#107 … concerning the presence of words …

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There are activities of the artistic kind taking place here in the old circus tent placed on the discarded farmlot housing our metaphorical reunion of real and fictional emotives but, due to the sparse snow and chill-wind, there is little evidence. Maybe a congress of of talkers: all that is external, save the weather, seems quiet.

One should think, or say, something about the experiences transpiring within. The tent is no city of sin and legend ( although some have come from those ) but, we can reasonably presume, a repository of anachronistic declamations await expounding; poetry rants in short spurts (maybe) extended now due to the weather.  img_0001

 

Anarchists: lives lead as emotives opposed to the great corporate singularity, can be drawn together if only as an audience, briefly gathered in winter to hear … words.

Implying the dignity of poetry; some word sets (supposedly) lead to truth, but truth is hardened when touched by words (this is where error comes). Words become the marketable lies ( the dapper flinty costumes ) which clothe that which was bodily experienced as flexible and livable.

Some words are in fact not words, but deeds, apparently causing effects. Maybe that is what the audience in the tent would have, extortions. And so the image of words, a carefully mishappened repository of myriad thoughts floating in the lives of the emotives, fuels their deeds: as they would in any assembly of trivial affairs greatly exaggerated.

 

 

 

 

 

#106 … Yorick’s answer …

 

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Last weeks riddle answer – cartoon bubbles – what else would you think? Don’t you love ’em.

 

 

 

 

 

They carry the snippy-snippet word load, the work of thoughts from olden days, the morning pulp-print news and funnies. The bargain discounts, news, and obituaries all yellowed into past-time; but thankfully the cartoon bubbles hold ponderings and blunt statements, new for your perusal. And occasionally a bit of real humor.IMG_0001

But they lack the graceful, lyrical, thought carriers of Yorick’s times – banderoles – glorious gold and silken word captures in Latin, Greek, and oligarchy French (never sniveling crude and vulgar jokes).  But alas (“alas” is a wonderful word for exasperating times don’t you think [?] … alas), but alas, we can’t read or understand Latin, Greek, and Frenchy-fied words.

So maybe there were some unseemly lines, some dash-out bits of adolescent smart-aleck.

But now it is best, into the foreseeable future, to put the snideness in a cartoon bubble.

 

#105 … Yorick writes a love poem …

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On a different note. Yorick, five hundred years since love-poems would lead to a romantic consummation, still likes the form and applies it to riddles concerning commonplace things. Please enjoy the following and revisit next week to see if you have ascertained the right answer.

 

 

 

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#104 … a bit of a thaw …

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A few hours here and there, relief from the bitter cold; some mercy, that is if mercy can be considered a character of monstrous surges of arctic winds. He and She, descriptively warm or cold, “… depending upon …”;  but at the moment – thankful, there is a bit of a thaw.

A respite, a gift, a thaw deducted from the limits of winter and the unruly continuity of bickering in closed quarters. A thaw appears for a moment in bickering winds, in the bickering among the gathered, and in the constant bickering for a moments meaning each has ascribed to the activities named “mine”.

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Thaws last hour to hour at this time of year, and seldom past the sunshine. He and She, most likely, will retreat from the ice flows and await the spring mud; planning to begin again.

 

#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.