#103 … Yorick considers heaven and hell…

 

IMG_0001The tent holding The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture is besot by hot emoting inside and hostile winter outside: it is inhumane to be ejected… but a good place for a resurrected fictional character to consider major and minor thoughts.

This ain’t heaven, sitting outside the tent fleshless on a discarded theatrical throne. Thrown between sleet-waves and fire flavored with the faint smell of brimstone, Yorick collapses his bones into the dramatic prop’s regal support, to consider heaven and hell.

Heaven and Hell – eternal places formalized – – express the opinion of many, but not Yorick. Centuries on the boards performing for rabble and royals leaves a different set of thoughts, more in keeping with the commoners small-case hell or heaven, particulars of the cruelty of this age; alas, nobility and suffering achieved through glitz and whining. The young and fleshed-out have heavenly enjoyments of events – the heated carousing, soon losing warmth to the cold entombment of experience – the afflictions of iced memory.

Skill, or just dumb luck for the emotive types here assembled keeps them in artist’s heaven – some recognition – if only in ghostly shades. Historical happenstance prevented being one of the swallowed, the rotted, baked or frozen – the unreturnables – the fate of most artistic emotives … a cold friendless hell. IMG_0002 2

So elevated pompous accoutrements become what heaven there may be, when one’s back is to the frozen wind and feet in the fire. Or so Yorick considers.

 

 

#102 … considering our period, or any set of dots …

Last week’s riddle answer…the period. [( . )]

The dot, the spot, point, or rather that punctuation thing, the full-stop, the period. [( . )] Kinda special don’t you think? Worthy of a love poem,  civilization’s wonder-mark – great invention; putting an end to a set of words … bringing meaning (hopefully).

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Yorick would have you pay attention to these bits of the infinitesimal barely noticed, round things, the end dot, the spot, the reminder to remember, and bigger round things, snowballs and planets.

 

Moving from one thing to another, it is winter here on the prairie. Its’ that time, flu for the fully fleshed. The planet twists for a chattering moment, kinda like humans when the body is sick … first the fever, then the cold chills, twisting and turning, then the fever again and chills.

Consider how many daily sarcastic emotings unworthy of a period are thrown out to you; to make unsustainable prosperity a witty reply to obsolete virtues of expression, facts, and humane morality.

The period at the end of another era of meaningless talk? For civilization more likely the dot,dot,dot, of the unclosed ellipsis …

 

#101 … considering Yorick’s greetings …

IMG_0001He and She, our volunteered docents here at the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture, have returned following last years “stress”.  They are romantic and absurd, or (with some humor), absurdists grasping for that “romantic” ideal, ( the mainspring of their “stress” [?] ). All the while youngsters play, acquire skills; practicing with material portents of their own demise.

As this year begins, Yorick, has usurped the “greeter” role (a common occupation for the aging types), validating an anachronistic medieval jester’s anarchical behavior: loopy banderoles leak from his exoskeleton ( his soul … venting [?] ).

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Containing the wit and wisdom of a half-millenium of experience, Yorick is given to pondering: arthritis remains  whilst spewing and scribbling (a singular complaint living as a jumble of bones) however, poetic intellect enjoys the leanness, the empty aura of all flesh.

As with so many others who ponder and spout, ponder and scribble; Yorick is incomprehensible to those still fleshed out – and trapped in – glandular, hormonal, and sensory tangles, hours, minutes, and who “verily doest much stress”.

Riddles and romance poems were the joy of his bawdy troubadour youth, little valued in this age of cynical utility. With that joy, Yorick is modernizing love-poem riddles as an entrance challenge to the tent. Riddled words about common (sometimes loved) things.

You know what this is… just try…

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#100 … considering oldsters and the future …

 

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Ah, the gift from Oldsters … outside the tent of the anachronistic, the anarchistic, and the enfant terribles, a gift bag lies waiting,

Trinkets of an unstable prosperity; emotive wonder-bombs shine bright, gaudy, sputtering fused, and ready for 2018 (extravagant presents to defuse the lack of simple presence).

Seasonally decorated old-style emotion-bombs … for the youngsters! New and untried (but probably raucous and disturbing) another set for the next dozen moons, assuring  juvenile resolutions to mature conflicts; a kiloton of bluster explodes a firecracker’s spark of wisdom.

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As it is, two babes conversing in the womb better predict the future than the blithering pundits and prophets now passed that portal; to whit – the New Year closes-in here at the tent, there is a “chewing” of New Years resolutions, a self-selected bunch gnawing sugar-plums gone rancid, spewing gummy-brained sorta-visions for the future – attempting to regain the past.

 

 

IMG_0001As last years oldsters depart their stack of mischief,                                                                             boys and other bullies ration the supply of disturbance;                        IMG_0001 and Yorick invites you into the tent for another year of absurdity, maybe softened by his romantic medieval sagacity.

 

 

#99 … root cellars, scarcely a memory …

 

IMG_0002In a landscape based upon a large and deep beneficence of a glacier, there are no caves.  Under four feet of soil it is all gravel, densely packed for sure, but gravel nonetheless.

To that condition the Indians dug a food cache lined with clay. Then came the first sweep of modernity building root-cellars, brick-lined shallow caves, available to the kitchen; a storehouse cooled by ground and a refuge when tornados whirled near. The electrical arc of the following bit of modernity brought refrigeration ending the root-cellar’s storage value; luck and basements, their safety value.

But there was a reduction in the knowledge of shared labor’s joys.

IMG_0001String dried smoked hams, jar-canned green beans, oversugared pears, tomato sauce, potatoes (small little red-brown ones chinking the pile of big pale ones with brown spuds), splotchy apples awaiting a knife, vegetable corn in various preserves and ground corn (starch like the Indians) sacked and surrounded by mouse-traps.  Spiders in summer, tiny icicles in the dark months, prowling cats, pickling jugs and sauerkraut, a barrel of sweet concord wine.  A treasure of canned labors to be opened and enjoyed, with stories.

As to the root-cellars, winds from the hoary north, layered ice and snow, rain, diminished these slight rises to uselessness, a slow brutal end to a once necessary cave.  Earth’s fatigue, but not a grave (or at least not probably) collapsed upon the limited wonder in the utilitarian cave.

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Wouldn’t it be nice … some separate place to preserve, retire from, put in poetic order, wonder about, gifts in a timeless root-cellar for private, family, neighbor memories;  passed simplicity, thankfulness.

 

 

But what is it about a scarce memory … of abundance …  that wasn’t purchased.

 

#99 …’Tis the season ….

” ‘Tis the season …” and similar greetings.IMG_0003

 

‘Tis the season … for a last big stone splashed in a shallow pool, the river now a thin layer of ice, water too shallow to ripple, natures nap time.

 

 

‘Tis the season … when youth is intercepted by winter, happens every year; but that comes as  news to those with few annual rings.

 

 

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‘Tis the season … some proud accomplishments are shedding; great while green and fresh, intercepted by winter, now more a wrinkled badge on weedy sprouts.

‘Tis the season … a bit unseemly – the anger of giving up to what actually exists, simplifying, accepting the chill in the darkness: especially when some envy … envy the even newer sproutings.

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‘Tis the season, crotchety emotives here at the reunion of the anarchists might add, ‘Tis the season for the devalued mystery and wisdom with no context save rhyming snippets pinned to purchasable discardables.

‘Tis the season of a Gift transformed into the season of burden.

 

 

‘Tis the season … for humility, not big splashes, and maybe … ’tis the season for a cozy cave and hibernation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

#98 … hall of fools (part 3) …

Having some oaf handle ( or is it footle? ) the ageless symbol of eternity while strutting a pedestal may be a bit offensive.

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Most won’t find it funny, the idea of a balancing fool; whilst and also, most just acquiesce.

Think about public fools, and that which litters warm seas, damp bogs, oily wetlands, bridge abutments; there does seem to be a connection, right?

 

Some are honored when young for limited talents highly praised, excessively praised, but then, well the drive may still go on but the talent … declines a bit. But in this world of emotives and egoist there is still room for a bronze commemorating the feeble skills and the self-made spectacle to remind those who ponder.  And the pondering considers why there is never enough ( as in finis ) honor for limited fools.

The world ain’t-agona stop spinning, its’ just the drive the drive the drive, to encircle the look-at-me: please ponder a fool’s monument.  Another visual thought from the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture.

 

 

#97 … the hall of fools (part2)…

The seashore, and any creatures of the deep, are a long ways from here; about 900 miles to the closest salt water.  Prairie folks vacation there and then await their end, close to some rising shore line.

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The Laocoon

The seashore can bring an end to common sense; some idea of endless waves lapping endless shores as endless and unchanging, never rising past the high-tide line, well, save for a few hurricanes, tsunamis, and wakes of passing cruise ships: but we no longer fear giant snakes coming forth to kill noble harbingers of truth.

Ancient Trojans thought in ageless ideas and accepted the big snake in the sea idea, but they were too late to grasp the danger signal. Trojans would not imagine that the dire warning concerning “The Horse” would come out of the mouth of a disparaged outcast, and should be listened to. To them the sea -serpent must have killed him for other reasons.  Of course they also didn’t listen to the lady.

It is still too easy to believe in the fancy conceits of bombastic authorities holding wishful ( or deceitful ) ignorance, as in the days of the Ancients.

But, the troubles keep rising out of the ocean: probably it would be better if the trouble was a big snake.

 

 

 

 

 

#96 … the hall of damned fools …

 

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Keep up with the times, the news!

This tent holding the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture has been shaking and flapping since the first of November, due to the prairie wind; with the shaking comes the pleasure of fear, the type that gives a quickening; knowing potential disaster looms. Maybe some audience will be bringing down the house for some, late-remembered, past folly.  The great “They” are out there worrying all in the fear of finding faults.

Audience needy … fools and un-convicted felons … their incessant demand…ah, but having lacked a social back-up beeper as the guffaw laughter and whoopee applause and tainted honor start, the end is a typical folly.

Anachronistic artistics recognize pedigree, often a prestige allowing one to stand for all.  And so the ringmaster grandly displays his endowments.  If there are some chagrinned observers, they lack the eminence, the honor of recognition … of bronze statuary or other, more useful … remembrances.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

#95 … Grief, some considerations …

Grief, the considering of grief, it is a job for some.

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Changing things, from one thing to another, grief into say joy or beauty or maybe … damn this is a big maybe – into better moral actions.  Doesn’t sound reasonable does it: that’s because those are reasoned from the past, maybe a job for authority (or maybe anarchists).

There is the changing from the outer growing, reaping time; into the enclosed, restful, time: the seasonal – now.  How much trouble should one go through to transform that end-of-the-summer grief … maybe, into beauty.  Seems the job of the artist.

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As it is – in the changing – gloom descends; it is the low light, cold drizzle time.  The pain is now (or else why, or what, would be transformed): now, as in – the past carried forward.  There must be something in the quiet of winter; some poetical wondering enclosed, darkened for the soul.  Would that transform enough pain if handled by some mystic?

Central Illinois Caress

Maybe, the past&now analyzed and checked against some catalogue of disorders for the appropriate cure; there ought to be some skilled consoler.

It seems that the pain, looking backward, is what is knowable, but, considering the new (or renewed if the past is included) moral actions; could they generate … maybe, from thankfulness.