Perhaps, then doubting that Dad had a Calloy! Callay! in him, as, for instance, his only response to the five year old beamish boy's having out of the blue (his very first word had been "I'll..." followed by "...take mine scrambled please.") read that day's Post Dispatch cover to cover was to rag on him for not putting it back together, his heart's desire was spent. One really isn't in charge of one's heart's desire until one really knows that, so know it now (and remember to know it again when you soon forget it). And doubt all you see and think and let your heart -- not your gut, that too is a rut -- be your guide and perhaps don't yet start switching what's called whiter or blacker and snitching on and witch hunting all the recalcitrantly unswitched. Neither merely optically functional nor merely cerebrally functional definitions of population pools are equipped to ace the hardest test and slay that Jabberwok once and for all. --
to gain access to all posts, eventually, begin, if you not already done so, at themongreldiscourse.blogspot.com. The Previous Post list above and to the right always shows up to ten most recently posted posts previous to the opened one, the posts in this list reversing the chronological order of their appearance, the last appearing first. By continually clicking on the one at the bottom of the list, you gain access to more posts until you have reviewed the whole index. (I have, though, falsified some dates in the program, but not on the page, as this order is not always the order in which I choose to present the posts.)
posted by V @ 5:11 AM
