I'm back! It's blog time, all the time! How's the Little Sleep coming along? I sleep a bunch one night a week; the rest, well, you know, is Straight Crushing.
I've been reading some interesting stuff which, despite yr school schedule, you should check out sometime. Three books: Dust by Arkadii Dragomushchenko, Literature and Cinematography by Viktor Shklovsky, and Silence by John Cage. They are all quite differing, but revolve around one central theme, that is how sound is organized to create signs, soon becoming plots, conflicts, and possibly clarity or conclusions. We, my friend, cannot take the concept of the organization of sound & its form lightly. All this is done to reveal something in the world in which we live. Some people call this Art.
We must also think of this in terms of music & of poetry (or formal literature or written word). We order words & notes/pitches/stresses for specific ends. I will leave you with that. To what ends are we striving for?
Music: I'm listening to Small Sins right now. Listen to the song "Prove Me Wrong."
K, I love you!
xoxo
d
Hey boys. You two are pretty cute and classy with your electronic correspondence.
ReplyDeleteTypes of sounds one should make with shapes on paper airplanes|
The shapes get larger as the landing gear lifts|
The stakes go higher| raising the risks.now.life stowed inside a belly til descent// You see the shapes you once made are so small// they all/ look the same// And the things you thought were so tall/ are flat and unmoving//
but that's way up there.
|meanwhile|
farther from where we're staring ^up^ at trees,
and stowed inside bellies, still nascent, we see the shapes, we
once made are seeds.
And everyone knows that seeds don't know what they need.
They don't care if the only reason they landed in some fertile soil is because I ripped a paper bag at the seams to lay it flat to make a paper airplane to provide you with this demonstration of why it is important to not worry what you are expressing to whom and just to make the best of what you know. For me, it's not growing roots, but to each his own.
There are a lot of rules in this life. People use words like "good" or "bad" to describe a thought expressed, or a meaning uncovered by arranging syllables.
Silence is one of those books I read and thought, "oh yes. Strength to stay felicitous with a vision born within...that's where it's at"
Most of what I read and love whether it's good+or-bad is just because Author's presence lies over letters and words like a ghost.
If the longest shutter speed on a satellite camera could track a single person for the entirety of their life, their body of work would be the shape of the path they made through this world. Each point would articulate to the point before.
Sor Juana wrote:
Hear me with your eyes,
now that distant ears cannot attend,
and, in absent sighs,
hear reproaches sobbing from this pen.
And as you cannot hear a voice so faint,
then hear me deaf, for mute is my complaint.
And the poem of a friend, who only escapes his heroin addiction for a few months at a time to produce such beauty. He's got the world that knows him on the edge of their seats, going out of their minds wondering if he'll make it back alive this time. I know the alliteration may test your patience, but if you allow it, the effect of the entire piece is something cathartic.
Nolan, you know this old friend...maybe you've even read this before.
The End of the Beginning
Applying the antique apple anew (the)
Bold battalion bestowed a bruise ( in a )
Cancerous cell a celestial crew
Dreamed a demon dowsed with dew
Energy elapsed an existential effect (with)
Feathers outstreched her fear was fetched (and)
Gliding down the garden so grew (the)
Heart of hell with a heavenly hue
I insist my love the ink ingest (with)
Jealous jaw the jesters jest (and)
Killed the kindness they once knew. (on)
Lovely lips there lied a lute
Muttering mad melody mute
Named never again and nothing new
Over the clover on and off
Pale and precious passed the puff
Quake and quiver the quiet quote (that)
Ran the red to the rope (now)
Sorrow suffering soaked in soap
The test of time no time for truth
Until the sun of us undo (a)
Violet velvet violent view
Wise men wonder who is who
X and x equals x
Young and old I and you (a)
Zealous hand the breath of zeus