The harvest season is mostly done, dry and moderate weather gone – to return with the longer days. November arrived, winds and wetness. Swollen rivers and the chilled uncomfortable urge to escape; as if pursued by a craft of fear, unanchored.
It is that time of year, He & She gathering the warmth of days. considering one last picnic. There is still work to be done before the cold and the wind set in, but a simple repast will maybe sustain their efforts.
We know how this must feel for Yorick – deep, experienced, coherent, noble, humane, thoughtful ideas – surely they would bring about a richer world.
Maybe the beauty with which Yorick wishes to express it is the conundrum. Present times call for more blatant aggression, more bombast, less poetry.
Consider the dance available: the music – unheard, the movements – repetitive, the resolution – exhaustion, the venue – something less than The Savoy, the decorations – meager, the conflict – elevated … wait, do both fall?
Is there a better fight … oops, I mean dance ?
Long fuses, sputtering, eventually approach the powder.
Along with the seashore and glaciers there is an erosion of empathy. A common boy, like so many before our memory, an adventurer; finds the wild unattainable, save through imagination (and bluster), advances through our prairie.
This is where a mystery charted a wildness, united with the markings of a human hand ( elegant to a degree maybe impossible in this digital print age ), instruction as to how to arrive at the tent home of Yorick and the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture.
The round and rambunctious world, conveniently charted, industrialized, and greatly flattened.
Maps, a path, offer some simple guidance for wandering boys (girls also), but in this incidence a common boy. You may want to join him, help him, know him; as if one should follow a map of distinct directions and absolute ends.
Yorick, who makes less of a mess than most of us, still has to take out the…
Yes, he can love that, even riddled with a bit of jealousy.
Now as to the riddle of finding Yorick’s tent on the vasty prairie?
Maps, the placing of a place, of the people (who made it), by the people ( who fiddle with it ), and for the people (who will eventually deal with “it”). Bits and pieces, known to be locally flat.
All is flat, it is just a matter of arranging your maps ( and your mind ) accordingly.
An old map’s idea is that the world is mysterious, dark, and ready for naming.
The closer you get, the more mysterious. One wonders about where and what is really there; and, what can we know.
Maybe you find that mark on the map, that proof of a human hand, that evidence of the human mystery. Names written (plus other bits and pieces), abbreviate our experience, flattening so we can claim to know.
Yorick, so romantic, so absurd, so truthful to his condition, so hopeful you will cogitate, so aware of real things; offers another poem. A love riddle for a utilitarian thing wishing you a moment’s consideration of that which serves you.
According to Yorick, that is the “what” God did … doodled with waves … stirred them into something (named?).
Everywhere, a bundle of Everything.
That bundle was so dense – ( the Waves ) – that things, things came about.
[ ( T…H…I…N…G…S )] !!!
Everywhere in an everything, a vortex for languid vanishing transformations; and, (this may surprise you) very few rectangles, fewer yet squares.
It seems that right angles would have to wait until the coalescing waves formed into humans; humans of a special type. Humans enamored by rigid outlines, controlling the mystery of Doodles.
Born before the mediated perspectives we now so cherish, Yorick the resurrected character of a noble’s jester, conjures – tomb lounging; a post-death activity presumedly common among the ruling classes. Fancy stuff deposited in the deep for infinity.
Yorick, a medieval skeleton [ or do you say “early-modern” ? early-modern seems a bit clinical, austere, academic don’t you think? ] … any way, a jester’s skeleton who imagined what ( he thought ) his late gentleman’s tomb ought to look like: the vast riches aggressively accumulated and laid to rest with pharaonic nobility.
Upon visiting, that tragic luxury seems missing, it is just a bit to vacant.
The story of those [ lacking ] bits of the material life are suitable fodder for a comic playwright. The historical perspective an archeologist might gain poking through this tomb, is limited. But the post-modern world we are supposedly living in (and any playwright adapted to these times) might find these items less than violently raucous commercially-adaptable comic; they do seem slow, rural, even benign. The tomb lacks the medieval shower of gilt and bronze and the modern proliferation of golf clubs, drones, and digital gadgets, so where would the story be found? With Yorick?
Historical tragedies and conjured comedies seem to agree it is probably best to reflect on them in the upper strata, here and now. Linked burdens and various (yet to be forgiven) vintage incendiary devices are the treasures of many a tomb.