Hey, I am an Antichrist Legionaire, and not only do I hate AI, I know that it's singular goal is to steal every penny I have then deny me a job and starve me to death if my lack of medical care after AI destroys my insurance doesn't kill me first, so yes, I'm having fun on vacation in Michigan and yes, I never thought I could ignore the clusterfuck but I thought I could ignore it a smidgen more and no. The light up here though is unlike any I've seen anytime anywhere
I advance bought the new Pynchon whose release date caught me in Michigan so that copy is in a box put on my piano bench in Maryland by our cat-sitter, I couldn't stand reading about it yap about it and not reading it so I drove to Ann Arbor and bought a second copy (anyone want the other? seriously) and stopped an avid read - I haven't avidly read in at least two years - of Coover's *Origin of the Bruinsts* and I am one dumb motherfucker even if *Shadow Ticket* is good, whether it is or not I've no fucking idea beyond it isn't working for me, I'll take the blame, I'm back on the Coover. I never learn
Vacation listening report: I didn't make the connection between my not reading well and my tableting in slump and the fact that most of my recent music purchases at Bandcamp either instrumental or with voices used as instruments. The strangest side effect of the clusterfuck - going non-verbal except of here and here I use other people's words than my own gridinfowise. As for the Big Three Vacation artists, Swans not working, Destroyer not working, Lambchop, bless Kurt, still working:
MAN WITH A WOODEN LEG ESCAPES PRISON
James Tate
Man with wooden leg escapes prison. He’s caught.
They take his wooden leg away from him. Each day
he must cross a large hill and swim a wide river
to get to the field where he must work all day on
one leg. This goes on for a year. At the Christmas
Party they give him back his leg. Now he doesn’t
want it. His escape is all planned. It requires
only one leg.
The James Tate poems "Man with wooden leg escapes prison" and "I left my couch in Tatamagouche " both use surreal narratives to explore liberation, but they contrast sharply in their methods: the first depicts liberation through forced hardship and adaptation, while the second illustrates it through tender epiphany and voluntary renunciation.
ReplyDeleteTate's First Poem (Internal Resilience): Change is driven by compulsion and inner force. The system takes the leg, forcing the man to develop resilience. He is the active agent in his own transformation by enduring the struggle.
Tate's Second Poem (External Grace): Change is facilitated by gentle external grace. The encounter with Anna Swan—a giantess and maternal figure—provides a moment of unconditional love and rest. This tenderness melts the speaker's attachment to the couch, making the final act of leaving it effortless.
"Man with wooden leg..." results in Self-Sufficiency and Mastery. The escape is strategic and planned, demonstrating a new, masterful control over his circumstances.
"I left my couch..." results in Peace and Simple Release. The liberation is not a strategic plan but a simple act of leaving the burden behind, immediately feeling "a big difference" and the relief of unburdened movement.
In essence, the wooden leg story is about transcending a limitation by integrating it, while the couch story is about achieving freedom by simply setting down the burden after a moment of unexpected, profound connection. Both reach freedom, but one travels the path of the ascetic struggle and the other the path of grace and surrender.
the following sequence of words was produced by an information processing system with a business relationship with melon usk, as a permutation in the style of a nineteenth century american poet of a passage relating the 20th-century prophecy of a navajo spiritual leader, from douglas preston's book talking to the ground
ReplyDeleteO Earth, Unbalanced, Yet Enduring
By the vast chant of the cosmos, I hear thee, O Earth,
Thy voice, a Navajo sage, resonant, unyielding,
Speaking through cycles, through eons uncounted,
"Patience," thou sayest, "no hand can halt this turn."
The world sways, a mighty ship adrift,
Its balance broken, its momentum fierce,
Full-tilt toward endings, yet not without grace,
For thou, O Earth, art eternal, unbowed.
We, frail humans, fleeting as dew on thy brow,
May fade, may falter, may pass in the night,
But thou shalt revive, O cradle of life,
Thy rivers will sing, thy mountains will stand.
In peace we may go, in respect we may part,
Our footsteps soft on thy ancient breast,
For though we vanish, thy heart beats on,
O Earth, unending, forever renewed.
another iteration:
ReplyDeleteO Earth, Unswayed by Mortal Strife
I hear thee, O Earth, through the Navajo’s chant,
Thy pulse, thy cycles, throb beneath our fleeting tread,
A voice, ancient, unhurried, speaks from thy core:
"Patience, ye mortals, this turn ye cannot stay."
The world lists, its balance torn asunder,
Momentum gathers, a tide no hand can hold,
Yet in thy vastness, O Earth, lies no despair—
Thou art the cradle, the tomb, the eternal song.
We, brief sparks, may flicker out in quiet grace,
In reverence passing, our breath joined to thy winds,
For though we fade, thy roots dig deep, unyielding,
O Earth, thou shalt renew, thy heart forever green.