Posts (page 2)

BVE’s meditations

I heard an interesting song on the radio yesterday, about a man who has a bottomless hole behind his barn, and for years, his family and himself have been throwing all their garbage and broken tractors into it. he never can figure how deep it is, so he builds an device from rope and a four claw tub and lowers himself down, when the rope runs out, he cuts it, and begins to fall. the song is told from the perspective of him still falling, which is unique. but he screws it up at the end by offering up some skewed logic - rhetorically incorrect - I'll never believe this hole is bottomless till i hit the bottom - wouldnt that suggest his thinking would not shift, but he would then become a believer. I feel, if Dante Allegro had a john deer and a barn and a hole as such, he would have done something simililar - I myself would have chosen a friend or a dog who knew how to use a handheld, and sit at the top of the hole eating fresh fruit and waiting for the returns.

 

meanwhile: life is not what you make of it, it is what you make of others' lives.

DCP00815
DCP00815

Post a comment

1. The Love Song of...

1. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
 
 
         S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
 
 
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats         5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …         10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
 
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
 
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,         15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,         20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
 
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;         25
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;         30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
 
In the room the women come and go         35
Talking of Michelangelo.
 
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—         40
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare         45
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
 
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,         50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
  So how should I presume?
 
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—         55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?         60
  And how should I presume?
 
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress         65
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
  And should I then presume?
  And how should I begin?
      .      .      .      .      .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets         70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
 
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
      .      .      .      .      .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!         75
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?         80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,         85
And in short, I was afraid.
 
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,         90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—         95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
  Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
  That is not it, at all.”
 
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,         100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:         105
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
  “That is not it at all,
  That is not what I meant, at all.”
      .      .      .      .      .		         110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,         115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
 
I grow old … I grow old …         120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
 
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
 
I do not think that they will sing to me.         125
 
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
 
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown         130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
 
Post a comment

mitochondrial gran mals and dating

I'd rather date any old day a girl with petite mal seizures rather than Gran mal seizures because girls with the Gran mals might flail and whop about when you tried to hug them good evening after a hard days work; where as the petite mal girls would just flutter or twist or shudder, very doubtful they would drop dead in your arms. it would be easier to take the petite mal girls to the nice resteraunts, not grunting or choking or stiffining like a board, just a little head rock or a doze off, or at worste, an elbow to the groin of your valet or waiter. yes definately, i would want a petite mal girl. those gran mal girls are too much trouble and create nothing more than worry.

Post a comment

BVE - Saturday, November 22, 2008 9:00:25 AM

 

IMG_2667
IMG_2667

Post a comment

If I had a tumor, I'd name it marla

 

 

 

first rule of fight club, listen to the soundtrack

watched fight club last night; as always, captivated from the beginning. Each time i find something new to ponder; though i will admit it is much easier to recognize the psychotic cross over sooner and sooner, to the point where you eventually are merely waiting for brad pit's character to arrive. But i pine for the first time i watched fight club, and wasn't exactly sure of any of it until the security cameras showed ed norton beating his own ass in the parking garage. now i watch it more for the narrative, which is pretty amazing, a long ranting poem,not unlike some from Ginsberg or kerouac., and of course the fight scenes are remarkable, half the movie being left to the imagination. i do wonder if there are inconsistancies in the perception of the 'army' populating the project mayhem - then i ponder if they are as unreal as brad pitts character. The entire movie reminds me of the displacement found in lewis carol's work, or even TS eliot's. the modernists/post modernists certainly had a way with misdirection. anyway, my thoughts on another successful viewing of one of my favorite films.

 

also, the soundtrack is premium.

 

 

Post a comment

BVE’s contemplations

IMG_2161
IMG_2161

haiku for the diminishing return

 

gold coin placed in mouth

we must learn to travel light

the big lebowski

Post a comment

steak fries and Libraries

It has been a long time since I blogged here. I know thousands, if not millions have been wondering why that is; well, mostly because I have been concentrating on other things. I know letting this information out is an important part of my relationship with the millions, if not billions of readers who have been missing me so.

 

I think the whole dead George thing put me off of blogging for a while, as well, I have been trying to get a manuscript together, so, when writing at all, it is directed towards that goal. This morning I have two things on my mind, both having to do with the concept of complete and total ignorant behavior - not on my part - but on the part of others.

 

Because I ate at the Golden Coral last night9don't ask) and because that is where Watauga eats on a Saturday night, at least the ones who were eating there last night; because of this fact, I was privy to conversations, most benign, but one or two which discouraged me greatly. I heard a lily white foursome talking about how obama was going to send all of their tax money to Africa and how pretty soon every Negro in America would be on some special social security plan, I assume, their minds, it was a secret agenda Negro SS plan. Cringe. I wanted to sit down with them and briefly explain the way our government works, the due process of bill legislation and so forth. It just didn't seem worth the time or the anger I would have absorbed. Still, that kind of ignorance discourages me to the point of anger.

Secondly: I am totally dumbfounded by the number of "screen time" computers at the library designed specifically for kids my kid's age. There is a giant wide screen behind the story time stage where a child can play mid level violence based theme games. There are six computers and dozens of individual games a child can select from just to the other side of the giant screen. I am thinking how the decision to provide this in a public library with public funds is a HORRIBLE IDEA, and how this fact about the library and my experience at the golden Coral are probably interconnected on a very simple level. Ignorance is not hereditary, it is bred. So, I am announcing my decision to run for whatever elected position it is making decisions about what we put in the public library and what we put at the buffet at GC - as there were no steak fries, and that breaks my heart. These things need to change. granted I did spend an hour in the library reading a book on abnormal psychology while my kid played hobbit death match with a retarded kid.(burn in hell, I know). I don't want to address the issue of parental responsibility right now, as the library is also being used as a giant baby sitter by many people who are afraid of Negro presidents but not the GC.

 

Peace out

 

 

bve

7.04.08 005
7.04.08 005

 

Post a comment

George the dead, redux

it was very hot a george the dead's ceremony, many old greek ladies, layered in fat and makeup - which smeared down their faces and onto their fat and sweaty chests sat in the back of the church and gossipped - between their sobbing and genuflexing - I was a pallbearer, and satin the front where the waft of lilacs and incense, along with the waft of george the dead, mixed into a sickeningly sweet and putrid aroma - it reminded me, and I have no idea why, of the poem by Dylan Thomas: The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives. It is an amazingly compicated riff, one forever intriguing me. i imagine george the dead fully understands this poem at present moment, or did, at the moment present before his death. George the dead will be forever with us in memory. For now, he is my stupid dead friend.

 

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

Post a comment

The Visitation

well went to see george today, george has been dead since Saturday and is 43 years old for the rest of eternity. He looks about sixty. I do not recommend death to anyone, and certainly do not recommend taking the hard way out - of which there are many a number and of which I have pursued haphazardly myself at some point or another during my own life - George the dead has had the life pressed right out of him literally. Just to make sure he was dead, because I never fully understood his sense of humor, when no one was looking, I poked him in the eye - actually the eye lid - for they had been shut eternally. there is a good chance his eyes had bee removed anyway. George the dead is now eternal, forever, his run here on earth fully over. I imagine I may catch his reflection in a few store windows or in a passing bus or car, or in a line somewhere - waiting - as the dead seem to do, I will catch something of his memory in image and smell and breath and though perhaps for the rest of my very on eternal time left here on earth. george the dead, I appologize for poking you in the eye, but I had to make sure.

Post a comment

this world is too much with us

shout out to George G Carras, 1964 - 2008. Son, brother, friend. all gone - dust in the wind.

Post a comment