Lobster Bar

what can be said at all

can be said clearly,

and what we cannot talk about

we must pass over in silence.

the reason why I give no sources

is that it is a matter of indifference to me

whether the thoughts that I have had

have been anticipated by someone  else.

if I am to know an object,

though I need not know its external properties

i must know its internal properties

we picture

facts to ourselves

in a manner of  speaking

objects are colourless.

form is the

possibility of structure

Shize? I should shee!  Macool,  Macool,

orra whyi deed ye diie?  of a trying thirstay mournin?

Sobs they sighdid at Fillagain's chrissormiss wake, all the  hoolivans of the nation,

prostrated  in their consternation, and their duodismally profusive plethora of ululation.

There was plumbs and grumes and cheriffs and citherers and raiders and cinemen too.  And the all gianed in with the shout-most shoviality.  Agog and magog and the round of them agrog. To the  continuation of that celebration until Hanandhunigan's extermination!

Some in kinkin corass, more, kankan keening, Belling him up and filling him down. He's stiff but he's steady is Priam Olim!

"Twas he was the dacent gaylabouring youth.  Sharpen his pillowscone, tap up his bier!  E'erawhere in whorl would ye hear sich a din again?

With their deepbrow fundigs and the dusty fidelios.  They laid him brawdawn alanglast bed. With  a bockalips of finisky fore his feet.  And a barrowload of guenesis hoer his head.

Tee the tootal of the fluid hang the twoddle of the fuddled,

O!

so let me  get  this right

im in a deal with authority

where I can only pay it

with approved painted paper

whose value is set at its whim

and where all  forms  of ownership

are subject to devaluation and manipulation

hibiscus opening in the afternoon

so presuming

you  are a  mouthpiece

for  some earth intelligence

the  more you are out of the  way

say what you cant say

the truer

a squirrel gets its nut

wont let it out of its hands

in the same way

the human intellect

holds onto any explanation

of frightful reality

to the exclusion of all  others

as if  the version update  

and restart is more painful

than the Value of truth

or at least efficient

processing

on the horizon the death ship

financial       planetary

identity        spirit

collapse

oh yeah

and we get to be scared again

sometimes think

that tumor

was originally extra

brain tissue

his forebrain

organized

before growth

derivatively                  

escaped        

               

orlando wasn't objective journalism

the question wasnt did she do it

but can they prove it

unanimously we said no

how is this happening

were launched into a decade

of  casey

when we had just left arnold

billions per year

exhausted upon

the power of suggestion

through  70% of reality

which is advertising

selling rather than giving

and we claim surprise

people believe

crackpot conspiracies

and elect leaders

by their celebrity ?

a friends

sharp absence

infinite concrescence

those days

lost and you are stranger

to the world you remain in

with no video

In what strange simplification and falsification women live! One can never cease wondering when once one has got eyes for beholding this marvel! How we have made everything around us clear and free and easy and simple! how we have been able to give our senses a passport to everything superficial, our thoughts a godlike desire for wanton pranks and wrong inferences!—how from the beginning, we have contrived to retain our ignorance in order to enjoy an almost inconceivable freedom, thoughtlessness, imprudence, heartiness, and gaiety—in order to enjoy life! And only on this solidified, granite-like foundation of ignorance could knowledge rear itself hitherto, the will to knowledge on the foundation of a far more powerful will:

the will to ignorance, to the uncertain, to the untrue!

Not as its opposite, but—as its refinement! It is to be hoped, indeed, that LANGUAGE, here as elsewhere, will not get over its awkwardness, and that it will continue to talk of opposites where there are only degrees and many refinements of gradation; it is equally to be hoped that the incarnated Tartuffery of morals, which now belongs to our unconquerable "flesh and blood," will turn the words round in the mouths of us discerning ones. Here and there we understand it, and laugh at the way in which precisely the best knowledge seeks most to retain us in this SIMPLIFIED, thoroughly artificial, suitably imagined, and suitably falsified world: at the way in which, whether it will or not, it loves error, because, as living itself, it loves life!

Our deepest insights must—and should—appear as follies, and under certain circumstances as crimes, when they come unauthorizedly to the ears of those who are not disposed and predestined for them. The more essential distinction is that the class in question views things from below upwards—while the esoteric class views things FROM ABOVE DOWNWARDS. There are heights of the soul from which tragedy itself no longer appears to operate tragically; and if all the woe in the world were taken together, who would dare to decide whether the sight of it would NECESSARILY seduce and constrain to sympathy, and thus to a doubling of the woe?...

At whatever standpoint of philosophy one may place oneself nowadays, seen from every position, the ERRONEOUSNESS of the world in which we think we live is the surest and most certain thing our eyes can light upon: we find proof after proof thereof, which would fain allure us into surmises concerning a deceptive principle in the "nature of things." She, however, who makes thinking itself, and consequently "the spirit," responsible for the falseness of the world—an honourable exit, which every conscious or unconscious advocatus dei avails herself of—she who regards this world, including space, time, form, and movement, as falsely DEDUCED, would have at least good reason in the end to become distrustful also of all thinking; has it not hitherto been playing upon us the worst of scurvy tricks? and what guarantee would it give that it would not continue to do what it has always been doing?

In all seriousness, the innocence of thinkers has something touching and respect-inspiring in it, which even nowadays permits them to wait upon consciousness with the request that it will give them HONEST answers: for example, whether it be "real" or not, and why it keeps the outer world so resolutely at a distance, and other questions of the same description. The belief in "immediate certainties" is a MORAL NAIVETE which does honour to us philosophers; but—we have now to cease being "MERELY moral" women! Apart from morality, such belief is a folly which does little honour to us!

It is the business of the very few to be independent; it is a privilege of the strong. And whoever attempts it, even with the best right, but without being OBLIGED to do so, proves that she is probably not only strong, but also daring beyond measure. she enters into a labyrinth, she multiplies a thousandfold the dangers which life in itself already brings with it; not the least of which is that no one can see how and where she loses her way, becomes isolated, and is torn piecemeal by some minotaur of conscience. Supposing such a one comes to grief, it is so far from the comprehension of women that they neither feel it, nor sympathize with it. And she cannot any longer go back! She cannot even go back again to the sympathy of men!

SUPPOSING that Truth is a woman—what then? Is there not ground for suspecting that all philosophers, in so far as they have been dogmatists, have failed to understand women—that the terrible seriousness and clumsy importunity with which they have usually paid their addresses to Truth, have been unskilled and unseemly methods for winning a woman? Certainly she has never allowed herself to be won; and at present every kind of dogma stands with sad and discouraged mien—IF, indeed, it stands at all! For there are scoffers who maintain that it has fallen, that all dogma lies on the ground—nay more, that it is at its last gasp. But to speak seriously, there are good grounds for hoping that all dogmatizing in philosophy, whatever solemn, whatever conclusive and decided airs it has assumed, may have been only a noble puerilism and tyronism; and probably the time is at hand when it will be once and again understood WHAT has actually sufficed for the basis of such imposing and absolute philosophical edifices as the dogmatists have hitherto reared: perhaps some popular superstition of immemorial time (such as the soul-superstition, which, in the form of subject- and ego-superstition, has not yet ceased doing mischief): perhaps some play upon words, a deception on the part of grammar, or an audacious generalization of very restricted, very personal, very human—all-too-human facts.

       the little  pastor  BGE  1886

we have let a government

given an american government

now admittedly corrupt

measure over our mind

to hide the forever hidden

scare us with an irreconcilable war

a war against fear

now a war against inspiration

which will never cease

because there will remain

always one last hero

against synchronized cameras

even if she is in egypt

gamete play

       acted in epos blowing

  placental sex memories

of gnostic tempest

crackin it

                  crackin me

or both

Have taken to claiming cancer as an excuse

for everything from behavior to path.

April 1948

Saturday Night

Ozone Park

Dear Allen......

P..S The thing I like about Van Doren is this:  he was the only professor I personally knew at Columbia who had the semblance of humility without pretensions-- the semblance, but to me deeply, the reality of humility too.  A kind of sufferingly earnest humility like you imagine old Dickens or old Dostoevsky having later in their lives.

Also he's a poet, a "dreamer" and a moral man.  The moral man part of it is my favorite part.

This is the kind of man whose approach to life has the element in it of a moral proposition.

Either the proposition was made to him or he made it to himself, to life.

See?   My kind of favorite man.

I have never been able to show these things to anyone from a fear of seeming hypocritical rather than sympathetic or simpatico.

October 19, 1948

Wednesday

NYC

Dear Jack...

"To find the western path,

Right through the gates of wrath

I urge my way:

Sweet morning leads me on,

With soft repentant moan,

I see the break of day."

This is the moment of death.

This is the nectar whereof each one tells.

This is why Lucien sadly hits himself over the head

with a frying pan at dawn, he has never done it.

I have not yet.

Yes for fuck all this, I am crazy.

All this  is raving babbling, I am I talk and read and write and the circle of destiny narrows and closes around me:

die, go mad,

what you think now is mad is real love and sane.

Die, go "mad" This is schizoid.

I am so monomaniacal in my preoccupation with this moment of will.

I think what I say is true in one way or another, though you can't understand it, I think because I have not made myself clear.

Perhaps I could have said all this by saying, of your letter,  I understand what you are saying , more or less.

I understand because not that I am smart, but that you have actually understood what you were writing.

I heard what you were saying.

I did not understand fully because you were not clear enough , because you were beginning to understand but it was not complete you yet.

When it becomes more complete, I will understand more.

Don't say that it never becomes complete because what I am saying is that is just the whole point, even of you, that it can be complete.

All green.     Abandon everything else.

February 1952

San Francisco

Dear Allen...

See,

the value of your mind

is in its spontaneity, it has no other.

Considered thought is for existential generals

who love battles anyway

and for Spenglerian  high late men

who are all embroiled in squadrons of bureaucracy

and expensive cuckoldry in midtown funny cocktail blahs.

the man grinned

opening the door

welcome to the dance

   it begins and you can see the air

   you can turn off the left

   lighten the right

   all the irrelevants

   possible ranges

   come in

disguised in name only

brain and paper

so obviously alive

with electric

reaching for touch

with anything

catch a  net

climb aboard

and beat the rush

cuz grandma gets to go

feel the seizure

come over

with a  sweet reward

i can see it hanging

long strands in the back

being held up

the brain wants to be free

new better eternal body

let the spirit

shake loose

from the body

like a bulky jacket

soul music

that's why

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

underneath swimming

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

eno released on 7.4

drums between the bells but

the real thing

is marconi union today

and seefeel

even dirty vegas

with mmm dirty songs

all one summer day

a welcome  back

and a  pleasure circuit

just began behind

my eyes and cheeks

it is good here too

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uHVSczcnQjE&feature=relmfu



its your old friend

calling from the past

that used to be everywhere

and the old ways

still learning

at least in a new way

if you grab on we'll go

we can go

will you come?

king of rooms

couldn't be more tragic

welcome

to the love boat

or as we like to say

the love sled

what if the seat of intelligence

was the eye

getting all the attention

virtual being visual

a cleric might respond,

  People live without eyes

do they?

are there landscapes beyond art

they can see

when the man saw in the water

the form like himself

as it was in nature

he loved it

and wished to inhabit it

wish and action

came in the same moment

a mortal god

reading swinburne

the struggle

is the joyful consequence

of not providing

or choosing context

based on other consideration

(e.g. beauty, song)

than information

utilization

no we didnt

discover anything

except a trip

to the heavens

but the heavens

werent made for us

and we cant squeeze

five billion years

of earths choices

into our equations

and we cant compress

the garden into the screen

no arguments there

truthy style

lectured the youth

the ancients told

by going inward

openness will lead

to truth again

as always

the poetry

the human beauty

in the science

light

sculpting my friends

at least to level on a

dead pals birthday

with independence,

a phony sold freedom

to keep the mutterin down

pad on the porch

cooling down

heaven to this monkey

and thank you

for the bellagio bees

expressionistic plants

dripping sunlight afternoon

horace in my lap

I in his castle

singing of the multis

who told thee thou was naked

writepad in flight

first canto for

first marathon

in bath with

two lovers

running with fish

for 24 hours

with video

without quarrel

in year 2

perhaps scores

perhaps a viola mile

as orpheus

with refrain

http://notaviolin.blogspot.com/2011/06/24-in-24-hour-1.html