In Reflection of Jon

As we have been discussing, and you've been discussing, the act of writing about reading is rather difficult (impossible?). And this I believe is part of what we are trying to unravel. The act of blending reality and dream is impossible to a rational mind-unless- through our writing we evoke in the reader the same responses that brought upon our own realization of the blend between "reality" and dream.

This is the difficulty involved in an analytical paper compared to a story; you cannot rationally bring up dream interpretation, hallucinations and so forth and etc. in today's scholarly world. How am I supposed to explain that my discoveries were made by following dreams? And that the fact is that they tell me too follow my dreams. How can you explain in a rational essay something that is irrational?

It is often said that Poetry is trying to explain the unexplainable. This is incorrect. We've programmed our brains into needing a structured formula for truth-value and in doing so we have set the understanding of poetry into a realm of enchantment, of wonder.

Perhaps the hardest thing we have to do, Jon, is return to the beginning of our adventure and not explain, but lead our reader in a direction towards the discovery we've made and by a way that we did not go.

And, if a copy of brains on disk is given to the world,
would it be worth it, if one, as they leay back into the sleep, should say,

"That is not it, that is not it at all.
That is not what I meant at all."

The Significance

And how can I explain rationally where rationality will not go? And how can you follow where only your dreams may go? And when it is not a dream, when it is this reality, how then do you explain this dream without being broken apart?


The clock was slow. It hardly seemed to move. It had that eerie significance of always being three seconds ahead of when you last saw it, whether it be a moments glance, an hours past, or the ethereal of a dream.

And mind you I never did feel the time slow till the evening, before it stopped entirely for the night, and it was in these moments, between evening and the ever night that I enjoyed a lay with her. Beneath the red blanket atop the black couch next to the white wall that ascended so far overhead before its point loomed into the prick that held all the others; then it was up to them to fall back to where they began.

The red blanket soaked with all the insecurities that are pushed out by the communion of two souls. With legs intertwined as poison ivy twines the path where children love to play, yet their are those children who never feel the sting, nor never notice the itch, thus never spread their own disease. It was in this lock, in this tether of limbs that I longed to lay before the world ends each day.

Now, it was on this day, when all the points upon the prick fell to their own design, when the wet blanket, the red saturate, no longer whisked; now is when her question does persist. And though I'd asked, prayed and asked, affirmed that "what is it?" is not question but emotion, still the timing came, that slow time before night, where the skin began to itch; and my hand began to scratch. And so she asked, with her fingers, her vines, they wrapped around mine, tethered to my arm, as once before, and asked, "Is it the time to ask?"

"I've prayed and asked, and you've told you'd never ask."

"Is it me? Is it some ailment in disgust you mistrust?"

"I've asked you once, and I've asked you twice. This third time shall turn me to vice."

"But you make no sense! you lie with me, yet you I do not know outside covers, outside our bed. It's a pity to me that some would call us lovers," and with the descent and swivel of her head, " 'nough said."

" You would make this world a liar, or me in its stead?"

"I would ask only sense of your nonsense instead!"

And as it was, I 'rose to the haunches of my legs and put foot upon foot onto wood. I stopped and put to rest my head upon hands and I left my eyes open, unwinked, pairing the darkness of the palms. And though, the saturated blanket, the wet red was off of my waist, the woman's legs clung to instead. "I'll give you what you want," and the sound of a thigh slap, "If you'll but give me a little room," and then off to the corner cabinet, the one with all the booze.

And as the allusive poet enchants the reader, so the drunk drinks to his story. It's merely Liquid Cocaine for Liquid Courage. It is a delusion of the refugee, for the mind during its allegory.

He start with a shot, a cough, and then some snot,

"You would ask me to split the world in two,
and for you I will do this too, but things you will never know,
no never, is the importance of this event is not to distemper.
Though I lie, or you lie, is not soon to be deciphered,
soon will come the time where do your womb and my member.

I've wanted nothing else than the simple charms of simple airs,
but my charms are hidden between the elements;
my airs are never of your breath, nor the earth,
but between the rush of the bow and the lyre,
is it funny now how you smirk me a liar?

I've seen the parting of the veil,
and no, not the ubiquitous of the whale,
but the passing of a friend who passed a ball
while he passed away from a trivial trail.

I mean to say that as the ball from hands was pushed,
the trigger between fingers by the boy was pulled.
And as I caught the ball soon to be shot,
his stomach, his heart caught buckshot.

And so now you'll misunderstand the treble of fingers,
the tremor in steps while my mind is in its depths.
Mine is not the music while my music lasts.
The depth of my fire is to survive to everlast.
And though this dream is but a dream,
My concepts in analytics will never pass,
My arguments in comparison will be forever last."

Infamy

And deeper that did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my books."-The Tempest

If I thought my answers were to one who could return to the world, I would not reply, but as none ever did return alive from this depth, without fear of infamy I answer thee.- Dante's Inferno (beginning of the Love song of J. Alfred Prufrock)

"For be a man's intellectual superiority what it will, it can never assume
the practical available supremacy over other men, without the aid of some sort
of external arts and entrenchments, always, in themselves, more or less paltry
and base. This it is, that forever keeps God's true princes of the Empire from
the world's hustings; and leaves the highest honors that this air can give, to
those men who become famous more through their infinite inferiority to the
choice hidden handful of the Divine Inert, than through their undoubted
superiority over the dead level of the mass."-Melville, Moby Dick
Ch.33

Divine Inert-http://http//www.ask.com/bar?q=Divine+inert&page=1&qsrc=2891&dm=all&ab=2&u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.atma-institute.org%2Fsaibabagita%2Fsaigita217.html&sg=fflUKlywXB4SDPlbnC78%2BEB1QP8McawB%2BQ%2FfgoiES0c%3D&tsp=1272605290245

The Divine Inert.

The Quinta Essentia-(The Ether)

The Inherent Knowledge

The Common Logic

The Esoteric Knowledge

"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,

Advice the prince; no doubt, an easy tool

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous-

Almost, at times, the Fool."-Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.

TEMPEST

So as I was doing the things I do to discover the connections hidden everywhere throughout our texts (and Melville's) I ran across something that pertained to The Tempest. I thought it was mighty interesting and extremely relevant considering James Joyce's Finnegans Wake contains hypertext coding. I'm guessing most, if not all of you, will find this tedious and boring. And it is, if you do not understand the Origins of Tempest.

Here is the TEMPEST. A U.S. Army device used to gather information. (Steal)

read up:http://cryptome.org/tempest-old.htm

http://cryptome.org/tempest-time.htm

The Send Off.

Sexson assigned me the research topic of explaining the importance of Prospero's Epilogue to The Tempest, the importance of this class, as well as the relation to all of the themes.

I am happy to say that I understand the importance of all of these. And I assign myself to failure in the fact that I cannot bring it across to you, though I've tried, and tried, and tried, and tried, and tried, and tried, and tried.

It is a place only you can go, and I can only guide you with steps. But what are the right steps? surely they are not my own steps? Our steps are all the same in this discovery...yet my words will only bring about distraction, and i fear that you will not become distracted from the distraction by the distraction. And if you see what I mean then you know already.

A man apart is how I feel.
Mark me Twained between the Ascension
felt at each moment,
and the dissension
Driven into at each attempt,
Each Analytic argued down to its depths.


I merely wish to please,
To parse what I project,
To give my wind to you.

My Ariel,
My Little Gidding,
The Laurel Bow,
The Wind,
The Spirit My Art Effects.

Now I know the Toilests efforts
When I came this way,

and

"IF you came this way,
Taking any route, starting from anywhere,
At any time or at any season,
It would always be the same: you would have to put off
Sense and notion.

(for we all know,
now,
that to gain any sense,
first is to have nonsense.)

You are not here to verify,
Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
Or carry report. You are here to kneel
Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more
Than an order of words, the conscious occupation
Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.

And All I know now
Is that you must have died once.
That memory must regain its death,
that innocence that so strongly fleets
into the past.

And this is when you will know,
When your innocence death burns
with every blister in the now.

When every burn blisters into
transparency,
when every object is another
object,
and every word is another
story about another word.

When upon Ascension,
You realize that the Aleph

sits upon the step
you did not know
whether
to count,

This is when the Rosebush and The Yew Tree are one.

Things For Weds.

Weds I am presenting on The Tempest Epilogue and its relation to our class.

I WOULD INVITE YOU TO THINK ABOUT YOUR DEATH OF INNOCENCE.

Materials that will help you.

1. Imagination.
2. Reading of Jorge's work on Jon's blog.
3.Imagination.
4. Reading Christina Nelson's research paper About Nabokov and the Nature of Art in Immortality
5. Recollection of the two moments according to T.S. Eliot.
6. Imagination
7. Concrete, nearly partial, always grasping towards, never gaining, because its neither towards nor increasing-perception of NOW.
8. Imagination.
9. Understanding of the two moments in Cees Nooteboom's The Following Story in how they relate to the two moment of T.S. Eliot. NOTABLY HOW THE SECLUDED MOMENT EFFECTS HIS ON FIRE MOMENTS(THE BOAT).
10. Imagination
11. A willingness to fall into the Transparency of Things in order to drag the distraction we are distracted from by our distraction in order to see the true nature of what we are dealing with.
12. Imagination
13. The understanding that Disenchantment is the adult version of imagination.
14. Imagination
15. The understanding that T.S. Eliot tells me this is impossible.

If you came this way,
Taking any route, starting from anywhere,
At any time or at any season,
IT would always be the same: you would have to put of
Sense and Notion. You are not here to verify,
Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
Or carry report. You are here to kneel
Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more
Than an order of words, the conscious occupation
Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.
And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the
living.
Here, the intersection of the timeless moment
Is England and nowhere. Never and Always.

16. The understanding that while you exist in time you are dieing.
17. Imagination
18. The fact that when you die, is how you exit time
19. Imagination
20. The question of why the Greek myths have gods? and why we've copied all there stories.
Be ready to be amused by the largest rant you will ever see.

LITTLE GI DDING-ARIEL-WIND-NATURE OF ART-IMMORTALITY-INHERENT KNOWLEDGE-MIRANDA-3

1 2 3
Prospero-Magic-Marriage-Miranda

Shakespeare-Art-Spirits-You

Shakespeare-Disenchantment-Mnemosyne-You

Mnemosyne- Backward Abysm

Miranda-You combined with the effect of Art- to effect immortality

Disenchantment-The breaking of Illusions so as to see the true effect of art- Immortality.

Art's Immortality in this case= Mnemosyne The Goddess of the muses. The river of Ascension. The river opposite the Lethe. Memory. Completion.



The fact that loosing yourself is part of understanding it again.

An Illusion Rant

Well Sexson told us it was a good idea to brainstorm our ideas on the blog, so here goes. (This will most likely not make sense to you, and probably not myself either at this time, but oh well!)

Illusion.

It has often been repeated, after I spoke, to someone near me, "What did he say?" As if I was speaking gibberish. And no one has listed these words more often than my mother.

I've often thought that between two people there is always two conversations going on; the one you are having, say about a book, and the other side of the conversation which could be about anything whatsoever your conversation partner wishes to be speaking about, perhaps rocks. You Both speak, you both hear what you wanted to here, and then you go about your day, not noticing that the discussion that took place happened in two very different understandings.

I've thought this since I was a child. I've often spoke to it with friends and heard "What did he say?"

But you do see this don't you? on lesser levels. You see this with adaptation of books into films where a moviegoer and a reader will discuss the same thing until the understanding arrives that you had neither the same message, nor near the same story.

You see this through the loss of translation, especially when a book has multiple translations. Something new here in this text, something different or deleted in the next. It is always different.

And this is how gossip starts, and spreads! It is very much like a game of telephone. And if you've never played the game I highly advise it.

Gossip has always been my favorite type of story. And mind you I abhor Gossip! I loathe it as much as perhaps the most of anything. But it is here and there and it will never die. But gossip is the average persons time to tell a story, and fabricate it. It is especially emotion heightening (of all types) to see the spread of Gossip in Social Circles, to watch the mayhem swell as the majestic fall into place over the illusion of what actually happened.

The timid minds. The over-sensitive. The analytical. The Synthetical. The hypocritical. The flirtatious oh and the Anti-Flirt! The ostentatious. The Narcissistic! The Neurotic! The emotional. The heartfelt! the Theologian! The Atheist. The Asshole. The Bitch. The addict. The Sloth. The Looser. The cooler(?)

They all put their life experience into the retelling of the tale!

People bicker, fight, find love, find jealousy, stifle sniffles, spill tears, spring traps, and it as all because of an illusion!

"All I know is what the words know and the dead things!"

Let us take another direction.

If everyone believes something does that not make it so?

It is four O'clock. Everyone knew that. And everyone runs off of it. If I'm to be to work at four and I do not go because I know that the clock has absolutely no control other than what we give it I will still be fired. Yet if everyone decided the clocks meant nothing and ignored them, their would not be time?!

If your clock says 3:15 and your neighbors 3:10 what time is it?

"Check your phone idiot, that's the right time."

It is mad to try and understand it! The logical choice is simply to ignore it.

Yet how many people say they don't live their life by dreams?