Become Like Nets 2009 Horoscope

Become Like Nets... 2009 Horoscope

We each must be and come to be like fallow nets
a middlishly tryst amidst the darkling below.
Habit formed, we'll lead a roped luck down to a tuition,
bounded as self-directed line repeals its fidelity of time.

Nor are we what we can see by looking inside the chinks
in us two-folded fisher-folk; nor entertain the sentinal links
of our shoreboats. Have you read the sign revealed at Candlemass?
as if certain imbolc-stemmed consciousness knew how to wrestle.

What we foresee, and what some finger will connect,
will shore us and our little thread into revealation--
though we're alliance-bound and relation-shipped.
Grappling skeins become taken aback partly as apparition.

Nor is what we look for an elucidation of bonded abyss,
that can-- and will through our habits-- bind and inspire.
You ever notice that this little stuff is exactly Your nostrum?
You are behemoth, and we envision a binding clutch of holy days.

Cedar Point Snow

Cedar Point Snow

Ready to change my line
from consolation to desire.
Behind modern imagination
and attention to detail I'll
find snow hiding in notches
of prairie grass.

Not pleading swish,
sweeping into steppes
past Cedar Point kept
out from Clement and
moved by the rail front
gusting into the flint.

What is art for

Dissanayake: Art has its roots in human nature

I can't do a better job of summarizing the book's thesis than Publishers Weekly did: "Dissanayake argues that art was central to human evolutionary adaptation and that the aesthetic faculty is a basic psychological component of every human being. In her view, art is intimately linked to the origins of religious practices and to ceremonies of birth, death, transition and transcendence."

Sample passage from Dissanayake:

In society after society we find practices that indicate the esteem given to the opposite of spontaneous and "natural" behavior or appearance. Aristocracies all over the world distinguish themselves by public signs of self-control, complex systems of etiquette, and other unnatural elaborations of behavior and speech...
Even in traditional societies without strict social hierarchies or classes, the distinction between human control and natural disorder is nevertheless made. The African Basongye distinguish between "music," which consists of sounds that are human, organized, and patterned, and "noise," which is nonhuman sound.

Carnivalesque from Wikipedia What is not dada/flarf/langpo/avant-po or slow-po about this?

Carnivalesque is a term coined by the Russian critic Mikhail Bakhtin, which refers to a literary mode that subverts and liberates the assumptions of the dominant style or atmosphere through humor and chaos.

Bakhtin traces the origins of the carnivalesque to the concept of carnival, itself related to the Feast of Fools, a medieval festival originally of the sub-deacons of the cathedral, held about the time of the Feast of the Circumcision (1 January), in which the humbler cathedral officials burlesqued the sacred ceremonies, releasing "the natural lout beneath the cassock."[1]

In the carnival, as we have seen, social hierarchies of everyday life—their solemnities and pieties and etiquettes, as well as all ready-made truths—are profaned and overturned by normally suppressed voices and energies. Thus, fools become wise, kings become beggars; opposites are mingled (fact and fantasy, heaven and hell).

Through the carnival and carnivalesque literature the world is turned-upside-down (W.U.D.), ideas and truths are endlessly tested and contested, and all demand equal dialogic status.

For Bakhtin, carnivalization has a long and rich historical foundation in the genre of the ancient Menippean satire. In Menippean satire, the three planes of Heaven (Olympus), the Underworld, and Earth are all treated to the logic and activity of Carnival. For example, in the underworld earthly inequalites are dissolved; emperors lose their crowns and meet on equal terms with beggars. This intentional ambiguity allows for the seeds of the "polyphonic" novel, in which narratologic and character voices are set free to speak subversively or shockingly, but without the writer of the text stepping between character and reader.

From Mikhail Bakhtin

1. I both actively and passively participate in Being.
2. My uniqueness is given but it simultaneously exists only to the degree to which I actualize this uniqueness (in other words, it is in the performed act and deed that has yet to be achieved).
3. Because I am actual and irreplaceable I must actualize my uniqueness.

I wonder if I could compare this to the movement of soul referenced in the post below.

A soul is formed from acts and deeds. The entire soul may or may not be present at the physical end of death. I hate the idea of gnostic spark and it is so easy to go there. Perhaps between aesthetics and ethics, rhetoric and philology I can bargain hunt the sublime.

later

Horoscope

Become Like Nets... My 2009 Horoscope

We each must be and come to be like fallow nets

and blow and go amidst the darkling below.

Habit formed, we lead a roped luck down to a tuition

and each bounden tone repeals its fidelity of mind.

Nor are we what we can see by looking inside the clink
of us two-folded fisherfolk; nor entertain a sentinal idea

of shoreboats. Have you read the signs revealed at holiday

as a certain chiari-stemed consciousness about how to wrestle.

What you foresee, and what some finger will connect

will shore you and your little thread into revealation--

though you're alliance-bound and relation-shipped.

Grappling skeins comes partly taken aback as apparition.

Nor is what we look for an elucidation of edge bonded abyss,

that can-- and will through your habits-- bind and inspire.

You ever notice that this little stuff exactly is your nostrum?

You are behemoth, and we envision binding a clutch of holy days.

new poem

To tell of teaching the body to pray

Straight ways are walked to launder
me clean. I saint-watch Mary Anne
while pretending dreams sleep in
my chair. When she freshes covers
Her arms rise and fall. As enfleshed
concentration: her breasts risen
and falling as daily bread. Maybe
the still warm parts of her remain.

I dream she is getting ready for
work washing clean bodies for
funeral. And she prays that I can only
trust the dead. The digging of her
gardens reminds me of the sprawl
and tangle. Last night she told our
new priest of observing me smile.
A long time last since Advent.

New poem

Confessions of Fortune Neglected

When teaching, body minds me to breathe in: breath out.
Eyes do not see shimmers and bold shades wander wicked
and kind within and around the slick and vascular dense
spacelessness of low brain; a locus for haunting by former loves
as if Broca priviledged their campground and ancestral grounding

with a name. When walked and wandered and worked of needs
done is done, body is mostly alone and suprated in front of ugly
cookbooks and bogus textbooks and skanky dictionaries of butchered
saints. Body deigns why are there so few succulent spirits to recall
The taint is only and again so many mistakes and count them as cost

mistakes to pray for and burn. Body will say today that I (body is)
am made of mistakes. mistakes that many lovers of my teachers have
paid as gravedirt price. forgive us all hasty and arrogant performances
of cannot do this: cannot do this and cannot do this again: and finish
with the valued and jettisoned version of the consecrated strain.

So it goes. As if these doe breasted and rutted morphes of menstudents need
help emptying their bodies of meaning. They are feeding me kenosis as
apophatic masters inhabit each of them. Pools of since feeling is first battle
dance within slippery and graceless irregular verbs that rattle the locks of
their spore into particular sleek and styleless notions of defeat.

As if the god's persective never could change. The soul
of body is a movement along the chainbrakes and crack of
desire. Nowhere and elsewhere are holy sparks present
and counted as faith unto righteousness. Maybe the quickening
lust of flesh made heir is more to the point of their working rest.

New poem

Work of Fathers

What does chainwork say about these our Gods?

Does worship retain a plural? Are ropes of believe in me covering

less ground and trailways? What would it be as thread,
can parabola, or splinter of narrative coupling and penetrating

with a character arc make a difference in the winding
smoke and updraft of stories nee prayer long neglected?

What is the aboutness of chain implied by the cracks

in brick and stone, block and rock, our walls and fences?

Does it tell a prayer of load bearing desire? of forged Stocks
holding Persephone's long wait. How will a wall of block
wait for the chain? The raw stances holding our parts in desire aware?

Emerson's iron strand is a chain. Not moving up the via

not moving down the interdicts, but straining left and right.
Moving to host and stem, pared and loosened rindedness of want(ing).

Simple sweeps of stress moving steppes of not enough up nor down
linked top to ground as a question is presented by the nude

and fully human sensation of desire bidden hither and come.