Been casting about (get it?!) for some ancient sculpture that I can copy w/ a bit of polymer clay I  need to use. Though a king cobra'd be pretty sweet. This (not clay) one is awesomely scary.

WHATEVS

I've lost all desire to write. Not sure if it's the next stage in post-college life or what. Baby quail are cool though. Guess I'll report in later. Toodlepip.

And song of the moment. Not terribly original. My two concessions to superstition: a person's given name and incidental songs. A rose by any other name would not be a rose. And what did thy song bode, lady? Hark, canst thou hear me? I will play the swan,  And die in music:— Willow, willow, willow. Apparently Arthur Sullivan composed five different settings of Shakespeare songs, including the Willow song. This is awesome. Unfortunately can't locate Alfred Deller's version on YouTube. Sad day. The interweb's just a little worse for it. Although countertenors still make me flinch a little.

Squillatong

A language w/ an extremely high-density of the "skwee" phoneme. I will call it Squillatong.*

Ei-yuh! Squigee squibbing squimjimsquaw. Squack a squillo, sqoofloops.

I think this is hilarious, and I am clearly suffering from severe cabin-fever. Way back when in highschool (in the old Walrus-and-the-Carpenter-performed-by-Donovan-days), I invented a language with the sole purpose of collating all the most amusing-sounding phonemes I could think of it. Been racking my memory trying to remember what I called it, but can't quite fetch it.

*W/ a tip of the hat to the Italian squillare.

Wonderment, God's Derision and the Death of Tragedy: A Triple Revery Induced by Thomas Adams and a Lack of Sleep

Revery First ~ "Wonderment," by which I mean a sort of abundant appreciation for life or knowledge thereof or lack of knowledge thereof or better yet being, is the intellectual equivalent of kindness & love. Most kids have it, most adults do not. It is the boy cradling a frog in the palm of his hand. It is the voice that says Beauty is truth, truth beauty. It is Terence Malick. À la marveille indeed. Philosophy begins in. It does not scrutinize, but embraces. Finnegans Wake doesn't "end" w/ yes, but with the far more wondrous and expectant the

Wherefore art thou so serious?

Revery Second ~ Why is hilarity so close to despair? Why do clowns terrify so many people (besides the obvious reasons)? Why does God hide his laughter more than any other attribute? -- Quod Deus loquitur ridens, tu lege lacrymans. -- Are clowns terrific because they ask us, Is it only from our present skewed perspective that anyandall laughter or smile from a God would appear mocking, or will God's face be revealed at theendofallthings as a gigantic clownface of cruel derision? (This revery is only 1/3 halfserious.)

Revery Third ~ Heaven, aesthetically speaking, is a state in which tragedy will seem as unreal and slight as most stories of genuine happiness do today. Tragedy will be boring. There is no greater bliss.

Psychoanalysts, enjoy.

Frigg's Day: Brief Update on Writing Plans & Phoenician Religion

I've decided to go ahead w/ my (working title) De Inanibus for NaNoWriMo. I've got more than enough material to work w/, so it's just a matter of sitting down and forcing myself to write. Also compiling notes for An Iceman Always Keeps His Cool. Alas, too many ideas and too little motivation.

Enjoying Giambattista Vico's Scienza Nuova. Vico mentions a certain Sancuniate (p. 60 of this edition), also known as Sanchuniathon. To my eternal shame, I was unacquainted with this reticent philological specimen until now, but Wikipedia has shown me the light. He's the purported author of several works on religion in the Phoenician language. Eusebius of Caesarea, quoting (perhaps rather liberally) a Greek translation by Philo of Byblos, provides our only source for the material. So, ancient near eastern cosmogonies FTW! Phoenicia's always had a special aura for some reason. Tyrian purple. Cedars. The Sea Peoples. Swan-prowed ships. Númenor.

Also: Because who doesn't like eggcorns (courtesy of Languagehat).

And...

All Roads Lead to Rome

"Rome may have been built in a day, but it only took a single trumpet to bring down the walls of Jericho." - Roderick Spode, amateur dictator.

Sped outrageously to Rome and then sped outrageously back again. Being on campus made me glad I'm not there any more, but it was wonderful seeing friends.

And shout-out to Spiegel Online for always having the best pictures. See e.g.

Haydn's Die Schöpfung vis-a-vis Mozart's Requiem in D minor: A Revery

Thinking about NaNoWriMo got me thinking about the opening of my Mega-novel got me thinking about Haydn's Die Schöpfung got me thinking about Haydn's Die Schöpfung v. Mozart's Requiem (be warned, previous link is one of Harnoncourt's "period-instrument" performances. See this if that's not your thing). It makes sense, I swear. If I ever get around to writing the thing maybe it'll be more apparent.

Anyhoo, soapbox: although it's considered one of Haydn's best, Die Schöpfung is criminally under-appreciated. This is an objective fact. The 8-minute "Chaos" sequence followed by the Fiat lux is handsdown the most hair-raising musical experience that exists. Flipside: Mozart's Requiem is criminally over- and mis-used by film directors everywhere, and it's still criminally under-appreciated.


Although they differ in technical genre (oratoria/mass), both Haydn's Creation and Mozart's Requiem speak the same language (and I don't mean they're both works for choir + super-sized orchestra w/ extended vocal solos). They're concerned w/ the same things. They're on the same wave-length. They're both massive gravity-wells of the universal Story. Flipside: they're opposite sides of same coin. Obviously, the subject/genre has a lot to do w/ this. Where Haydn's work has a lighter touch, Mozart's...not light. Heavy's not the right word. Dense perhaps? Nope. "Strong" is getting there. Anyhoo, both concerned w/ what I will spontaneously choose to refer to as the Perennial Monomythohistory, but reflect opposite sides of it: Haydn's piece (being the chummy Haydn) focuses on the jubilant, positive, creative aspect of creation), whereas Mozart's focuses on the tragic.

So, yeah.

This matters cuz my goal in life for the last seven-ish years has been to capture the experience of hearing the first ten minutes of Die Schöpfung in writing. A tad unattainable, granted, but one can dream. So many abandoned poems. I need to start writing writing rather than tossing letters around like a preschooler. Mhm. Must craft, hone, sculpt, try, try again.

Here's a Haydn freebie. An oldie but such a goodie.
 

Wednesday Gallimaufry

Courtesy of a friend: The Strife of the Chase. Decent.

Maimonides discussing Tetragrammaton and various devices Jewish priests used to conceal name of god from the increasingly "impious people." Mentions a forty-two letter name of God. Kertwang.

Have a lot of creative writing projects coalescing in me noggin right now. Think, job/living situation allowing, I may actually do NaNoWriMo for once. Probs just do my sprawling, gratuitous, Ovidian cosmo-epic mega-novel to get the creative juices flowing. Work on Music of the Spheres after that. For some reason cut-and-dry philosophy always inspires me just as much as the best poetry (almost never get the same jolt from prose).

And let it be done: I will find a way to use the line "pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone" in my great American novel.

La la la la strange mood brain dump and now for something completely different

Well the rents're gone to FL and the cat won't sit still long enough to engage in conversation, so I may as well blog into the windy cybervoid... Massive lightning storm at work today. Emerged from white clinic-closet-from-hell block room, greeted by pitch-black skies and tossing trees and claps of thunder. Slumped right down against the door. It was beautiful and aweful. Just kind of peered around from under the tall tin roof, rain-mist on my face, squatting on wet concrete. Felt like a bird must tucked in a tree, just barely out of the elements damp not wet. Afternoon breaks in general (when they occur) feel almost out-of-body, surreal certainly. They may last five minutes, but something about that little concrete pad under that tall tin roof surrounded by old tin fences and old wood pallets and old old equipment gives it a timeless quality, and the way the trees and the blue or black or white (hazy) skies that're always there take you out of geography and drop your somewhere rich and strange. Reminds me of that trippy moment I had in the dental office years ago looking thru the window at the wind in the trees w/ Lennon crooning Imagine over the office radio. I'm listening to Pärt's Für Alina as I type. How perfect. It's almost over, though. But to the thunderstorm. Das Gewitter. That says it all. Das Gewitter. Words're so rich and strange. Ah! I must memorize that passage next. And 'sfrom The Tempest. It all works out doesn't it? I've started memorizing poetry just for the sake of memorizing poetry, and because it's an easy thing to practice while I'm stuck bagging ice for eight hours a day. I only started a few days a go, so I've only got Donne's The Sunne Rising down and I'm looking for some material I'm really keen on. Love Sunne Rising b/c it's playful, silly, sweet and true. Donne doesn't (always) let his cleverness get in the way of earnestness. I've considered some Keats, but I'm not feeling him somehow. Donne's touching in the same way Haydn is, since he comes across as a genuinely heartfelt guy and not a sickly, possibly disturbing sort-of delinquent (vide Keats & most every other artist the world over). They're both more "craftsman"-like than Beethoven-style Inspiration w/ capital-I. All these people have been dead hundreds of years. Maybe I've been dead hundreds of years, mhm. Don's not been dead hundreds of years, unless he uses a lot of product. He's a nice guy, hard-working. Though that can be an irritation at times. But it's all one. Today was brutal work-wise. Don't have the proper bags for the machine, so I have to maintain this excruciating position where I hunch over at the waist 45 degrees but hold my arms straight out level w/ the floor and move bags w/o any support. Gets to be a bit much after 8 hours of standing that way. Hopefully I won't get back problems from this job. How plebeian. < How snobbish. Why am I writing this? I don't know. Maybe I'll look at this in 10 years. I'll be 32. Wonder what that'll be like. Listening to Sibelius choral pieces. Ah, Finnish you so fine. Half-listening's probs more accurate, though, since I'm typing this at the same time. I considered watching a movie, and I may still, and of course I could read, but I want to produce something for once. Produce isn't the word. I use it in opposition to consume, but that's not precisely the dichotomy here. Ick been so a lion, ick wilby sea-hung u. verb-ending haven mit yea manned. Ab, er, vee u. vo? That was fun. That's also the crux of this whole Matter. Wonder will anyone I know understand it. Well, they'd "understand" "it" but "decipher" "it," I mean. I'd really like to read Finnegan from begin to fin again. I considered memorizing bits of that, as well. We shall see. What a dweeb am I. Beginning to feel less of a compulsion to write absolutely nothing. 'Sa pity "crux" sound so hideous. It's a splendid word. Does a good job, unimpeachable etymological heritage. And here's Donne's The Sunne Rising typed from memory sans punctuation:

Busy old fool unruly sun
why dost thou thus
thru windows and thru curtains call on us?
must to thy motions lovers seasons run
saucy pedantic wretch go chide
late schoolboys and sour prentices
go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride
call country ants to harvest offices
love all alike no season knows nor clime
nor hour day month which are the rags of time

thy beams so reverend and strong
why shouldst thou think
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink
but that I would not lose her sight so long.
If her eyes have not blinded thine
look and tomorrow late tell me
whether both the indias of spice and mine
be where thou leftst them or lie her with me
ask for the kings thou sawst yesterday
and thou shalt hear all here in one bed lay.

she's all states and all princes i
nothing else is.
princes do but play us; compared to this
all honor's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
thou sun art half so happy as we
in that the world's contracted thus.
Thine age asks ease and since thy duties be
to warm the world, that's done in warming us
shine here to us, and thou art everywhere
this bed thy center is, these walls thy sphere.

Good stuff. Yup, think The Tempest'll make for a good follow-up. In the mean time, the world continues to whirl on w/o much participation from me. Moody Blues' Night In White Satin on now. Suppose not many people up to much at 9:18 on a Wednesday evening. My future has a paradoxically ubi sunt vibe to it. How strange. Rich and strange? I think the reason the phrase rich and strange is so rich and strange is that both of those words have such a myriad of connotations, even by the highly meaning-thick standard of English vocabulary. Rich and strange. Rich as in food, non-monetary value, monetary value, "that's-rich!"-ness or whatever other shades of meaning that don't come to mind now [Tuesday Afternoon now]. But future. What does it mean to say a future exists? Does it mean anything? This is silly. I'm avoiding the question. What is the question? Insert Hitchhiker's Guide reference. Never written like this. Not sure what I think about it. It sounds like my brain, for good or ill. I know I should write more and hone my quill. I was proud of using "quill-pusher" for a scribe in an essay at Berry. Dunno if externalizing all this does a jot of good. Suppose it gets me used to typing if nothing else (pianoter, lol). Free association typing is a scary thing. I should come up w/ one good pt and then expand it....Now it's Dawn is a Feeling in Days of Future Passed. Man, the music tonight's so spot-on w/ my mood it's not even funny. I'd say I need to learn to play an instrument, and I should, but I don't know. The wind.

The wind's a peculiar thing. One of the most ubiquitous elements in nature, and still one of the most emotive. It lends itself to metaphors as well as anyone. Chaff in the wind. Dust in the wind. Chaff, dust mean so very little unless they're put in the wind. Then it feels real. I suppose it's b/c the wind is the most unknowable thing that's still immediately perceivable, so of course it becomes associated with the inexplicable things (spirit, time, motion, etc.) from the Greeks > us. In Barry Lyndon, the most perfectly beautiful film I've ever seen, the simple shot of the Lyndon mansion surrounded by wind-tossed trees is one of the most beautiful. In The Sopranos, those stupidly simple shots of leaves in the wind that they probs filmed on Chase's porch are the ones that always stuck w/ me. Sinatra singing Summer Wind speaks for itself. This may, of course, just be me. But I'm not the one who actually put these in to begin with. So it can't be. Just me. There's something in the wind. An evanescent ishiness. This is something like what I thought sitting out in the middle of the storm. I wasn't really thinking them as so much as feeling them. Don't suppose this'd do anybody any good, though I wish it could. That's what I want: something I can do that would do anyone any good at all.  I suppose that's really too much to ask out of life, though.

Had an interview recently w/ a little Christian school. Strange interview. But not rich and strange. Sour strange. Unwholesome strange. Normal sort of interview preamble: Handshakes, "Hot weather we're having. Ready for fall. I like some heat, but this, whew." Then wham: "let's pray." This bothered me the rest of the half-hour/so. Wasn't expecting a Christian school to be Christian christian, I suppose. I feel so strongly about All That and yet whenever I try to express my opinions/notions/whathaveyou with someone I feel disingenuous, and I think they perceive me as such. Have to tell myself that doesn't mean I actually am disingenuous. Oder? Religion's too personal for me to bring to a workplace anyhoo. All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well. That'd sound good in french. Tout sera bien et tout sera bien et toutes sortes de chose seront bien.