After the National Guardsperson scanned my QR code, my drivers licence, and asked me my birthday then read the legal liability disclaimer and I was next in line for a shot Earthgirl said for the fourth time today, seventh time two day total, I am utterly fascinated by this, and I agreed, planning, coordination, an efficiently tight operation after nine months of zoom meetings with bosses who were idiots before the plague, it...
National guardspersons herding people through an amusement park's giant parking lot in a cornfield maze of orange cones in freezing rain, the abandoned rides in the distance, this weekend's second finest metaphor abounding, the finest that neither me or Earthgirl could get a decent photo
When I go self-swab two times a week at Illhoptay signage warning me not to take photos everywhere, on Saturday at Six Flags I didn't think to take photos, and, I looked Sunday for posted no photo signs and none, looked at the paperwork handed me, not a word about photos, I know Illhoptay a private business but I am telling you three times: Last Weekend in My Trained Complicity
Alternative theory not in opposition: we hike, we shop, we go to work in car or house, this felt like a freaking vacation, the first fucking unique, as in haven't done *that* before day since how many months, years, before the plague?
Kettling and retraining reminds me of my kettling and retraining
I'm invested complicity enough my body will kettle me long before shitlords harvest
Hamster sent me a different Toyah & Robert which got me here ^^
v The song Hamster sent me, thanks! maybe I'll get to see him by his birthday v
DAMAGED STOPPER WITH MARIGOLD
The Woman I love is a forest of enormous whispers and her tongue smooths the petals after rain. Her finger dreams of a garden and it is Spring. A fast car lathers the mist like milk beneath a breast. The puppy sleeps on top of a pink dress drooling and a man said Think about cooking honey delicious sausage beautiful luscious eggs please, essential shadows drunk as diamonds in a sweet storm. I take my cry and sing delicate girl what about this thing. Can I leave the gift with you, swim through peach and fiddle, chant and shine?
'scuse me while i kiss this guy
i was glad to see the new james tate website, sorry to note that there is no obvious way for me to sneak my anagogic interpretations in
from yesterday -
am i a mystic? yes, apparently, by matthew fox's definition - who knows if it's good or bad? but fr. fox thinks it's good, clearly
is jamie raskin an honest broker? i get that impression - i once was in the same room with him at an event at g**th*rsb*rg high school - being a democratic party leader is a dirty job but somebody's gotta do it or else it don't get done and he might well be better than most
tate...my anagogic interpretationsDelete
here once again is a james tate poem with my anagogic commentary - with a pointer to the song from the movie babe [plot not so different from the first part of tate's poem] -a musical tribute to the joy of living while under the gun of mortality set to a tune from Symphony No. 3 of Saint-Saëns
"The Promotion" by James Tate
I was a dog in my former life, a very good
dog, and, thus, I was promoted to a human being.
I liked being a dog. I worked for a poor farmer
guarding and herding his sheep. Wolves and coyotes
tried to get past me almost every night, and not
once did I lose a sheep. the farmer rewarded me
with good food, food from his table. He may have
been poor, but he ate well. and his children
played with me, when they weren’t in school or
working in the field. I had all the love any dog
could hope for. When I got old, they got a new
dog, and I trained him in the tricks of the trade.
He quickly learned, and the farmer brought me into
the house to live with them. I brought the farmer
his slippers in the morning, as he was getting
old, too. I was dying slowly, a little bit at a
time. The farmer knew this and would bring the
new dog in to visit me from time to time. The
new dog would entertain me with his flips and
flops and nuzzles. And then one morning I just
didn’t get up. They gave me a fine burial down
by the stream under a shade tree. That was the
end of my being a dog. Sometimes I miss it so
I sit by the window and cry. I live in a high-rise
that looks out at a bunch of other high-rises.
At my job I work in a cubicle and barely speak
to anyone all day. This is my reward for being
a good dog. The human wolves don’t even see me.
They fear me not.
My analysis: I conclude that the cubicle dweller of Tate's poem is worse off in his current incarnation - his "promotion" to a human life has not gone well - for two reasons.
1)His emotional needs were much better met in his life as a dog - Tate evokes this beautifully, and anyone who has loved a dog must be moved by this.
2)Contrariwise, Tate's protagonist, looking backwards at his former happiness, has not yet grasped his current opportunity and responsibility for "the development of his soul", to use old-fashioned language.
See the Monty Python creed - movie excerpt
Tate's protagonist is "reborn" into human circumstances, but he is immature in the sense that he is only reacting to, rather than mindfully and proactively responding to, his current place in the universe - he needs to be reminded of the possibility he has to "shine":