Archive for April, 2014
In my alienation, sophistication and vanity, it was not terror but a great force of aidos, and of grief, that came over me – a grief which kept watch on me, clung to me, belonged to me. They always came together, in that order: alienation, sophistication, vanity, grief, aidos. Why did I ever start learning the flute? I am, frankly, concerned that I matter. I would, after these ritual nights of water-gazing in my private temple, fall asleep at the foot of the statues of Silenus, too taken by the thought of always being extraneous, a being-extraneous, too filled with the distant chatterings of those warriors training their boys to recollect not the real domains of forms (discretely installed myths) – ‘cause that process is all hush hush for the old guys – but the human soul which now possesses its treasured, barnacle covered, alien temple. . . .
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keeping in mind the words of the poet Pierre Joris, ". . . I make the arrogant claim that the poet is possibly the last, in Robert Kelly’s words, ‘scientist of the whole… to whom all data whatsoever are of use.’ . . . The prerogative of the poet is to steal directly whatever is of use, without needing to theoretically kowtow via analysis, explicatio, critical cloning or proof of pc allegiance."