I
pity your oldself I was used to. Now a younger's there. Try not to
part. Be happy dear ones! May I be wrong! For she'll be sweet for you
as I was sweet when I came down out of me mother.
My great blue bedroom, the air so quiet, scarce a cloud.
In peace and silence.
I could have stayed up there for always only.
It's something fails us.
First we feel.
Than we fall.
And let her rain now if she likes. Gently or strongly as she likes. Anyway let her rain for my time is come.
I done me best when I was let. Thinking always if I go all goes. A
hundred cares, a tithe of troubles and is there one who understands me?
One in a thousand of years of the nights? All me life I have been
lived among them but now they are becoming loathed to me. And I am
loathing their little warm tricks. And loathing their mean cosy turns.
And all the greedy gushes out through their small souls. And all the
lazy leaks down over their brash bodies. How small it's all!
And
me letting on to myself always. And lilting on all the time. I
thought you were all glittering with the noblest carriage.
You're
only a bumpkin. I thought you the great in all things, in guilt and in
glory. You're but a puny. Home! My people were not their sort out
beyond there so far as I can. For all the bold and bad and bleary they
are blamed, the seahags.
No!
Nor for all our wild dances in all their wild din. I can seen myself
among them, allaniuvia pulchrabelled. How she was handsome, the wild
Amazia, when she would seize to my other breast! And what is she weird,
haughty Niluna, that she will snatch from my ownest hair! For 'tis
they are the storms. Ho hang! Hang ho! And the clash of our cries
till we spring to be free. Auravoles, they says, never heed of your
name!
But I'm loathing them that's here and all I loathe. Loonely in me loneness. For all their faults. I am passing out. O bitter ending! I'll slip away before they're up. They'll never see. Nor know. Nor miss me.
And
it's old and old it's sad and old it's sad and weary I go back to you,
my cold father, my cold mad father, my cold mad feary father, till the
near sight of the mere size of him, the moyles and moyles of it,
moananoaning, makes me seasilt saltsick
and I rush, my only, into your arms.
I see them rising! Save me from those terrible prongs! Two more. Onetwo moremens more. So. Avelaval. My leaves have drifted from me. All.
But one clings still.
I'll bear it on me. To remind me of. Lff! So soft this morning ours. Yes.
Carry me along, taddy, like you done through the toy fair.
If I seen him bearing down on me now under whitespread wings like he'd come from Arkangels, I sink I'd die down over his feet, humbly dumbly, only to wash-up. Yes, did. There's where. First. We pass through grass behush the bush to. Whish! A gull. Gulls. Far calls. Coming, far! End here. Us then. Finn, again! Take.
Bussoftlhee, mememormee!
Till thousendsthee.
Lps.
The keys to. Given! A way a lone a last a loved a long the
James Joyce, Finnegans Wake
I kinda hate the escapism of "watching things," but I found myself with a lot of time, watching "True Detective" again last week - first series, second time.
ReplyDeleteThen I remembered a guy, "Wrong Way Wizard," posting some real out-there shit years ago -- his interpretations of that series, in particular, but also about Kubrick.
I remember not understanding.
Apparently he deleted a lot of his stuff.
I found some, and read it, though.
Way off the deep end, head up his own end -- a cautionary tale; and there's a real pretentiousness, slappable precociousness, and an intellectually masturbatory, self-congratulatory quality to it. No thanks.
But that brought me here.
And I remembered that I saw this a few years back, too, and it didn't make sense then.
The weird thing is, since then I've read Joyce and McLuhan. I was recently re-reading them, in fact.
Since then, I've also had a bit of the "hoasca." And I've read a lot about the "world," and have been watching "civilization" collapse on its false premises.
I even started a blog for myself to at least let out some pressure. It was an experimental style -- very few of my own words, but lots of pictures, collage, clips, quips, quotes, shock and absurdity -- somehow to express the inexpressible and cut to the heart. Breaking the chains of the letteral-minded.
So it's funny to come back to this, and find I actually... understand it. I can FEEL you now.
It's like looking into an eerie mirror; I hear my own voice.
Although I know now that "dyin would be a stone groove," and I used to dream I'd wake up the last person alive -- haha -- "careful what you wish."
Nos morituri te salutamus.
Thanks for the feedback, it is always my hope that these posts can make an impression that sustains itself just long enough to warrant a second look.
ReplyDeleteAs far as The Wrong Way Wizard, he remains my favorite writer of all time. All the qualities you described were facets of a rare and brave sense of humor. I always felt that he was the true successor to Robert Anton Wilson, but where RAW read like a voice among many, the WWW read like a voice completely alone, a man in the highest castle possible. I wouldn't be the person I am without him.
Wrong Way Wizard please come back to me. It really passed me off when he deleted his blog. I thought it was rather self centered. That was the best blog on the internet. What would it take for him to repost it? Please WWW, please come back.
ReplyDelete