So, did you get last weeks riddle? maybe while you were dangling and clanging your Key Chain??
Wouldn’t it be nice if every riddle was so easily solved (or dismissed).
Yorick is out wandering the prairie; just imagine marbled cerulean above and dappled green, really really green below. Such is trusted this time of year.
Nature and judicious tending typically remove the mystery of growing. But the reaping, (where lies can’t confuse the numbers) is a puzzle, months from resolution.
As usual, Yorick, (lacking the fleshy problem that leads to love poems) must utilize his romantic yearnings on utilitarian objects. Being a jester by character and profession he will leave you, just for a week, as you ponder this riddle.
A week from today … the answer.
He went out to play, just for fun.
Adventure imagined, exploits, joyful courage; just with what is present, just for fun.
Raging wild flying steed unreined will surely diminish, diminish, diminish (at least the stallion of joy); by problems yet to concern him.
What will succumb first to hostile reality, skeptical selfishness, and the detritus stumbling stuff … imagination? Then what?
Will the broom be put to ancient use when the stallion no longer appears?
Replaced by the ethereal wonder of damsels?
Will this training give status with reigning oligarchs or seduction by high-celebrity she-devils?
And to what
will imagined courage,
learned at play …
… be sufficient?
Small-minded places shrink, or so Yorick has observed.
Jesters never rule … but could they? Jokers (a different type) wise-crack bits and baubles of snideness capturing a fear-filled popular audience. The shrunken world fits into smaller and smaller trinkets; fit for a joker’s self-amazement.
Yorick considers the devaluing of free laughter a smallness, not the humor of jesters.
Roses, the troubled lovelies so often shared; have entranced many of the emotive elites here at the tent sheltering The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture.
This canvas harbor of bounteous artisticals has brought forth a new design – imposed upon nature; a hybrid rose planted at our tent-flaps.
Roses, by nature, prick the skin; but smart manipulative emotives have developed a spiny – piercing variety. Planted in a lovely garden at the entrance (remains of what once was the farm-wife’s small, but much labored, flower patch) the emotives new herbage enforces respect for property … newly described as private.
To that end,
this designer breed of roses extends long needles to pierce purposeful, or accidental, exploration;
by other people’s children.
Yorick, still passionate (and absurdist compatible), would like to point out to those of you who still lust in the carnal sense that there are deep within him many poetic ideas. This poetic spirit is not to be wasted and now is enthralled with the utilitarian things he still has. And so the answer to last week’s riddle is … WALLET…!
If you had deep carnal expectations when you read it, now you can see … its’ just the money.
Yorick, being fleshless, loves his utilitarian THINGS. Deep inside he is still the ancient romantic medieval jester, to whit … the poetry still flows in riddles.
The answer to this love poem for this utilitarian thing, next Friday. Enjoy!
Above the winds angels picnicking …
… suffer the mystery feast disrupted…
…trailed mechanical wind spewing; above even them.
Down below neurotic dilettantes, momentary primitives, must imagine the wild. No folks resplendent in costumed violence roam (as Adam and Eve would have known), only conglomerates of rational violence; the perfection of intimidation and killing.
And yet the winds remain (some would say, increase) the result of wildness monetized.
Living in a time when “it” is over, “it” that is, the final claim on God by the earthly wild. Angels may remember the fires of the past and presume the fires of the future as the fires of the rationalized present burn.
What remains is …
… the winds.
Stale jokes, Yorick considers how stale his medieval jokes are here in a rural province during the 21st Century. As a fictional resurrected jester, experienced only with the courts of pompous oligarchies, adept only in archaic language. Reflecting on the limits to original humor production, he fiddles with an oversized scepter and a mass produced nimbus (a halo used to designate saints in paintings from his era).
It seems that stagnated pharisaical types among the emotives here in the tent have started throwing these around, bored by mundane religious prosperity. What first served as a means of honoring the honorable, seems more a war of aliens. Bumblers in bleacher seats attempting to add or subtract squalid sequins that are best left to Heaven’s Compliment.
Yorick had hoped to be benimbed (granted a halo) for attempting to lightened the spirits of dark-age despots, thereby making life better for their subjects; perhaps he failed. And now the outdated humor is maybe … stale.
The answer to last week’s riddle?
The Turn-Light Traffic Signal !
What you say, love poem? Yes, but only when it turns green, the color of life moving on. The other colors (and the winking) certainly means that someone must just want to look at me, and hold me stopped; their love possession. Alas, this may seem paranoiac but I like to think of the world as personal, not some random computer-generated authority. To whit, the anarchist out of step with Times.