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.
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.
It is perspiration season here on the prairie, its’ even hotter in other places. “To whit” (as he credits this moment) Yorick notes the pain, and remembers the burdens of flesh; and, even a skeleton appreciates certain contraptions.
If all goes well, and the fires don’t spread into prairie-digital worlds, then next Friday Yorick will provide an answer.
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.
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.
Yorick again offers a love-poem for commonplace THINGS…
The answer next Saturday here at anachronisticanarchist.com.
Artists, this time of year, sit in garrets (if they can find one) or, more commonly, off in some corner table considering the splotched patterns of spilled coffee as the wind blows against the wall, just inches away .
It is March, the glum, gloom, precursor to Spring The Delightful and the most appropriate time for the poetic imagination (unfortunately often in the most prosaic pathetic pseudo-journalistic rant form).
Behind the cages of curled-up circus animals here at the tent and slightly upwind into the corners; the wail of the wind, grey of the sky, and general earthiness has encouraged poetic rants from those emotives who have wintered-over here.
While the jesters play with their jester’s sticks, taunting the winds and the windy-wise ones there are voices coming from the corners. “But, I didn’t…(followed by indecipherable words) came several times. “But, I didn’t…”. But, I didn’t…” (“didn’t” what, or to what end is not clear).
You have probably heard many similar expressions, repetitive, loud, hammered with an unceasing mechanical rhythm; but these are presently unadorned by electronic amplification and overwhelmed by the prairie wind and animal snoring.
It might be some marvelous insight predicted by how the coffee got spilt.
And so it goes, artistic inspiration. Oh, and the answer to last weeks riddle from Yorick?
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.
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.
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.