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 once again considers the love of things, utilitarian things, and writes a love poem for your consideration. It is but a riddle, take heart!
The answer will appear next Saturday…
Yorick again offers a love-poem for commonplace THINGS…
The answer next Saturday here at anachronisticanarchist.com.
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.
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.
Anachronistic Anarchist by Herb Eaton 