Playing Mother
"Who were Shem and Shaun the living sons or daughters of? Night now! Tell me, tell me, tell me, elm! Night night! Telmetale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of, hitherandthithering waters of... Night!"
Sit down at my feet, young peddler, and let me speak to you of the most mysterious myth, an invention like Blake's Tyger, of such terrible beauty, of such hideous origins. Origins, indeed, that will have you shallerying around the vales of your youth and piecing together in memory that insingular moment of loss. We were all childers once. Mum to my past: here I play a mummy for you mummers and murmerers, mollifying my mawkish memory. Read it all above - I've aged just twenty years, but my soul speaks eternally. Peg into that smile of mine you see: What does it say? Is it "joy, landlocked, in a body that doesn't keep"?
There's the riff, you and I aren't dissimilars. For my joy also wants eternity, wants deep, deep eternity. I want fictions, but not such gods and demons as have been propogated through the centuries. No, no – listen: we shall not have any unnecessary fictions.
Care to join, young 'ouns?
Procureth thine razors from thine pocket that hath inscriben upon its surface "Property of Sir Occam" and taketh these razors to all inflatious affronts, to all extrapropigal muddities, to that which would stinge and ewify the world which seemeth in-deed composed of such untainted beauty that it needeth not embarass (the verb in spanish: embarazar - to make pregnant) itself with the empty spaces given names by ancients. Those ancients who thought what hurt should be called morality, that what was unpredictable should be called God, and that death was really only the beginning of a new life.
Fin, again! Found a counfounding variable, didn't I? Turn'd it 'round! Tell me peddle-man, tell me, tell me, tell me, realm! Will we compose short stories in the presence of Godge? Will we be able to play our rock music and repair computers for the angels? Or is it simply that this eternity is simply an escape from your worldly life? Agitashition!
Now:
If any of you can establish one non-instinctual universal for me - I'll accept heavean (heaven). No qualms about it, just give me that (one).
Sit down at my feet, young peddler, and let me speak to you of the most mysterious myth, an invention like Blake's Tyger, of such terrible beauty, of such hideous origins. Origins, indeed, that will have you shallerying around the vales of your youth and piecing together in memory that insingular moment of loss. We were all childers once. Mum to my past: here I play a mummy for you mummers and murmerers, mollifying my mawkish memory. Read it all above - I've aged just twenty years, but my soul speaks eternally. Peg into that smile of mine you see: What does it say? Is it "joy, landlocked, in a body that doesn't keep"?
There's the riff, you and I aren't dissimilars. For my joy also wants eternity, wants deep, deep eternity. I want fictions, but not such gods and demons as have been propogated through the centuries. No, no – listen: we shall not have any unnecessary fictions.
Care to join, young 'ouns?
Procureth thine razors from thine pocket that hath inscriben upon its surface "Property of Sir Occam" and taketh these razors to all inflatious affronts, to all extrapropigal muddities, to that which would stinge and ewify the world which seemeth in-deed composed of such untainted beauty that it needeth not embarass (the verb in spanish: embarazar - to make pregnant) itself with the empty spaces given names by ancients. Those ancients who thought what hurt should be called morality, that what was unpredictable should be called God, and that death was really only the beginning of a new life.
Fin, again! Found a counfounding variable, didn't I? Turn'd it 'round! Tell me peddle-man, tell me, tell me, tell me, realm! Will we compose short stories in the presence of Godge? Will we be able to play our rock music and repair computers for the angels? Or is it simply that this eternity is simply an escape from your worldly life? Agitashition!
Now:
If any of you can establish one non-instinctual universal for me - I'll accept heavean (heaven). No qualms about it, just give me that (one).
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posted by Jackie | 1:33 PM
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