Beloved Bleaders,
The Seedish are a red haired branch of that long line of sourdough from which our saltines, in a pinch, can liberate the farmer’s plow. Oh pigeon. Oh my death in life. Oh lie down on the floor. You want to read a little less and then you read some more.
Grrrrationalists have long followed reason into unreason. If you are investigating cause and effect you notice that when you cut out all the variables, you still just have coincidence not cause. One thing happens, then another. Proves nothing, unless you define proof around it.
Grrrationalists also note that the more they try to simply define normal reality the more they notice that point of view is everything. It changes everything about the truth of description if the describer big or small, long or short lived, etc.
and that's why grrationalists are more likely than plain old rationalists to have another part of their conversation in which they say, of course, we do not know anything at all, the everything is big and hard to know, so follow feeling, dance and play, create and be humble.
the more ultrarationalist, materialist antisupernaturalist knows nonsense is in some many ways better than sense. the mind and the universe being what they are.
slithy toves is: grimy boys?
gyre and gimble: gyrate and gambol?
wabe is: field
mimsey were the borogroves is: how flowering were the area groves
and the mome raths outgrabe is: raging sons are also blooming
poetry, though no good for shekels and a bit of a shika, is the good garden where the garden tools are golden but the real goal is dirt. dirt rich and dolla poor. nobut yeahbut poetry is the one place where if you get up lifting velocity you can just hella take off and go and you don’t have to hold back for the stragglers and no one can say nothing if you start unmaking sense. say anything.
I like a) dreamin' b) big butts c) to watch.
Over on my poetry blog Dear Fonzie I just post whatever rises and converges and recently (June 21, 09) I posted the piece of nonsense with which I began this present post, next to a photograph of a clown and my girl, and the clown, though very lovely in real life, in this photo appears to be giving me the stink eye, as if he were the true defense of all children and I but a suspicious lens.
Husband walked by my blog and issued an admiring, “Did you write that?” Which after ten years you don’t hear very often and was quite pleasurable. Such strange news for the mind striving so eagerly for lucidity in prose and some through-cidity in poetry, to learn it can light up just as well the room by blowing a fuse.
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought –
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
vorpal is vortex-causing with an opal handle
manxome is man’s x chromosome, which means woman, or maybe an aspect of man?
Whatever. I shall now call upon my subconscious to sing me out with a little nonsense, strung with youse in mind, dear bleader.
It rains. Holding a fallen spleen it sniffs and sighs. Is a confession more often a secret, or a secret a confession? I like my salad with blue trees dression. The lession loined is that ten ounces of possession are worth a pound of Thor. You got a lid your lithe. Gotta bee a cell, a shelfish, your shelf. Trade on you good books. Stop kissing everyone! Stop smiling! Everything different is wrong.
OK, that's that. Let me know if you figure out what it means. I shore a hella doe noe.
Try to get something done this week, okay?
Just kidding. Don’t. The Buddha said sit still and stop trying.
Fuck the Buddha, write something.
love is just evolve without an ev,
Jennifer