Yorick again offers a love-poem for commonplace THINGS…
The answer next Saturday here at anachronisticanarchist.com.
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?
Its’ that season … the hopes of an approaching wonderful spring bluntly contradicted by the hopeless austerity of what remains of winter. Among the emotives this leads to considerations of earthly oblivion and rewards of an afterlife, typically this is done in theatrical (if somewhat artless) pageantry. An audience climbing up or pushing down over bleachers; apparent steps to a private small prestigious heaven made to their liking, and a merciless shove aided by gravity, sending lessers to perdition. As if assigning folks for eternity is an audience participation event.
He and She are somewhat puzzled by the art historic character of the rush up and the push down. Souls, wandering timeless souls, still hankering and hanging around for some divine attention; or, preferably, gaining superiority over those who seem to have the receipt for the Divinity’s best earthly thoughts and prayers.
Oblivion is like a hired circus ride, ( you pay up front for the product, but…no expiration date ). Odiferous hell-fire and brimstone belch where emotives gather, slumping many into the expansive realm of hell. Meanwhile the incense of ethereal Elysian fields wafts in the tent top. Or so it seems.
There was a day, known to Yorick (when fleshed) when he partook in the separating weaknesses of souls on the hoof.
Now a well-aged jester, and verily, the stock of envy, malice, and vanity persists, ’tis the season of engaged absurdity.
Would an audience of emotives do… different things (considering oblivion); if they are pointed-out?
What could be better for time-refugee enfant terribles than to be cast upon the prairie at a reunion housed in a disused circus tent, on a discarded farm, a bit upstream from the middenheap. Middenheaps matter, waste-piles downstream a bit (lest a nest be fouled), away from habitation. The middenheap, the piles of revelatory refuse crushed in convoluted layers, canceled and discarded stuff of bygone refugees. A story of wanderers in convulsed pattern.
What did they eat, what wood or stainless ladle did beat on some drum or dinner bell, what poetic pottery, trade items, pets (or supper) bones; burnt and crushed, once valued – now eroding, discarded evidence of passed lives; even the affection in those lives.
Once wandering refugees left scraps from flint-tipped hunting somewhere around here. Now our circus tent rests on farm ruins of but a few generations use; plus the middenheap bits of steel, bones, glass, plastic and bundled papers; erratically layered.
After commercial skirmishes destroyed their daily pattern, circus tents and quaint farmsteads are now mostly gone…industry and raucous media replaced what was singular or family, small, clannish, close, (even romantic).
The ancient way is to rebuild on ruins and middenheaps, layer upon layer – that leaves evidence. Our tent (The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture) will no doubt leave some mark – for awhile; but certainly no stone reference of its’ mighty empire, just partially burnt and bundled discard.
Refugees from some new disturbance are bound to show up, and build their own. Maybe our enfant terribles, anachronistic anarchists, will remain; then here will be another haunted place to be uncovered in measured layers.
Someday, maybe, someone who wonders about stuff in the middenheap might find useful evidence that is not yet consumed.
Projects of hands, maybe document bits recording homespun chores, numbers, affections, sentiments, burnt and crushed, layered among the middenheap, evidence not consumed, evidence of those who discarded and wondered on.
What is She doing?
(But first this inquiry) Does He have a right (is that the right word(?)- it is such a big word – to visit? Would it be best to just stay away? She is, after all, trying to grasp and maybe emote some timeless grace.
Close to the river, the thickets (as good as any other background for mortality) limit her (as they do him); and maybe – maybe is such a big word don’t you think, (maybe?) – maybe She wants some quiet from the chaos of emotives and bomb-throwers, and enfant terribles, and maybe just (and is this the smallest maybe) maybe from He and his craziness?
Now that He has passed the conspicuous discrepancy (He, faulted, walked the straight and narrow – to her) shouldn’t He be acceptable? Maybe (as one might think) maybe, to be with her at the river…maybe? Maybe He has his own flowing grace or simple crazed value.
Or maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe She just wants to ponder a while, stare (or gaze) through this moment …
… or maybe wait …
… wait …wait, (that is also … such a big word).
The American Experience continues…
Sometimes, even here in the very sensible midwest …
… things get mixed up.
Barbed wire, roses, poison ivy, all share orderly fence posts,
Anarchy … the soul of one, just one … twists, for want of other choices …
… on structure meant for broader devisings, other purposes, different borders, other times.
Reining a demon …
… Beauty … Beauty certainly isn’t a demon, is it …(or maybe – she)?
Is there a tethering grace to hold the pony’s desertion or revenge?
There is noise in bumping cans, tubes, brushes, bottles, razorblades dividing pleasure from depression (simple, just scrape off callused dried bumbles). There is racket in traffic, robo-calls, bad media speakers, word questions for which there are no answers (impatience awaiting sober silence or skill?). There are memories, bits of love, clanging mushy heady grey matter (or warm red embodiments), alarms beepbeepbeeping (is it commerce or just legality?). There is loud partisan truth (for which there is no rebuttal). All this, and obviously more, attend while roping a delusion … the reining of Beauty.
And yet some, covered with dust and ashes, persevere. That is okay, and noticed, but please don’t burden the wrangler with your delusions. It’s that day’s work, a tiny skirmish with an outrider of the sublime, a vengeful circus pony; and plenty for the painter’s day.
Beauty has within – a wildness – to birth awe, but beauty is not awe. Beauty is tied to controlling acts of delusion, of a final ruling, maybe unity, even unalterable hushed simplicity; beheld, maybe, in joy. And yet it changes, often degrades; entropy attending the stillbirth of awe.
Artistics possessors of technique and emotions, even greyed and ash covered ones, mostly lack that silent simplicity: and seek painting (circus ponies and more) for fun. Now there is a delusion! Fun is less than joy, and that’s a fact. The restraining lead tied to beauty is going to snap and lash through delusions, the stumbling, the wild skill-less drippings, the slashing; the meek even cowardly smoothing: hoping for that simplicity, a circus going solemn. And yet, beauty is more than that and less than awe, and that’s a fact.
But shouldn’t fear reign in the confrontation with demons?
Can we be fools, funning with Beauty, restraint ruining the savage unleashing of joy: and still face (and even grasp) the descent of awe?
It is how the circus ponies get their revenge.
The difference among choices. Is it much, or more, or plenty, or divine, or sumptuous, or need, or wonderful, or rightful, or luxury, or want, or whatever, or etc.
Or is it … ALL,
Or is it a horde … after … ALL …
Floods, they come and go, usually taking with them the fallen. But some of the fallen become embedded; anchoring the edges of ancient and present times, and, this is to surmise … a place for fools.
Yorick has been missing for awhile, a professional fool’s skeleton, medieval jester, princely tragedy’s companion; lived, died, and resurrected – by virtue of art. He has rested awhile at the river contemplating another apt comment or juggling trick to awaken the witless to their folly, and nudge them to better behavior.
The jester’s goal…(jesters are congenitally about Joy and Truth)…conjure an insightful smart-aleck one-liner pointing to the consequence of hubris; war, rape, hunger, blood-letting that ends with the onset of malaise, the misconstruing of fun with joy.
Yorick’s perceptive comments, and clever juggling, are largely out-of-date to political celebrity royals. Flat cartoon bubbles are the vehicles for modern times; jokeish profundity in snappy little tidbits…perhaps.
Inflated, cartoon balloons could spread ideas far afield, if the winds blow right; still, there are limits to letting wisdom float free.
Were cartoon bubbles Medieval, they would have been in danger from below (an oligarchy’s crossbows), now they are probably doomed by drones from all directions.
Considering that, Yorick’s balloons were sending variants of airy thoughts (ideas about peace and harmony, brief warnings about violence, treason, and treachery); and, considering that the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture hosts many artistics from other ages, an antique form was re-construed – banderoles – those script holders from medieval manuscripts and the late circus.
To that end Yorick conscripted theatricals to perform, but, as it is;
the winds still blow and jokes (especially dry, witty ones) don’t translate.
Apparently presentation means are variable, even if similar, as is the cliche’ message. It is difficult to deliver the wit that accumulates into Joy.
Yorick retreats. The default settings for amusing present fools are digital scores, ticker tapes, and virtual tragedies scrolling the screen edges for the emotives: folly is Fun.
Yorick harbors on a long-embedded log and illuminates (passé) banderoles; thoughts of recurring floods and remaining fools.
As you can see, this dazzler has lushly decorated beauty – foregoing simplicity – knowing that psuedo-charm will attract gallant purists. Primeval myth, covetous medieval glory, and opulent circus maidens churn impulsive purists. For the enticed, hormonal dust never settles and the vainglory flood of desire never recedes. Spurring on in rapturous clamor they seek to capture the untouched “all”. Even if that “all” is disguised store-bought-angels, store-bought halos, and store-bought lovely taffeta and pearly goddesses in spray-gold bartered carriages. Vanity is wonderfully alluring for purists.
Modern, technically enhanced, and mythologically misconstrued unicorns play their roles, with vanity and dizzy pursuit. Benighted valiants who, it is said, lack the virus of lust; practice a type of chivalry – in hot pursuit of the (idolatrized) virginal.
Well-aged unicorns (also mythologically out-of-step) have returned to the prairie; in keeping with generations of prying, window-peeping moralist – intent on ending moral turpitude. Desiring “lots”, and “more” and “much” while avoiding labor, (e.g. making a sharable daily bread) the unicorns ride spreading consumable fear and bellicose intimidation. This to the end of quelling prurient visions of glamour and angelic seductive concupiscence, plentiful among the emotives gathered here. Quelling even art and artistics.
They have put to chasing the nearly feral young (so fragile in morality).
Could it be that our reunion of anarchists in a circus tent on the prairie, which holds the brazen charm of individual enticement, is soon to be surrounded by the panting breath of self-made (aged past sin?) purist on contrived unicorns damning pleasure’s end? They will demand “all”.
Youthful ardor has dashed ahead to grasp and gorge on the romanticized pure beauty but, alas, the utilitarian must be replenished…
…in olden chivalry, this is when lance and arrow inflict the unicorn’s demise. One purity superior to another.