Notes on Bayadere Ballet (the word/s flow/z below like the lyriç of ballet.

.

Youtube allows us to see tons of art that we may not usually get exposed to.

Like, ballet for me. Alvin Ailey is one among many other state, city, and national ballets that are familiar to most us, in theory. When was the last time you watched a ballet start to finish? Never for me; until, I saw the above performance. Thanks to youtube.

The Balanchine tradition cannot help but be my personal fave.

It reminds me more of yoga poses, the breathwork, physicality and poise are enough to usually bring a tear or two, though it is a very uncynical thing to admit. It is also super brutal looking. The practice and repetition of the same basic movements over time enables this art to enliven through proper breathing to oxidize muscles while balancing precariously.

The European and western ballet companies cannot hold a candle to the art expressed by the Boshoi Ballet. Alchemy in action.

I wrote letters from the words in the opening/closing credits, the subtitlez,and the actual youtube info on my screen. It contained characters in another language.

A meditation for sure.

Cheers.

Parsigal Proem by A. Ladder

WrittenCasey

The words really do get curious and capricious. I am Alice Ladder; and even the hair on my arms stood on end. Hair-raising. Un baffoon ambulent I must have appeared on my walk home.

Parcigal is lovesome, diligent, loyal and kind. But the gal is also lewd and licentious. A real hærlot. Engaging in all sorts of hærlotries, and what not. She is a complete philolofile. Thinks she’s pretty funny.

Vitz. She really likes words and is a lovesome dummy.

Before we meander Hear I make three formal remarks below. The rest is simply me doing my best.

Alice Ladder

Carroll, VVündųrlvnd

TIMESTAMP: 07/09/10 15:00


》All knowledge is nothing more than symbolism.

》》 Word is bond and magic. Be impeccable. Do not use it against yourself either.

》》》What you see inside the mirror is just an image of reality; which means it is virtual reality. It is a dream.


Revælation

View original post 100 more words

Non-Western immortals of Mythos: INDRA (cite Am. Practical F.&W. ’43.)

Indra.

Figures & Illustrations are never un-welcomed–i don’t care who you are.

Like, a phrase like “Get Outta tha Cab!!!”–can be good, nonclean and funny–don’t matter who, ya arse.

Note: with the Diagram to the right of Indra, I wonder, could the tool of induction be used along with the def. of induction coil such that even the most lay-of-laymen could ennoble the manifestation of the thing from the idea. Reach into the ether, pinch finger-to-thumb and make-manifest a machine from the immaterial?

Howl yeah, í reckon.

Words4Free

and

Illustrating Examples

En-courag-IngPen March hairz.

Free Write

I had not seen

the music video

Pushit by TOOL (and that is as opposed to Tool.)

Apposite

Deposited into mytube

To be seen

STUNNING visual art of the indi/visible physical

Delight

Accompanied the musical accompaniment

Alchemicalizing tears from my eyes

Emotion transmuted

To already know this is called lachrymology with an H

Is to know

of lacrymology.

Good monkey! Have a peanut as a reward

<< zen koan >>

The monkeys had organized. Demand formalized: what they justly wanted.

“Zoo-keeper! Feed us twice a day. Not only when the light rises but also right after it is diminished. This will be our justice, our happiness, and the only way we will remain in this zoo they made.”

“As it pleases you brothers and sisters.”

The wrangler said “if we double the food we give them, our bottom line might become insurmountable.”

“If they were not in the zoo–under glass, observation, natural, untamed, & non-domesticated. Wild–they would eat twice per 24 hours. This must be in their blood and inherently their experience. It behooves us to risk our bottom line and acquiesce. To not do so would make us despots,” said the Care-taker.

The Zookeeper turned her head slowly to roll her eyes very briefly.

“Ahem. Pardon. If I may, I shall play Arbitour. May I attempt my resolution? Either the peace will return by morning or we will brainstorm further. You take care of their well-being and you wrangled them into this,” said the zoo-keeper, indicating with two men respectively. I keep your zoo. Whatever that means to you, whatever your motivation to keep a zoo and hire someone to keep it for you in the first place: I do not know because you have not said. And, I have not asked because you would have told me the answer already if I were to know it. And, I’d not treat my fellows so uncivily,” said the zoo-keeper.

Agreed, the wrangler and the care-taker went home and left the issue per.

The zoo-keeper acted thusly, both unobserved and in silence.

She took the amount of food the captive animals were already allotted; and, she divided it into two portions.

The monkeys ate the same amount and not a single and healthy calorie more.

Half at sunrise. Half at dusk.

The issue was not impetuous want of over-iindulgence.

The impetus was culturally derived.

Integral to an animal’s existence. To share not one but two meals. As a community and katet.

<<…>>

Lachrymology with an H is the impetuously given word-handle with which we may refer, or indicate, an ineffable experience. It is, at once, both idiosyncratic and indicative of a psychic unity common to our iterations in the now, common to everone in our species.

To know the words, how to write and spell them in Concordance with others. If you raced to and snatched to notch off your list, and then ran like you found a clue in a scavenger hunt race, well then, idiot:

Come sit aside me for a while. We will breathe in through our noses and we will breathe out through our noses.

We will keep our mouths closed and there we will sit

until you experience hot tears of transcendence.

It is that simple.

It is not sadness.

Watch “Joni Mitchell Wild Things Run Fast (1982)” on YouTube

For every album you can name by Joni Mitchell, I wager there are two and a half more albums per unit that you do not know. And, for every song, several variations: studio cuts, recorded live when she toured the album, recorded live years after, made to look as though filmed live.

And there are paintings for most too.

Found my worn Anthology of her Sheet Music copy-right 1983 Alfred Publishing Co., Inc.

Check it out cuz She’s Playing Real Good, For Free at her own digital domain.

Here is info on the title track of Wild Things Run Fast here.

A song of tradition and tribes.

Here are the lyrics…..


He came/she smiled.

She thought she had him tamed, but he was just as wild, eatin’ from her hand, at last.

Wild things run fast.

In the dark he could see the trap that wzs lyin’ in her sweet company,

eatin’ from her hand at last.

Wild thing run fast.

Winter beat the pines about.

He heard the heater cutting in and out

while she dreamed away.

In the night, it snowed:

Fast tracks in the powder white leading out to the road,

winding from her tender grasp.

Wild things run fast.


But wait? Did you hear it? My ears missed it entirely until I read the lyrics, saw these words, Backed-up the track (fka ‘rewound) and listened hard for it.

Uh. Sounds a lot like she is givin’ it back to tunesmith Chip Taylor’s Wild Thing (I think I love you), popularized by The Troggs, a band paving the way for garage rock, proto punk, and the lo-fi scene.

I forgot to mention, the tune-smith’s real name in James Wesley Voight, brother to actor Jon Voight, and apparently Angelina Jolie’s uncle as well.

Wild Thing has been coveredby The Jay Five, The Kingsmen, The Jimi Hendrix Experience, The Runaways, Chevy Chase, X, Sam Kinison, and Kermit the Frog, to name only a few.

Metamusic. Dig it much.

Deja-View of the Ingenue

She put on her armour but left off the painted visor.
She opened, closed, and locked the front door as silently as possible.
For the benefit of whom, she was unsure.

She looks at the græy sky and thinks of his eyes.
She wonders about rain and sun and walks and shoes.
And thinks of his brogues.
Then his ankles.
Then his bluə-græy sky eyes.

And, her eyes go round like looking mirror pools.
And, her eyes go soft and shine.
She feels her eyelid muscles making expressions she cannot make on cue or command.

The neighbors open their door and a dog bounds to her: tail-shaking,welcome-waggin’ cometh. She relunctantly retrieves herself from her golden reverie.
And pulls her eyes sharp.

*

Not easy, is how she found it. Being tip-toer of labyrinths and garden mazes. This she enjoyed more than representing fertility allegorically. But, oh, howl she could howl for a good glass of wine or some potted green. Chaotic passion inside appeared smooth~like~silk to any outside observers.

Like Ariadne was abandoned, then beguiled to dreams only to then be slain, she knew what the men of the world did to spurious and impetuous women, gave them away or took them away to be locked-up. So, she measured her steps in eight counts, two sets of four paces per leg. And, she breathed in four ways with each way repeated three or five times. She acted the part.


She invariably met Bacchus in the woods. This time he believed his name was Dionysus. He never remembered meeting her until it was too late. She stopped insisting she knew him and played dumb.

“Yes, I do fancy wine, Dionysus, thank you kindly. Do you happen to fancy passion?”

She already knew the answer: yes, he did. Everytime and very much so. Ritual madness and religious-ecstacy made him high, high, high. So did speculation and grandstanding.

“I speak trances to even the cold-bloods.” She said this time, acting as Snake-charmer.

And, then and there did he again “give himself unto his Beloved in sleep”. Leaving her to live and die alone while he leapt through lucid dreams of curiosity mistaken as achievement or sometimes entitlement.

She had seen every tiara he gave her turned into one constellation or another in the night sky, intended as some magnanimous immortal display. Allegedly in her honor.

Blah blah blah. They were nothing more than the womanly model of the current apple in his mind’s eye. He made Stars to shine his light, reflect his ideal feminine quintessence of the moment. She served as a model for the perfect star. He often laughed that she mistook herself for a star when she was a simple model of one.

At first, it felt good. Then empty. Then oppressive. Then pathetic. Then, like an act she performed. Until then, she did not ought but drift like a swan on the blue. Silently. Waiting for him to meet her, love her, and then desire more than love, which would leave her to herself and her own devices.

**

“Eventually,” she said to No One,

“In the beginning, I left messages in the street.”

This won her the pleasure of being the mistress to the absentee No One man.

She was mistress to a man she had never met and Howl she loved him and knew his mind and body. Pleasures of pleasing and pleasuring.

She was married to the immortal man perpetually putting her on a petal-stool, but did not want for her pleasure or pleasing. He wanted a star, so he used her as a token paragon on a pedestal and sought pleasure and pleasing from every mistress he could render smitten.

But, she promised. She swore to fidelty. How was she to know that no one took sacred oaths literally? Now really, someone could have said something. She never laid with another man. But, the fiercesome pleasure she took from the No One man’s non-corporeal form, debased and debasing without even touching, felt Impeccable. Desperately patient for him; while good on her word, per se, to her Beloved; and Still effortlessly lovesome of the men. She only hated herself after all.


So what? She knew she must be somewhat immortal. She had died so many times, but immortality is lonely when your Beloved uses immortality to capture you both in the same circular ruins where there is no ’til death do us part because death always seems to be a sleep. At least, after the fact of dying, she only seemed to awaken from deep sleep in another place altogether.

It really got curiouser and curiouser. Did she mean “how curious” or “most curious”? Howl no, there was no superlative state of curiousness, just ever-increasing scales of what was curious and what was not. Deja-View pans over her.


She skipped the armour but put on the painted visor.
She opened, closed, and locked the front door as silently as possible.
For the benefit of whom, she was unsure.

She wonders about rain and sun and walks and shoes.
And thinks of ankles in brogues.

And, her eyes go round like looking mirror pools.
And, her eyes go soft and shine.

She feels her eyelid muscles making expressions she cannot make on cue or command.

No door is opened but the Candor of a pure fool looks at her from another side. He is softened and demurred. Bashful, curious, deferential and incorrigible. She sees it in his eyes. Innocent of entitlement and pure of desire to achievement. He seemed impossibly young in spirit but she recalled meeting him when she was young in spirit. Now the Deja-View inverted.

Ingenue and Guileless.

She became an artless, ingenous gal instantly. Free from disguise and dissimilation, she is what she is. She is no mere actress of fain. Freed of herself at the sight of him.

He is artless too, and, candid, and frank. Strangely innocent.

⊙⊙

The tonic was a keytone of ecstasy.

She is beside herself

And across from

A man always beside himself.

She wanted to pursue him relentlessly, meet him time and again in the woods.

She became silent.

A real dummy for the effulgent fool.

She became rekindled.