A quality of Beauty, of Original Face is and that beauty opens a wound in my heart. I want my close readings of cultural artifacts to start with the phrase "I am wounded by the beauty of this.... Can a teacher help –as an artist is to help me to understand more how a "piercing beauty" can make more of the quantity we call soul? If we are born with a little bit of soul, and our movements back and forth between paradox and dilemma are the growing pains of soul as we quite literally grow our original face as we are confounded by truth in discernment's, forced to action by reason and then penetrated by beauty.
Compunctio cordis is traditionally a heartfelt sorrow. What if it was recast as the work of incarnated imagination at work. The repentance is quite rightly there of course, Beauty make that happen as a first move, but what if the wounded heart is the signpost of beauty and the death of the quickly and painlessly cute?
http://books.google.com/books?id=1Mn_6NHqRs8C
The craft of thought : meditation, rhetoric, and the making of images, 400-1200
by Mary J Carruthers
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
tumblr works as vispo
My tumblr sets are working as vispo and maybe slopo if I was to take more time. Only post Creative Commons licensed. I will start writing short Joseph Stroud like 6 line bits on them. Right now it is just Word Made Flesh.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Confessions of Fortune Neglected V2
Confessions of Fortune Neglected
When teaching, body minds me to breathe in: breathe out.
Eyes do not see shimmers and bold shades wandering wicked
and kind within and around the slick and vascular dense
spacelessness of low brain; a locus for haunting by former lovers
as if Chiari priviledged their campground and ancestral grounding
with a name. When walked and wandered and worked of needs,
what's 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 counted as cost.
Mistakes must be paid for, to pray for, and burn. Body will say today that I
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 a valued and jettisoned version of the consecrated strain.
So it goes. As if these doe breasted and rutted morphes of students 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 their slippery and graceless irregular verbs and rattle the locks of
their spore into particular sleek and styleless notions of defeat.
As if a god's persective never could change. The soul of body
moves and shinnys along the chainbrakes and cracked bric-a-brac of
desire. Nowhere schooled and elsewhere courted 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.
When teaching, body minds me to breathe in: breathe out.
Eyes do not see shimmers and bold shades wandering wicked
and kind within and around the slick and vascular dense
spacelessness of low brain; a locus for haunting by former lovers
as if Chiari priviledged their campground and ancestral grounding
with a name. When walked and wandered and worked of needs,
what's 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 counted as cost.
Mistakes must be paid for, to pray for, and burn. Body will say today that I
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 a valued and jettisoned version of the consecrated strain.
So it goes. As if these doe breasted and rutted morphes of students 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 their slippery and graceless irregular verbs and rattle the locks of
their spore into particular sleek and styleless notions of defeat.
As if a god's persective never could change. The soul of body
moves and shinnys along the chainbrakes and cracked bric-a-brac of
desire. Nowhere schooled and elsewhere courted 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.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
new poem
Chesid Through Seal
One should wait with eagerness, hungry and endangered.
His wells I can hold underneath; a Jacob, rubbed dry--
When I have tapered his lands; I could-- relaxed-- drop
and red his purposes. My mouth and stirring perfected.
Selah. I have another purpose; I have another mouth-- his hope,
his palms, the transparent if. I become boy-nipped at the go
and go. Lord, clearly I can finish his hope mounted stalk,
his Galilee; his teachings hidden in thick curtained stroke.
The living curse remembered, a shimmering faced ghost
underneath. To glean saltiness amidst his disciple.
He's upward stroked into many dead children. But they own
their gloom. Never hungry is our chirped land, and his sign.
One should wait with eagerness, hungry and endangered.
His wells I can hold underneath; a Jacob, rubbed dry--
When I have tapered his lands; I could-- relaxed-- drop
and red his purposes. My mouth and stirring perfected.
Selah. I have another purpose; I have another mouth-- his hope,
his palms, the transparent if. I become boy-nipped at the go
and go. Lord, clearly I can finish his hope mounted stalk,
his Galilee; his teachings hidden in thick curtained stroke.
The living curse remembered, a shimmering faced ghost
underneath. To glean saltiness amidst his disciple.
He's upward stroked into many dead children. But they own
their gloom. Never hungry is our chirped land, and his sign.
I admit pleasure
I admit pleasure in jealous perversity
Similar to unforced, yet reluctant trysts,
In Schumpterian avid destructions
of the smartest plans, the beloved
institution destroyed. Insiders weeping.
The two-fold universe Eliade-perennial
interpenetrates like overlapped parenthesis
of need-want nee want-love. Open to
The Goldbarthian war, the Ichabod slouched beast
and boyhood whore. Welcome all saints as
scarlet as bad girls wearing Saint Lucy white
so to avoid the slap fall of hard whippings
whipped with spoons, with hair brushes,
with plastered lath. Help me, the beatings bought
me lust creative. The new and the old sins be
washed away. Every beating I received so
richly deserved and hard fought. Dread and fearsome
captives like sand, like small slippered fish in seine.
Similar to unforced, yet reluctant trysts,
In Schumpterian avid destructions
of the smartest plans, the beloved
institution destroyed. Insiders weeping.
The two-fold universe Eliade-perennial
interpenetrates like overlapped parenthesis
of need-want nee want-love. Open to
The Goldbarthian war, the Ichabod slouched beast
and boyhood whore. Welcome all saints as
scarlet as bad girls wearing Saint Lucy white
so to avoid the slap fall of hard whippings
whipped with spoons, with hair brushes,
with plastered lath. Help me, the beatings bought
me lust creative. The new and the old sins be
washed away. Every beating I received so
richly deserved and hard fought. Dread and fearsome
captives like sand, like small slippered fish in seine.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
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.
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.
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