9 thoughts on “So much more than I thought this world could ever hold”
*there* you are…
Your particularity and my particularity danced along, hand in hand.
They were not ‘us’, but in them we beheld, reflections of ourselves
Phantasms, ghosts maybe? Each silhouette never dreaming to define
the other’s realities – whatever they may be.
Oh we meet, we laugh, we dance, we sing. We share..
Not a drop of our true essence lost when we dare
No emaciated identity is found to tarry there
Where we once were and can still be
I invite you to this place, cordially
For we play, we really do
Within hearts being true
Reaching, transcending
Don’t be blue
Sculptor?
Sculpt..
‘Ah..’
Shrug
I’ve never really considered cynicism a way of ‘thinking.’ It’s just privilege drunk on shame.
And the little fishie sad to the big fishie “How come we is both fishies, but you get to take up more room in the lake and then swallow up us little fishies for good measure?”
“If you were a big fishie you would want to rule the world.. But you know that you can’t. There’s just no room in here for you, little fishie” came the reply.
“I hate big fishies” the little fishie thought “they are so unfair” (powerful) “If I were a big fishie I would look after the little fishies and would work to emancipate the little ones, give them room to breathe”
Just then, a psychic pond-skater that heard the little fishies thoughts said to the little fishie “Nah, it’s against the natural order”
The little fishie promptly bobbed to the surface of the lake and made a meal of the pond-skater.
mystes, I never metanarrative I didn’t like. I’m cheering. Time for chow.
He writes: �I am’ Half De Witte..
funny… the year I brought my son into ‘carnation, I signed my posts ‘half-wit/whole-heart’
So — I have to ask, what’s *your* other half?
My maudlin New Year’s Eve didn’t feel like mere jettison; when I tapped, it rang all the way down. Uh-oh, I thought, trying to focus and refocus. The crosshairs kept cutting through, like retinal scars. Uh-fucking-oh…
We hit the door seven seconds before the cusp. I sank into samadhi, the ‘carnation hit the TV as the Ball was about to drop. Seven-six-five… something let go of the tips of my mental fingers like a man finally drowning. Four-three-two- something else swept in wearing a bone skirt and very little else. One.
The televised cheering was a strange soundtrack to my vertigo.
It promises to be a very weird year.
***
Philosophy Break: Metanarratives? I’ve always thought that word was belaboring the point. Show me a narrative without its meta.
One might add ‘riddle’, where discontinuity seizes the stage from the meta-narratives and their hegemonic regalia of mono-cultures and conventionality. ‘I am’ Half De Witte..
Okay, five hours and 57 minutes. Grieving it is just a stone on the path –
“It has been claimed that in postmodernity storytelling and reason are no longer the way to wisdom. The author argues here that there remains another path to wisdom, namely, that of the holy fool (morosophia). This path retrieves the tradition of foolish wisdom from the Bible and Eastern religions, the negative theology of Nicholas of Cusa, and Erasmus’s Laus stultitiae. It argues that the wisdom of the holy fool is characterized by irony, fantasy, and knowledge-illumined-by-love…”
from _Theological Studies_. Dec. 1, 2001… (Can you *imagine*??)
Dear Ones,
As obvious as this is, I would like to point out that we only have approximately 8 hours and 45 minutes left on this terrible, no-good, weird-ass year. I spent the morning sobbing outright for all the dreams, lives, poems, beauty being shattered by causal mortar, stupidity, lies and outright venality. With the sanguine 13-year-old sitting next to me, passing the green-haired Motherest tissue after tissue, I mourned it, ranted it, blessed it, hated it, wanted it, lost it.
Then I wander into PW and find this: Art eats Life and burps God.
Now heading out to meet friends, and throw a glass of wine in His face.
Struggle AWAKE, me Hearties. All is Lost (of course), but we knew that when we signed up…
*there* you are…
Your particularity and my particularity danced along, hand in hand.
They were not ‘us’, but in them we beheld, reflections of ourselves
Phantasms, ghosts maybe? Each silhouette never dreaming to define
the other’s realities – whatever they may be.
Oh we meet, we laugh, we dance, we sing. We share..
Not a drop of our true essence lost when we dare
No emaciated identity is found to tarry there
Where we once were and can still be
I invite you to this place, cordially
For we play, we really do
Within hearts being true
Reaching, transcending
Don’t be blue
Sculptor?
Sculpt..
‘Ah..’
Shrug
I’ve never really considered cynicism a way of ‘thinking.’ It’s just privilege drunk on shame.
And the little fishie sad to the big fishie “How come we is both fishies, but you get to take up more room in the lake and then swallow up us little fishies for good measure?”
“If you were a big fishie you would want to rule the world.. But you know that you can’t. There’s just no room in here for you, little fishie” came the reply.
“I hate big fishies” the little fishie thought “they are so unfair” (powerful) “If I were a big fishie I would look after the little fishies and would work to emancipate the little ones, give them room to breathe”
Just then, a psychic pond-skater that heard the little fishies thoughts said to the little fishie “Nah, it’s against the natural order”
The little fishie promptly bobbed to the surface of the lake and made a meal of the pond-skater.
mystes, I never metanarrative I didn’t like. I’m cheering. Time for chow.
He writes: �I am’ Half De Witte..
funny… the year I brought my son into ‘carnation, I signed my posts ‘half-wit/whole-heart’
So — I have to ask, what’s *your* other half?
My maudlin New Year’s Eve didn’t feel like mere jettison; when I tapped, it rang all the way down. Uh-oh, I thought, trying to focus and refocus. The crosshairs kept cutting through, like retinal scars. Uh-fucking-oh…
We hit the door seven seconds before the cusp. I sank into samadhi, the ‘carnation hit the TV as the Ball was about to drop. Seven-six-five… something let go of the tips of my mental fingers like a man finally drowning. Four-three-two- something else swept in wearing a bone skirt and very little else. One.
The televised cheering was a strange soundtrack to my vertigo.
It promises to be a very weird year.
***
Philosophy Break: Metanarratives? I’ve always thought that word was belaboring the point. Show me a narrative without its meta.
One might add ‘riddle’, where discontinuity seizes the stage from the meta-narratives and their hegemonic regalia of mono-cultures and conventionality. ‘I am’ Half De Witte..
Okay, five hours and 57 minutes. Grieving it is just a stone on the path –
“It has been claimed that in postmodernity storytelling and reason are no longer the way to wisdom. The author argues here that there remains another path to wisdom, namely, that of the holy fool (morosophia). This path retrieves the tradition of foolish wisdom from the Bible and Eastern religions, the negative theology of Nicholas of Cusa, and Erasmus’s Laus stultitiae. It argues that the wisdom of the holy fool is characterized by irony, fantasy, and knowledge-illumined-by-love…”
from _Theological Studies_. Dec. 1, 2001… (Can you *imagine*??)
Dear Ones,
As obvious as this is, I would like to point out that we only have approximately 8 hours and 45 minutes left on this terrible, no-good, weird-ass year. I spent the morning sobbing outright for all the dreams, lives, poems, beauty being shattered by causal mortar, stupidity, lies and outright venality. With the sanguine 13-year-old sitting next to me, passing the green-haired Motherest tissue after tissue, I mourned it, ranted it, blessed it, hated it, wanted it, lost it.
Then I wander into PW and find this: Art eats Life and burps God.
Now heading out to meet friends, and throw a glass of wine in His face.
Struggle AWAKE, me Hearties. All is Lost (of course), but we knew that when we signed up…