The cat heaves her bigger sigh.
Looking at the window.
I notice the siren.
She just hears noise pollution.
Suddenly the wails reek like klaxon
Doppleganger effect.
Sound waves flailing over time and space.
Distortion becomes further distorted.
Something or someone near is a gauche.
She puts her nose back to the quilt.
The reason you turned around;
The reason í pan-kicked;
at the sound of a child
He saw how Joseph was annealed by the fire…[and] felt the ordeal more than Joseph. P241
Sounded overwrought to me. Then I bothered (sic. concerned) myself with actually looking up
/annealed/
I was being educated on several levels. I first read the sentence such that I thought I knew more than I did. I imagined /annealed/ to be some form of a bow or a kneeling position, a kiss the ring, smell the glove. A posture taken when the situation demands you take yourself seriously. If you can imagine such a thing! Or that you undertake to do something trivial quite meticulously. For the sake of the process itself. By your choice. You take part with and in. Or, when ritual, tradition, culture, bestows us a transcendental catharsis by allowing us to take very specific actions with others undertaking them alongside, as well. A hymn sung by a choir. Suddenly, lighting a candle is holy. Yet, lighters and matches abound. Fire is easy to come by but it was not always so.
Blind spot.
Shocking how much meaning we can contain. There are so many pearls that some readers start arguing over the appraising of an irregular pearl. It is all about finding, examining, analyzing, and drawing conclusions about the relative value. Waiting to find that big money shot pearl. A yup.
“awe, more valuable. made of pearl but unique, collectors edition. Gesture, essence. and articulation.”
“Worthless. It’s shape isn’t paradigmatic of the standard pearl. Misinformed. Monstrous, devalues the other pearls to even be in the same bowl with them.”
Who let the pigs out? Who? Hoo hoo?
Too much monkey business for me. We as a species have moved on. Or did I miss the train and am now out of joint?
The Glass Bead Game: Magister Ludi. 1990. First Owl Books Edition. $18.00 USD/$24.95 Canada. That seems really inexpensive as I think back on it now. At five hundred and fifty eight total pages, it is a trek but no death march. As with any trek, though there will be days. But, then there will really be days! Am I right, a hyuck, hyuck.
The length is not the deterrent. The printing of the book intimidates. At least my copy. That is why I bought it. It looked too heavy for a book that size. A thing that is larger than physics allows but your eyes empirically cannot deny. Your brain’s rational processors will fill in the reasons that ‘you can’t trust your eyes.’
A phone booth and doctor.
A House of Leaves.
A ship ever at sail on a foreign sea, the life of the house mouse lost.
S/he loses their position in the home.
You lose something you did not know could go missing. The notion of home? An ending spoiled. Don’t let the little ones hear. Something you cannot unlearn but surely there is room for doubt and maneuver. Doubt suffers where there is little room
Something you took for granted. Because there is so much to see and so many things vying for the pleasure of your (everone’s) attention at all times. We cannot process the amount of information we physically can conceive us. We get by and brains fill in the blanks. The way you discover your new car’s blind spot.
《《 》》
Crash. Ah, hell.
《《 》》
But what was to be done? Can you judge yourself for not knowing that your vehicle is afflicted with a blind spot? Sure, but where that at? If you want me I’ll be in the bar. Speculating on some dreamy nonsense. The thing you did not see in your rearview & side mirrors (electric-adjustable, I’d wager) as you merged lanes, was, by dint of optical physics, unseeable. You cannot adjust for and account for such a variable.
The publishers did not eff around. There is a deliberate concern for both style and balance in the margin setting and lettering layout. There is room to scrawl. If you are into that sort of thing. I am! The luxury of the thick white broadband’s conjunction into right angles about the four verticies gains further dimensionality by its opposing page.
The reflecting pool in the palm. Narcissus finally went mobile. Each page appears with its predecessor and/or successor in symmetry. Consider the leaf of the sheet itself. Two page numbers and each bearing letter matricies yet on but one page. One page in the book holds two pages. Think about that. There ain’t ya’ll entertained? If that is not magic, then ya’ll doin’ it wrong. I see gods contained and present amongst the multiform streams. IHS Bacchus first. Then as Janus. Holding us in the present, pressed fast between the past and the future tense. So the text on each side of the page gives rise to leaf between your fingers as you turn the page.
Let us say, maybe, five hundred and forty pages are geometrically identical in dimension, same squares, same squares. Matrix array with its vectors contained in those critical margins. Two koi ponds reflected about the same axis of symmetry. Simpatico. The more you read, the more the very confined area with unnecessarily tiny pt. font, single spaced. Tight, trim, orderly. And you are drawn in and held fixed in that little space. Rapt. Enraptured.
And then the ratio expands. The page does not seem so small.
The biggest hinderance to the book’s popularity in America was a poor original cipher of the German language. But translating the lyrical prose of Hesse is probably like trying to translate a Japanese character into ‘the English word for it.’ You can pull it off but the English Equivalence is questionable. Americans are poorly positioned to be strong readers of such heavy, often erudite, ultimately, ironic tomes. We do not get the geographical exposure to other cultures.
Hell, we didn’t get the joke.
It fell for it too! The joke of being so dreadfully stoic that the reader would not dare think you were givin’ a ribbin.’ This is a book; An effing long one; I found all these pearls. I’m rich. Made-man. This is a book of power not jokes for blokes.
Sigh. Now, your cracking me up.
The good news is, if you do ever get the joke, it makes you smile and laugh out loud. Then shake your head. Hold on.
Although, states are arguably the same as little countries.
í before e except after c (but not always).
Subliminal symbolism signals a system.
Æ am speaking to the diatribe diabolique: écoute et répète
The Magical Mythical Pantheon
that is comprised of we
who did so fascinate
the Fruedian’s preoccupation (with classifications)
such that he be’termed us the afflicted handle of
the polymorphous perverse.
But, hey-
T(he)y be sleeping monkeys. They pay for what they get. And they just come to get off.
Levy (one of Dionysus’ favorite lushes) best put it: I like the wine not the label.
You say:
I wasn’t going to ask
if you drink red, white, rosé et al., rose-cheeked dummy.
I’ve a wine for your tasting, if you like.
I reply:
For your offer, I thank you, kindly;
But,
is it a finished wine or unfinished
that you would proffer?
Blind tasting from bottle sitting uncorked behind the bar?
Or, a sip of the batching directly from aging barrel?
Illicit thrill of an invitation
to steal a sample
from a cask
down in
and
past your
your cellar
door?
Alliance of the invited Thief.
You tell me of
a wine undergoing Vintification.
Alchymícal process of Fermentation.
Al’chymical.
All chemical.
I tell you that
I’m no hard scientist.
But I do know the Tao of Wissen’s Chraft.
Oft mispronounced as wissenshcaft and mistaken for
(another way to refer, too)
western Science.
I’m no fellow-follower of the standardized scientific paradigm.
Because I cannot be; I tried.
But of Wissen’s Chraft I could give a master class.
So, for the purposes of this moment, so made by your offer,
let me endeavor to practice this art of oenology.
I will make -logia of vintner and the
Tao of his crafty method.
But hear me: I am no viticulturist.
The Art of communication, huh?
Giddy up.
All the rules that you choose to use to get loose.
With the luminous moose.
It’s like right now,
Oh wow!
It’s so pine fresh.
It’s like…..giddy up.
I’m standing on your lawn doing jiu jitsu
Girl in the bikini with the Lamborghini shih tzu.
WOW! WHAT A BEAUTIFUL DAY!
As I research Parsifal/-zifal, I like to jot unexpected correspondences. Here is one involving the Sufi tradition. The quick quote below is included in a Sufi meditation manual that came into my possession a year and a half ago.
“The radiance of the streamers emanating from the shoulder blades has, when unfolded, often been compared by Sufi’s with a mantle of light. In the Parsifal legends, it was because there were holes in the mantle of Anfortas that the evil forces of the night were able to attack him.” Pir Vilayat Inayat Khan. The Ecstasy Beyond Knowing: A Manual of Meditation. 2014. p47
Anafortas: the wounded Fisher King who guard the Grail at Munsalvaesche.
[Perceval arrives at the Grail Castle, to be greeted by the Fisher King. From a 1330 manuscript of Perceval ou Le Conte du Graal by Chrétien de Troyes, BnF Français 12577, fol. 18v]
Below is the context in which the quote above is presented. The reader is being given meditation methods to enliven these ideas. Parsifal is not mentioned again.
The (life) energy fields includes the electrostatic and electromagnetic fields, the aura, called bioluminescence (light body?), the sonic field, and perhaps fields of other alternate forces (chi force; etheric body, which pulses with your breath; celestial body.) p46
“The energy in the human electromagnetic field flows in manifold ways. You may distinguish [sic. seven total ways including]…..vi) streamers (plumes of energy). ” p46
The concept of energy pluming from your body can be illustrated by:
1) Energy streaming above the head, like the Pentecostal tongues of flame
2) Energy flashing from the temples “as the winged thoughts of Greek Mythology”
3) Energy pluming out from behind the shoulder blades as winglike or cloaklike.
4) Plumes around the temples, included with the wings of the Seraphim.
5) Plumes around the shoulder blades and ankles, as the wings found in images of Hermes or Mercury.
Khan proposes that attributing validity to the existence of such “higher” fields that have so far not yielded to the measurement of science, enables the accounting for some of the uncanny bouts of energy to which contemplatives refer. Examples:
“Actually, we [sic. science & mysticism] have been going along with the assumption that the body emits these fields, but what if the electromagnetic field, in fact, all components of the life field, were the templates, the mold, in which the body is being formed?” p. 47
One related meditation practice is listed among other practices given in this section.
Four nights ride at me like knightless horses.
Some of us may be dead.
Do not overreact, we shall (re)enliven to you, the dead.
And, if you feel restless,
Then stand.
And, if it lingers, walk.
But, you must (not) forget your breath.
The Stain of that tree;
the mark of that unknown paw.
Await.
The tug of leash.
Does it follow?
Machen to Helen.
Machen was guide. Weigh Station.
Chhinnamasta calls me fall at her feet.
With my love.
To feed her, so she may feed the mystæ.
Horrendous in image.
But not horrible when properly imagined.
Can you deserve without earning?
Leviathans are understandably underendowed.
Catastrophe revealing atrophy.
Missing. One star. Even though there is a sky full.
I walked through a field of green meadows, last night.
Fields of fantasy and feeling.
And, then again,
the singular black dot.
Tiny spec/k/.
I cannot enlargen it, but I
continue to try.
I did as I have done because the demand
upon me was greater today.
Clothed in bedsheets worn/draped as a
s/ash.
Imagine. Pitter patter. Socks on carpet.
The deer licked the derelict.
Feeling the parsimony of time in mind.
Along.
A long.
A longing.
A precious ore mine.
A veritable land grave possessed
by the fool hanging by one foot.
On a needle & thread.
Set amongst a group of a dozen bystanders,
I watched the boat burst into flames
Ten yards into the bay.
A man runs to the lapping shore.
Drives his body deeper, diving into a falling wave.
We were not sure why.
No one was aboard.
The sopping wet man returns to say:
I’ve ruined my phone.
While coming ashore.
Fire twirls on the water table worktop.
Contradicting.
Through an oil burning medium.
The invisible lucifermatch
White stick.
Head struck and aflame.
Hum.
The nearest bystander to my right:
Wow!
I continue saying nothing.
Again: Wow!
Again: nothing continued
Can you believe it, he said?
Well, I’m seeing it, but the question of that reality requires a lot of words.
Maybe we should get a coffee and watch this fire burnout? He asked.
How kind, of you. Metaphysically speaking, as we would be, it is arguable that we will if we have not already done so. So, in this timeline I decline, kindly.
There are whispers that Klingsor’s summer and spear is near.
Scant and off-standish. I confuse for oscillation.
Busied with nothing, they are.
Ashade & alee, ally & algæ.
Predicated upon such a predicament.
Do what, now…
In/Transitive verbs. Inert momentum gave the other dog the upper leg.
I asked the CAT scan tech:
Can you have electric without magnetic?
Field/ed/ naught.
He grinned; I passed out.
Suzie Q got graham crackers.
She can still write in cursive correct.
They do not teach it anymore.
Skills being disvalued.
After being discounted
Only creating future demand.
We are no orthodox sun-dwellers, dear.
Such is a sweet thrill.
Pity the would-be achievers; they will never enjoy their achievements
Until they learn to love strangers.
My apprehension now apprehended.
Eyes narrowed and lips
Pursed. Spawning focus.
Now, your lips purse, pucker up, as you
Awaken into a dream, falling into sleep.
My sweet Poliphilio.
Your own right hand pressed to your cheek. The scratchy friction of just a bit of beard to the back of your hand.
Your fingers curl slowly.
Except your pointer. It alone rests atop the left shoulder, too.
A top,
The bend of a knuckle, the one next to the nail.
Holding until held.
Pucker ampersand purse. Your lips. Again. Deeper you fall.
Twitching tap of that
Pointer fingertip to clavicle.
Across pectoral, sternum, and pectoral.
I start my next sentence but we idle in the æyther and I recognize.
In our idyll. The approach.
An image, but not one of whom I recognize.
Encircled and fuzzy in capture.
Encapturing the same arm
To the same shoulder.
It will not be long now. This will drop.
My brow and focus unfurrows and
Then uplifts in honest realization and disappointed resignation to the moment.
My eyes no longer two half moons.
Becoming oval saucers.
Serving platters for huge dinner parties,
Big enough to hold the head of John the Baptist (aka the Revelator).
And, at the feast,
I see the eyes and hear the hush of the hushed. They peer in on this meal with faces stoic and smug.
Held in their voluntary vanity
That holds their faces involuntarily so.
I asked the Old Man. The who no one ever done met:
Does your mountain happen to be Sugar or Magic?
He grinned
And asked:
Have you heard of The Mountains of Madness?
I nod. I know. I read and read. Now.
Knotting and loosening.
Hand in hand.
No juxtapositing but aligning and allying periodicities.
The sacrosanct of a reluctant headliner.
He said: now you know a secret; man can fail.
I said: that’s only a revelation to your men.
Morgan saw detail.
Meredith saw the night sky.
Rachel saw in between.
Portrait. Picture perfect.
The robbers hasten their liquor store evacuation, the day the sky barges arrived. Turns out, there was no need.
《》
Effie was aset at the burled wooden desk, plate of blackberries, the culprits bleeding on her fingers. The barges drifted past. She heard them before she saw them. The cat had been fretting all morning. This reduced her surprise at the surprising.
She heard old music. Old timey. Pressed for phonograph. Tinny music. The kind men in fur coats would Charleston to, while drinking: alumnus attending the homecoming game of his alma mater. Girls twirl like it is the 1920’s. Reservedly untoward. The dance is all in the eyes.
This flashes in her mind, a daydream of orientation. Her curiosity piqued, she makes for the front room, with its huge picture windows, framed by newly painted, unadorned white walls.
Picturesque, but now the Douglas firs partially obscure her view of the aerostrocities. They move at a painfully slow knots per hour.
Ima grab those blackberries. They are not in rush and I’m hungry as eff.
She pops them ala popcorn into her mouth, watching. Her neighbors begin to venture outside. Some voluntary evacuation necessitated by a craving for speculation. The steely comfort of hearing someone else acknowledge the surprising, and then say, “I think it must be…”
Their words crackled like burning logs, the freezing air making every word they spoke become the smoke. Hazy veil from the heat source warming their fear. Tirefire.
Effie watched them, too. Actors on the stage.
With back straight,
Í asked you, “do you try hard too?”
The snow reduced me to pencil,
#2
Bleeding out my pens proper.
Wondering about that table of six í auto-gratted
in the Tavern five years prior.
My lead cracks.
Mark darker.
And then í find,
one pen left in my fold.
Shortstop
Between run and go.
A dash of dalliance
Unconcerned with with prose that came before
Or wilt
Would be.
Her hands would shake?
Ledges are not only
but also for leaping.
They told me “no.” Which is always within rights, but í was left confused.
Í cannot remember asking anything
Lend a
Hand, right?
Play your vinyl
Remove the album sleeve.
Put your diamond down, glasscutter.
45 rpm.
Morbid effery from the monkeyed,
Landed gentry.
Luxurious as late night coffee with heavy cream.
Laden.
All the crawfish fixing to get boiled.
Cloves of garlic
Resting on claws
Coalescing correlations.
Corrections to iterations
Deshelled and /de/tailed
Consumption.
Silver eyes against armor-alled all red
Whiskers a’faced to
Terraced tails.
Rampant mud and bug
With a dropped bouquet.
The slow crawl of the limited engagement
Leaves above my head.
Shining.
Í will make you look up and remember the sky.
You forget your breath
(Ampersand)
You lose a life.
I forged injunctions
Duplicitous & with steely reinforcement.
Silversmithing.
The pleasure of the written word. Consummate.
The change in our handwriting over time.
Fingering out your new font
Of pen scratch.
Scrawled.
Sprawling.
And my rhythm dictates a tempo for our saraband.
Shorthand.
You should always carry a handkerchief.
Cotton is fine. Print or naught.
It is not you that will use it
Anyhow.
So remove from that top drawer.
Overly ajar.
《》
A black rectangle
Framed in an indigo field. Ræching.
《》
What do we know of destruction?
Or why the paper need be canary.
Elongation in enunciation is
A mispronunciation.
Two blankets for the two ankles outside
Tonight.
Headed stones of fuzzy beasts
Sette
Atop footed cherrywood.
Vascular knotted circuitry
(<subterranean>)
A slip of the hips,
a flick of fingers.
Full affront of the suites
Merely one of a sort of resorts available
To your privy.
The pluck of pages.
Should they dissuade?
Is it prey to the præter-?
They said some really mean things about some really mean people. What do you suppose that means?
Felled and befell.
Sometimes it is hard to tell an l from I from a 1.
But no one ever mentions this.
A notice noticed. Even if misunderstood.
I drank the coffee to stay
Sharp in my sleep.
I sleep with a steno
Padded
Petrified enfossil.
A sordid seizure of a hardened fruit pit.
Dishollowed.
Where countenance meets disposition.
Heavy like
Wet denim.
I shift shoulders,
Crackly, a’tængled.
Naught not knotted.
Capacity and current
Contained by my spine.
Contracting.
Runs amok until
Corrected to both
convex & concave
Context.
Back braced
And arching.
Bending
Bow
To arrow.
Column of my chord.
Given immobility put to good use
In postures
Not posturing.
Posing but no poser.
Calf cramps
Paces inside
In sides.
Sidling as slides.
Sliding the sphere of my cəntər
Recanter.
And əntərs.
My abdomen to
My solar plexus
through
To my head.
Red , Terracotta , orange
Yellow , Green, Indigo.
Amid
White
Black.
All then red.
When cultivating a rose, they account for size, form, color,
Substance
Stem & Foliage
Balance
&
Proportion
(but wə can turn anything into a competition, I’d wager)
An ugly rose?
Hum
Birds and bees do not notice.
Lao Tzu or The American Rose Association Rule Book.
Misnamed. Mislabeled.
!
Dont let the roses pick up on that vibe.
Or the glass embracing it might break.
The rose and the vase.
This translates to a title.
Whirling padded fan blades
Belt around in circles.
Encircling.
Edifying eddies of easy breezes
Above me.
Pink & blue light
Nearly a wishing sky meandering on my wall.
Reflected
Then
Transposed.
Everyday reaching one more yard.
Poised.
Discomposed.
A’teeter
Totter.
Topple.
Someone fell down?
Afront.
In front ampersand behind.
(All a front for)
A’cold
Front
A’coming
Font.
Red rocks the remain
chilled & a’cold
/Des-/In spite constant sunshine.
To spite.
Spritely
Bell Rock
Pealing.
Bells.
Belle appealing.
Upturned. Un toward.
A forward.
A’front.
Word afore
A nameless, unspoken
Fleur
The story renders it incumbent upon the reader to engage a very active imaginative capacity. As such pictures help. Pictures also bias.
The tradition of Courtly Love in literature comes in three types: allegories, lyricals, and romance (aka færy tales).
In prudence of full disclosure, be aware that Richard Wagner’s opera was tentatively titled Parzifal (just as WOLFRAM VON ESCHENBACH had titled the protagonist) until 1877, when he switched to the handle Parsifal. This change was informed by one theory about the origin and etymology of the name (Perceval > Parzifal > Parsifal).
Vidēre licet the name as of Persian order Fal (Pure) Parsi (Fool).
At this time, your historian has been unable to validate any other origin theories for the name.
Though we shall encounter, virtually, every story ever told within Parzifal, a breakdown of the tradition of Courtly Love and Chivalry during the High Middle Ages as Eschebach tells it is justly prudent.
We concern ourselves, as the reader, with (1) Provençal troubadours, (2) French trovères, and (3) minnesänger.
I’m Wolfram von Eschenbach. I’m a bit of a minnesänger.
Note that Eschenbach states that a Provençal called Kyot (my research suggest Pyot to be a correspondant name in other texts) sent ” the book” to him.
Of keen interest to your historian is the patron enabling Eschenbach to afford the luxury of his composition. Wolfram was under the patronage of Medieval German Mæcenas Herman Landgrave of Thuringia.
The tradition of Courtly Love and Chivalry during the High Middle Ages as seen from the Critical perspective:
The overall gist, to be concisely reductive) of works concerned with courtly love seems to be the romance of self-perfection in knighthood, where both the chivalric and the spiritual receive their due as part of Love and Sensualism.
Parzifal had the knowledge of chivalry concealed from him until he was of an age able to think for himself.
In C.S. Lewis’ Allegory of Love, he presents the literary tradition of courtly love to include four basic characteristics: humility ; courtesy ; adultery ; Religion of Love.
A feudalization of love.
We will consider the meaning of the above shortly.
The genius of the above description will be revealed in history of words.
WrittenCasey 