“Yeah, I don’t have anything to do with them. I don’t mess with them. Mama’s different though. She has a big ol’ photograph of me bein’ crowned Miss World, and it’s hangin’ in her living room. She taught me not to worry about things that don’t matter. She has a motto that I love: ‘Two tears in a bucket. Motherfuck it.’ That’s Mama, she’s a okay girl.”
On the contrary, dialectics makes the ignorance of that locus still deeper than in the dualist paradigm since it feigns to overcome it by loops and spirals and other complex acrobatic figures. Dialectics literally beats around the bush. Quasi-objects are in between and below the two poles, at the very place around which dualism and dialectics had turned endlessly without being able to come to terms with them.
Johnson, I believe, did not play at draughts after leaving College, by which he suffered; for it would have afforded him an innocent soothing relief from the melancholy which distressed him so often. I have heard him regret that he had not learnt to play at cards; and the game of draughts we know is peculiarly calculated to fix the attention without straining it. There is a composure and gravity in draughts which insensibly tranquillises the mind; and, accordingly, the Dutch are fond of it, as they are of smoaking, of the sedative influence of which, though he himself never smoaked, he had a high opinion.
The consequence is, however, that as spatially exciting as the new thing may be, it becomes ever more difficult in this urban landscape to order a high-class architectural meal of the older kind, even though you might like one (and in that sense the very real accomplishments of the postmodernist architects are comparable to late-night reefer munchies, substitutes rather than the thing itself).
LXXII.
Their only labour was to kill the time
(And labour dire it is, and weary woe);
They sit, they loll, turn o’er some idle rhyme;
Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go,
Or saunter forth, with tottering step and slow;
This soon too rude an exercise they find;
Straight on the couch their limbs again they throw,
Where hours on hours they sighing lie reclin’d,
And court the vapoury god soft-breathing in the wind.
In the public imagination, semi-mythical places like Muskogee, Oklahoma, evolved into a political and geographic counterpoint to Woodstock, New York, site of the famous 1969 music festival. One was southern, western, gritty, masculine, working class, white, and soaked in the reality of putting food on the table; the other was northern, eastern, radical, effete, leisurely, affluent, multi-cultural, and full of pipe-dreams. One was real, the other surreal; one worked, one played; one did the labor, the other did the criticism; one drank whiskey, the other smoked dope; one built, the other destroyed; one was for survival, the other was for the revolution; one died in wars, the other protested wars; and one was for Richard Nixon, the other was for George McGovern. It was that sense of reality, a grounding in life’s lived circumstances, that gave the productions of the cultural Right their authority—even when they were being manipulated, and drained of content, from the top.
Mrs. Bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no remedy like a pipe; and fastening the brooch herself in a twinkling, causes the trooper to be inducted into his usual snug place, and the pipes to be got into action. “If that don’t bring you round, George,” says she, “just throw your eye across here at the present now and then, and the two together must do it.”
Poetry is in the first place poetry, a high and ancient art. It raises your consciousness of glory and of grief, of woe and wonder, as Shakespeare phrased it.
“Sorry. I’m pretty drunk. Good night. That child of yours needs a lot of sleep. Sleep is a rose, as the Persians say. Smoke?”
“Not now.”
He struck a light, but because he was drunk, or because the wind was, the flame illuminated not him but another person, a very old man, one of those permanent guests of old hotels—and his white rocker. Nobody said anything and the darkness returned to its original place. Then I heard the old-timer cough and deliver himself some sepulchral mucus.
Add unto this a multitude of hours
Pilfered away by what the Bard who sang
Of the Enchanter Indolence hath called
‘Good-natured lounging,’ and behold a map
Of my Collegiate life…
Ken Smith passed me a spliff,
down to the roach, but enough for a pull.
I was arrested forty five days
figured the odds on smuggling tack into jail
and how.
Stripped and stood against a wall
by a nurse who invited me to a lecture
on the significance of the cell
How are you spelling that?
I asked her.
thingsirolljointson asked: Damn. And I thought I was first to come up with this hahahaha :D
You really go the extra mile with your gifs. And post more frequently, it seems.
Where are the crazes, where the mass out
running of needlessness,
who disobeys the order break free
always and wows you thin
lifed as you are then less then
turned to fizzy syrup breakthrough, there you
go over the same delays have
that extinct panic, stay straight-faced,
for summer clothes that pack like a dream,
for a new approach to nowhere else,
with soft seditious rains and the idle
urge to give a shit or two or else
and the order is barked melopop
oil fails somewhat, is beyond
the rainbow these flagrant shades of gray
were damages faces,
then should I lonely watch them out,
but the damages are craze
control run by remote fact-pushers on you
me and the speech we
breathe deeply alive, stop you don’t
slip out we can always lift those
shades and a finger each at the sky orgasming,
gray ablaze, our faces fumes and echoes.
