(rather than discussion and debate, or monologue (Ich-Es), i am exploring an intertwining of argumentation, discourse- overlap in meanings, communication, words- weaving of thoughts, writing, dialogue(Ich-Du), etc.)
what will the falling leaves bring this year? their crunching, floating, descent to nowhere? onto the dry earth, under our uneasy steps, bloating after the coming never-ending rains (if they even survive that long)?
i as well plummet from life. i, also, change color and can hang on no more. i, just as well, gently flutter onto the ground where i feel alone, and unsure, yet have a certainty and visual image of myself turned to dust.
it is approaching. and i wonder what it will bring.
In his essays Camus presented the reader with dualisms: happiness and sadness, dark and light, life and death, etc. His aim was to emphasize the fact that happiness is fleeting and that the human condition is one of mortality. He did this not to be morbid, but to reflect a greater appreciation for life and happiness.In Le Mythe, this dualism becomes a paradox: We value our lives and existence so greatly, but at the same time we know we will eventually die, and ultimately our endeavours are meaningless. While we can live with a dualism (I can accept periods of unhappiness, because I know I will also experience happiness to come), we cannot live with the paradox (I think my life is of great importance, but I also think it is meaningless). In Le Mythe, Camus was interested in how we experience the Absurd and how we live with it. Our life must have meaning for us to value it. If we accept that life has no meaning and therefore no value, should we kill ourselves?
Meursault, the Absurdist hero of L'Étranger, is a murderer who is executed for his crime. Caligula ends up admitting his Absurd logic was wrong and is killed by an assassination he has deliberately brought about. However, while Camus possibly suggests that Caligula's Absurd reasoning is wrong, the play's anti-hero does get the last word, as the author similarly exalts Meursault's final moments.
Camus' understanding of the Absurd promotes public debate; his various offerings entice us to think about the Absurd and offer our own contribution. Concepts such as cooperation, joint effort and solidarity are of key importance to Camus.
Camus made a significant contribution to a viewpoint of the Absurd, and always rejected nihilism as a valid response.
"If nothing had any meaning, you would be right. But there is something that still has a meaning." Second Letter to a German Friend, December 1943.
What still had meaning for Camus is that despite humans being subjects in an indifferent and "absurd" universe, in which meaning is challenged by the fact that we all die, meaning can be created, however provisionally and unstably, by our own decisions and interpretations.
what beautiful decks. i'm not super into Tarot-ing, but am becoming more and more curious of it on some levels. symbolism, art, historical, social, political meaning and backgrounds...
the Marseilles Tarot predates the Rider Waite deck by about 200 years.
Pissing in a river, watching it rise Tattoo fingers shy away from me Voices voices mesmerize Voices voices beckoning sea Come come come come back come back Come back come back come back
Spoke of a wheel, tip of a spoon Mouth of a cave, I'm a slave I'm free. When are you coming ? Hope you come soon Fingers, fingers encircling thee Come come come come come come Come come come come come come for me oh
My bowels are empty, excreting your soul What more can I give you ? Baby I don't know What more can I give you to make this thing grow? Don't turn your back now, I'm talking to you
Should I pursue a path so twisted ? Should I crawl defeated and gifted ? Should I go the length of a river [The royal, the throne, the cry me a river] Everything I've done, I've done for you Oh I give my life for you. Every move I made I move to you, And I came like a magnet for you now.
What about it, you're gonna leave me, What about it, you don't need me, What about it, I can't live without you, What about it, I never doubted you What about it ? What about it ? What about it ? What about it ?
Should I pursue a path so twisted ? Should I crawl defeated and gifted ? Should I go the length of a river, [The royal, the throne, the cry me a river] What about it, what about it, what about it ? Oh, I'm pissing in a river.
i pulled so many awful weeds today. it was fun and it felt good. there is a tight network traveling underground, twisted and tangled and tied in knots. i told my new client to let me know if i take too long in an area because i like to work thoroughly. i like to dig and pull as deeply and as much as possible. i know i have planted it. i know it is gigantic. and twisted and tangled and tight and knotted and deep and sore. infected possibly. but my longing for you is so huge in the desire to keep the wreckage from growing. green/symbol for growth, and possibly birth. red/the blood the pain the throbbing soreness the..words which you may only have.. , yet compliments, and gives life to, the green as it deepens with chlorophyll.
we will, i will, we shall, dive into the wreck of the world caused and crowded upon nothing but our own mistakes and misfortunes and reasons and interpretations. we will, i will, we shall, take it upon ourselves to hold these findings in our palms and rest them then upon our hearts.
this is all... i shall, will, say... willed and ready to dive
Adrienne Rich Diving into the Wreck
First having read the book of myths, and loaded the camera, and checked the edge of the knife-blade, I put on the body-armor of black rubber the absurd flippers the grave and awkward mask. I am having to do this not like Cousteau with his assiduous team aboard the sun-flooded schooner but here alone.
There is a ladder. The ladder is always there hanging innocently close to the side of the schooner. We know what it is for, we who have used it. Otherwise it is a piece of maritime floss some sundry equipment.
I go down. Rung after rung and still the oxygen immerses me the blue light the clear atoms of our human air. I go down. My flippers cripple me, I crawl like an insect down the ladder and there is no one to tell me when the ocean will begin.
First the air is blue and then it is bluer and then green and then black I am blacking out and yet my mask is powerful it pumps my blood with power the sea is another story the sea is not a question of power I have to learn alone to turn my body without force in the deep element.
And now: it is easy to forget what I came for among so many who have always lived here swaying their crenellated fans between the reefs and besides you breathe differently down here.
I came to explore the wreck. The words are purposes. The words are maps. I came to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail. I stroke the beam of my lamp slowly along the flank of something more permanent than fish or weed
the thing I came for: the wreck and not the story of the wreck the thing itself and not the myth the drowned face always staring toward the sun the evidence of damage worn by salt and away into this threadbare beauty the ribs of the disaster curving their assertion among the tentative haunters.
This is the place. And I am here, the mermaid whose dark hair streams black, the merman in his armored body. We circle silently about the wreck we dive into the hold. I am she: I am he
whose drowned face sleeps with open eyes whose breasts still bear the stress whose silver, copper, vermeil cargo lies obscurely inside barrels half-wedged and left to rot we are the half-destroyed instruments that once held to a course the water-eaten log the fouled compass
We are, I am, you are by cowardice or courage the one who find our way back to this scene carrying a knife, a camera a book of myths in which our names do not appear.
interpretations. make. or break. or matter. or not. read. re-read. do. un-do.
the speaker, made androgynous in diving gear, goes underwater to hunt "the wreck and not the story of the wreck / the thing itself and not the myth", and identifies with those drowned and silenced as much as the diver who finds them and can, must, report back to the world above. poetryarchive
Added by: Connor
Crazy piece about how men and women are both casualties of a confused sexuality. It's about viewing the corpse objectively, as neither a man nor a woman (the corpse, also is androgenous) and dispelling old myths. Cool stuff.
Added by: kevin
This poem is really about an individual finding themselves. The entire metaphor is the diver and the ship wreck. A person protects themselves before seeking their self-discovery with all of the diving gear because of the unknown. A person will always discover a "wreck" in their past but most look past that for the treasures that have been buried away. The last couple stanzas speak of how we are all together in this feat of self-discovery and we must always seek our past and ourselves in ORDER to create our future.
Feminism
2003-04-18
Added by: SFitz
Rich was a Civil Rights and anti-war activist in the 60s. She consistently intertwines politics and poetry. This poem was written in 1973, and is about the feminist struggle. She is alone in this journey to the depths of the earth, to a place pre-civilization, yet she has the comfort of knowing others before her have taken the same journey. It is a journey that must be taken alone, although in much of Rich's writing she refers to a group of people, or even society as a whole, as one. The wreck is the damage that has been done over hundreds, thousands of years that has led to the oppression or at least the inequality of women, and a patriarchal society. Her book of myths are the falsities instilled in the minds of those in Western society, including gender roles, which she disspells when she incorporates both man and woman into her body. The book of myths ("in which our names do not appear") may also be the Bible, seeing as how women are portrayed as the root of sin and men as our Lord and saviors. Main idea of the poem: "I came to explore the wreck... the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail...I am she: I am he." Basically, to achieve an ideal world, one would have to travel backward to a time before humans existed (since gender roles began in theory with Adam and Eve the creator of sin) and we would have to start EVERYTHING over from scratch- "And besides/ you breathe differently down here." We would have to create a society minus gender roles and become one people- "the one who find our way back to this scene."
universal poem
2004-01-21
Added by: JDog
I strongly disagree with SFitz's comments on Feminism. Though it was true that Adrienne was a strong fighter for women's rights, I believe she was aiming for a more universal idea. The line "we circle silently about the wreck" depicts that the character has not gone to change anything, but to solely observe "the evidence of the damage". The person can't change what has already been done, and may only "stroke the beam of my lamp slowly along the flank". This dive is not to ridicule or change, but mainly to explore and gain knowledge.
a thought on the necessity of writing in the first
2004-05-09
Added by: neil mulligan
Rich has written this poem in the first person and as an extended metaphor for several reasons. Firstly, and act like a dive is a very personal and individual experience which can be very challenging and scary. This is why Rich’s quest into the patriarchal world of fifties and sixties America is represented so adequately by the metaphor. Also she is writing this poem as part of the feminist movement, and there are sure to be thousands of other women wishing to follow in her footsteps. For this reason I think it is important that she be writing in the first person as if to say that this is what I have done, and even though, as the metaphor suggests, it was not easy, so can you the reader. Right from the start of this poem, Rich talks about reading the book of myths which I think alludes to the patriarchal state of America, she has first read this book (or worried about the reality of the male orientated world) and then prepared to get her diving gear on and go and see if the wreck matches up the myth (or go into the real world as a feminist to see what difference she can make or treasure she can find). The conclusion of the poem therefore talks of finding a way back to the wreckage carrying that same book of myths, only this time ‘our names do not appear’. The significance of this line is that having engaged on this personal conquest, the myth of the male orientated world no longer applies to her, and all those who read with her and ‘dived’ with her. The myth has been quashed by the symbolic and brave actions of ‘rolling up of sleeves’ and getting in there and fighting for equality. First person in this poem is the most apt style to write such a propaganda-based poem. The most essential idea I believe that Adrienne Rich needed to get across was that I have done it and now so can you. This could only be achieved by writing in the first person. thanks you guys at plagiarist.com i have benefited from you greatly.
2004-10-25
Added by: Amanda
The first line of the poem reveals a book of myths. I believe the book she carries contains the societal myths that separate men and women. She also carries a knife to maybe cut away the past and a camera to record the new one she hopes to discover. She dives into the wreck, the mess this battle of the sexes created, hoping to write new myths, of love and passion in order to heal humanity. Also, she dives to discover maybe the truth behind these myths. I think Adrienne is the speaker of this piece, and she is gearing up to redefine the roles of men and women and to look beyond gender. She’s alone in this piece, signifying that maybe sometimes she feels alone in her fight towards equality for women in a male dominated world. When she gets down there she finds a corpse that is also treasure. Line 83 I think refers to her and maybe all women. She sees a piece of herself in the corpse, herself as a dominated woman under the “curse” of a patriarchal world. I think what the speaker intends to say that she is surviving this wreck. Lines 34-36 and 50-51 give me the feeling that maybe she is in a daze or blacking out, but still holds some kind of control. I’ve been diving before and it is sort of a surreal world down there, even ways we would move or even communicate are different. The power her mask contains is symbolic, as it pumps her full of power while she is diving.
want to find a strand thats shimmered in dew. I want to lay us there under pinks and yellows and blues.
Hold out hand, Take hand in. Grant me thy wine, a plain and simple sin. Kiss thy cheek, Hold thy neck, Run my fingers round and round our wreck.
"My longing for you- exceeds the pain I've planted." (underground) the roots send shoots of green with red complimented.
We wait we watch we drip our saliva raw, from words we have spoken to those we have thought, and soon as the sun shines onto our silhouettes again, I give you this promise with witness Ocean.
(memories of death and rebirth. love and madness. ) Ophelia distributes symbolic flowers to Claudius, Gertrude, and Laertes. Columbines were associated with marital infidelity, daisies with faithfulness, fennel with flattery, rosemary with remembrance, and rue with repentance.
"There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray, love, remember: and there is pansies. that's for thoughts. There's fennel for you, and columbines: there's rue for you; and here's some for me: we may call it herb-grace o' Sundays: O you must wear your rue with a difference. There's a daisy: I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died: they say he made a good end,--" -Ophelia, Hamlet, Act IV Scene V
Rosemary has been used as a symbol for remembrance since ancient times. it appeared at various ceremonies including weddings and funerals. at weddings it was worn by newlyweds as a sign of love, fidelity, and remembrance of vows exchanged. at funerals, as remembrance of love and friendship. it has also been used to ward off evil spirits and nightmares. Recent studies have been conducted about the carnosic acid contained in rosemary which is believed to aid in memory. (Drugs from carnosic acid are being created for Alzheimer's Disease and other neurodegenerative brain disorders)
i was taught, all along, through tunnels of moisture and ivy and mold, that it is wrong. to love more than one person at a time. and love, as an act, a verb, an action. wrong, wrong to love my father and my mother, simultaneously. and so i love him more. who do you love more? i remember being asked this many times. how gross. my mother was.
"but is it love?" no, its an act-ion. he was there for you more, until his brain burst and took you in on his demons, flying the dark night with him- the way he'd sit with his black eyes under the fluorescent lighting late at night. unmoving. unchanging. yet i knew, and feared, the demon would again fly out of his eyes and come and attack me for being me.
and wasn't that so different than the grape soda and slurpies he'd buy me before taking me under his wing to work all day with him as a servant tending other people's beautiful landscapes? so so different, than when she'd mock him about "spoiling" me. and i became spoiled. rotted putridly as it now pours out of me in the ways that i love, un-love, fear, act dumb, shy away, cover my eyes, do hurtful things to myself and others.
its not ok. to feel love for you. its not ok, but only ok, to feel love for me. but what if i want to extend it? no, not allowed. NOW now i want it. now i am guilty for loving wrong. for lying right, for being a liar, for being a hurtful slob. now. after i gave up the option deep in my gut, that it was safe to love you alone.
but how can you get rid of a family member? you can't. they're always there. they will always be there. they will always be present. present un-present. loving un-loving. -ly. i give up. on it all. whats the point in proving i've always cared and i am an ugly beast borne out of the belly of blood and mud and - thats even too good. everything i do is wrong. everyway i do it is wrong. everything i feel is wrong. everyway i feel it is wrong. you'll never know. you'll never understand. till you look at yourself more closely. i am the same "why are you so good??" person. that proves there's an imbalance i heard. someone telling you that. and in the end, the "too-good" person fucks up hugely and they are the evil one. and everyone lives...... to die.....
i've been trying to wrap my head around whats been going on, the growth, the ebb(ing) and flow(ing), the beauty and convulsiveness, the pain the joy the love the warmth, all of it. i want to relate in all truthful ways. in all honesty and rawness and with all undersides exposed to the light. the light, your eyes, your mind, your heart. i want to come to you as myself. mySelf, only. not myself in relation to you. not myself as influenced or scarred by recent wounds in our dynamic. i want you to know me as me; me with the holes- the punctures the sensitivities the inarticula-cies the inadequacies the strength the will the deep love and care that i am capable of coming to you with.
i don't want my responses to be influenced by the fragile voices that argue inside metal tunnels that have no beginning or end, no opening in sight, and our mere confusion about how we got there. i want to show you the blood that circulates around, draw you a map of its path, a diagram indicating probabilities of sensibilities- escapist routes- safe bases- hazardous zones- homeward sources. i want to Prove, with my arms baring every and any angst of bitter strength. baring line and pulse, tension, vibration. nerves, muscles, tendons, ligaments. pulling, urging, begging, wanting. i want you to know i am trying my best. i want you to know i am willing to be real. i want you to know i desire you in my life. to this degree. to that degree. to large and vast and immense degrees. i desire. i desire. i desire you. i desire you.
and with this exists pain. fear exists. i want to prove love, desire and will, by coming to you as a pure and wide open creature. i want and wish i could come baring my clean skin, untainted by an accumulation of having lived, of the weight that (That) brings. i will come to you with all i can possibly give and show and admit and promise. at this point. in my life with you. and in that, i will be honest and tell you that i am not perfect. i cannot even swoop down and lift you up higher than all this. all i can do is offer you my hand and possibly dream of doing some swooping and dipping at a later point after having walked and run and gently stepped around each other's lives together, hand in hand, coming to each other- deeply into each other's eyes- as what we can come to each other with.
i am not perfect. i am also very inadequately suited, and very suited and able to love and be loved. i am guilty and i am embarrassed, and yet in all of it i have been myself.
i do wish i could channel the hopeless-romantic character in my psyche- tell them to channel that accent and give you what you want to hear, promise you blood, roses, saliva, pellets of opiates lightly dissolved in sugar water... and although there are clues and clear truth in our alter egos, i still need to stand on this bone-dry ground and promise you with the blankest stare that there is actually warmth in my dark eyes, and that i am human ..afterall.. ... i want to be accepted for myself. i want to be understood and adored, as an imperfect creature, as one that gives what they can give and is solid and confident in the appearance and existence of their heart.
i want Not to create a ground for insecurity. i want Not to have my imperfection be mistaken as weakness. i want to be understood as living and breathing and still, so still, trusting and loving as i know i am.
your eyebrows are so distinctive. i can take myself up on them. can we take us to the top window. where birds only know the way the sky tilts from such an angle. where we can take ourselves to another mind, make it all sensefully ours, let oursleves breathe, take it up and let it go... i want to go... with you...
Liz Fraser from Cocteau Twins reads an English Translation of Paul Valery's "Le Cimetière Marin" (The Graveyard by the Sea). Background music is Lazy Calm.
from a different translation:
Paul Valery
Translated, from the French, by Charles Guenther
The Cemetery by the Sea
My soul, don't look for vague immortal things, Exploit instead what your experience brings.
--Pindar, Pythian Odes III
This roof where dovelike sails go and come peacefully trembles near each pine and tomb; high noon appeases with a brilliant flame the sea, the sea, the sea renewed forever; what a prize here for the intellect's endeavor as gazing on a peace the gods proclaim!
What clean fine craft of radiance is spent on diamond drops of foam in their ascent, and with what harmony is all imbued! When over the gulf the sunlight climbs to pause, O pure results of an eternal cause, time glitters and in dream lies certitude.
Minerva's simple temple, stable treasure, calm visible resources without measure, proud ocean, single eye where untold piles of sleep lie sealed beneath a flaming stole, O silence, edifice within the soul vaulted with gold in countless sparkling tiles!
Temple of time restored by just a breath, I climb here, gazing round, above, beneath, wholly encompassed by the ocean's scene; and there I send the gods supreme oblation, scattered beyond in jeweled scintillation over the depths, disdainful and serene.
Just as a fruit that vanishes in joy, changing its absence in delights that cloy the thirsty mouth, and formless evermore, here I have breathed the essence I'll inherit and heaven sings out to the consuming spirit the shifting features of this altered shore.
Bright heaven, true heaven, look at this changing me: after such pride and singular lethargy, a lethargy that's powerful all the same, I fling myself into these luminous spaces, over the homes of the dead my shadow races, under its fragile motion I grow tame.
My soul laid open to the zenith's torch, I hold you, unrelenting rays that scorch, justice of noon with pitiless arms displayed; I render you to your original lightness: look at yourself! . . . Yet the return of brightness implies that there's an equal part of shade.
O for me, to me and within this me, close to the heart, the source of poetry, between the void and the absolute event, I await my inner greatness' echoing knell out of this bitter, dark, sonorous well, sounding a hollow future sentiment.
Do you, illusory captive of the wood, corrosive gulf these gaunt rails have withstood, know all the secrets my closed eyes survey? What body lures me to its idle state,
what brow invites to share that bony fate? There my soul thinks of those who've passed away.
Holy and closed and filled with matterless fires, this earthly place given to the light inspires, this fragment where the lofty cypress looms, which gold and stone and somber trees compose, where shadows fall by trembling marble rows; the faithful ocean sleeps there by my tombs.
Chase off the idolater, magnificent hound! When, a lonely herdsman on the pasture ground, I graze at length those calm, mysterious sheep-- my great white flock of scattered stones--remove, destroy and shatter there the prudent dove, the curious angels and vain dreams we keep.
The future here is only idleness; the fine insect scratches the rottenness: all things are burned, are wasted, lost in air, into a harsh mysterious essence cast . . . Intoxicate with absence, life is vast and bitterness is sweet, the spirit fair.
The dead are sealed below this ground to rest, which heats them, dries the mystery in their breast. Motionless noon above in contemplation reflects alone in proper harmony . . . Head fully rounded, crowning perfectly, in you I am the secret transformation.
For you have only me who will contain your fears; all things I doubt, regret, restrain at once comprise your massive diamond's flaw; yet in their marble-heavy mysteries a vague race nourishing the roots of trees already has dissolved into your law.
Into intricate absence they've dissolved, a whole white race in this red soil resolved, their life in blossoms yielded by the dead. Where, of the dead, are the familiar phrase, the personal art, the individual ways? The worms are crawling now where tears were shed.
Teased and excited girls with piercing cries, the teeth, the tearful eyelids and the eyes, the charming breast that tempts and plays with fire; the blood-red glistening in the lips that yield, ultimate pleasures, outstretched hands that shield-- all join the game below and soon expire.
Do you, O noble soul, wait for a dream without that gold and blue delusive gleam which sun and sea create in mortal eyes? And will you sing when you have gone to dust? All vanishes! My presence holds no trust, being porous; even my pious longing dies.
Frail black and gilded immortality, O consolation crowned atrociously, believing death maternal in their guile-- the sacred artifice and lovely lie.
Who does not know them, who does not deny that empty skull and that eternal smile?
Deep-vaulted fathers, you with vacant mind, who under the weight of many clods consigned become the dust and mingle with our feet, in you who sleep there gnaws no more the tooth of that voracious worm, consuming truth; it feeds on me, on those whose hearts still beat!
Is it in me perhaps self love or hate? Its gnawing is so deep and intricate that it's appropriate under any name. What matters? It can see, want, dream and touch, glory in the flesh even as I lie, so much that being and my own life are both the same.
Zeno of Elea, cruel Zeno, did your winged arrow pierce me as it slid tremblingly off the bow but would not glide! The sound gives birth to me, the arrow slays; O sun! . . . Soulward what tortoise shadow plays, Achilles standing still with a giant stride!
No, no, arise, into the following age! Break, body, break this form that would be sage, drink, breast, the newborn breezes that arrive; a freshness that's exhaled from the sea restores my soul . . . O briny potency! Rush to the surf, leap into it alive!
Great sea that in a gifted frenzy rolls, a speckled leopard, mantle filled with holes where countless idols of the sun have shone, blue-bodied serpent loosed to flash and flail, consuming endlessly its sparkling tail, continuous as pure silence in its tone.
The wind stirs: live, leave all but life behind! My book is torn by that tremendous wind, the splaying wave dares leap the rock at last; vanish, bright pages, into the shining skies, break, waves, break, joyous fountains that uprise from this calm roof where sails came striding past!
From the French text in Poesies, Paris: Librairie Gallimard, 1942
A Note on Paul Valery and "The Cemetery by the Sea"
"Le Cimetiere Marin" was first published in La Nouvelle Revue Francaise on June 1, 1920, and was later included in Valery's volume Charmes (1922). The setting of the poem is the graveyard at Sete (Cette), France, the Mediterranean port where Valery was born on October 30, 1871, the son of a French father and an Italian mother. In 1884 his family moved to Montpellier, where he attended high school and later studied law at the university. There he wrote his first poems, influenced by Poe, Baudelaire, and others, and met Pierre Louys and Andre Gide.
While visiting Paris in 1891 he was introduced to Mallarme; he soon joined and was encouraged by the circle of poets who met on Tuesdays in Mallarme's flat. Although his early poems were well received, he soon abandoned poetry. After a brief stay in London he returned to Paris, where, in 1895, he published L'Introduction a la methode de Leonard de Vinci and, the next year, La Soiree avec Monsieur Teste, two prose works that won him early recognition.
For the next twenty years he abandoned writing, but studied science, mathematics, and poetic methods. He did not publish a book of verse until 1917, a long poem, "La Jeune Parque" (The Young Fate), which won immediate acclaim. This was followed in 1920 by a collection of odes, early poems, and "Le Cimetiere Marin." In 1921 "Le Serpent" appeared, and his poetic activity practically ended in 1922 with the appearance of Charmes.
In the last twenty years of his life Valery wrote and published many critical essays, including Poesie et pensee abstraite (Poetry and Abstract Thought), a 1939 lecture first translated and published in The Kenyon Review (Spring 1954). In his final work, Mon Faust (1940), Valery expresses a theme common to his poetry and prose, the conflict between art and philosophy, that is, between achievement and meditation.
As a poet, Valery took "a detour through symbolism," only to return to classical doctrine, and in fact established a neoclassicism in modern French letters. His poems, marmoreal in structure, resemble geometric solutions; involved yet clear, precisely and purely executed. "Le Cimetiere Marin" is ranked among his greatest poems and one of the most celebrated poems of the twentieth century.
After a life heaped with honors, including election to the Academie Francaise, Paul Valery died in Paris on July 20, 1945. He was given a state funeral and was buried in the graveyard at Sete, of which he once wrote: "This cemetery exists. It overlooks the sea on which we see the 'doves,' that is, the fishing boats drifting and pecking."
lay on them trust they will hold our weight what if the hand is too weak the arm gives out the muscle tires the lines fall to the ground, and then they are form. less. no beginning, end, nothing to distinguish them from point A point B and all of the pain that pulled and pushed in between...
i've given i've given i've felt i've felt i've asked i've asked i've loved i've cried i've worried i've waited i've never ever imagined you cared you showed no emotion i could have ripped my heart out and given it to you, and you would have stared at me blankly- angrily- and thrown it back.
i am catching up with my feelings. my past wants, current, and future desires. my memory of where i truly was in this. my knowledge of where i truly am in this. i am trying to trust again just as you are also. i am shocked that you care, but i feel it and its melting me to that similar formlessness but i need to pick up my bones and make myself bigger, i need to put my brain neatly back into my skull, i need to pick my heart back up and wash off the dry blood- shove it back into my chest where it belongs... and then ..............
IFthe unusual were usual, i would still embrace otherness in some form. I'd slip right out of the mainstream still, and into the murky waters sloping alongside the footpaths.
why would you why must you why do you where and when and how why of course, why and what does it take to lay gentler hands underneath the layer, of questions.
i am not an object. you are speaking to me. i have depth. visually its like a cross-section of the edge of Nature that doesn't exist to our eyes. my pores, the whirling beneath, the network of intricacies, real and imaginary, substance and wave, foam or mucous, crashing in, pulling out, pumping, filtering. my essence, my breath, my thoughts afar, near, here... i am hearing you, your words, absorbing into my skin, the world beneath, your thoughts, emotively sensing the taste of your breath. the day setting behind you.
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being homeless/homeful. being full of life. inside. and the sun, outside. the water running through a busy town, built around an old vein. ruptured once. came back to life. hopeless and hopeful, all at once. monologue-dialogue.MartinBuber.
Captured at Compiègne on 23 May 1430 and transferred to the English, Joan of Arc (Jeanne d'Arc) was placed on trial in Rouen by a selected group of pro-English clergy, many of whom nevertheless had to be coerced into voting for a guilty verdict. Convicted and executed on 30 May 1431, she was subsequently declared innocent by an Inquisitorial court on 7 July 1456 after a lengthy re-trial process which was initiated shortly after the English were finally driven from Rouen, thereby allowing access to the documents and witnesses associated with her trial. The presiding Inquisitor, Jean Bréhal, ruled that the original trial had been tainted by fraud, illegal procedures, and intimidation of both the defendant and many of the clergy who had taken part in the trial, and she was therefore described as a martyr by the Inquisitor. After the usual lengthy delay associated with the sluggish process of canonization, she was beatified on April 11, 1909 and canonized as a saint on 16 May 1920. (taken from http://www.joanofarc.info/)
i made this up a while back. its a figurative way to describe the signs (astrology). it started off in a class w antero alli when he described Sagittarius as reaching for the apple in the tree, and Capricorn as grabbing it... I extended the story- starting and then ending back at Scorpio (excuse me for being scorpio-centric, *but please note* : this is not about ego-centricism either; these do not describe what you personally would do as your sun sign. we all contain aspects of every sign, therefore these are descriptions of what each and every one of us could possibly do with an apple- from wishing for one, to observing one, to consuming one). it is an illustration of the apple's evolution as it passes from sign to sign chronologically.
the apple is used emblematically for its symbolism. mystically, as a forbidden fruit. an idea. a gift. knowledge. ...
scorpio would be so nice to have an apple...to find one high up on a tree ...
sagittarius finds an apple, reaches for the apple, looks at it from a distance (thinks about the shape of it compared to the others, how it grew, how it must have grown, how long it took, what that means) ...
capricorn reaches for it, grabs it (or as Jamie put it- climbs the tree and then grabs it) ...
aquarius this apple is observed as a specimen- (a discussion about what kind of apple it is, etc, is started...) ...
pisces (spiritual properties of the apple are appreciated) it is now worshiped as an icon ...
aries (physical aspects of the apple are appreciated) it is now an object in itself, with potential for personal use
taurus this is my apple. i will do something with it. maybe make something with it. ...
gemini hmm.. how about a fruit salad, or (a list of recipes is compiled) ...
cancer i think (this) recipe feels like a good one ...
leo (this is where something is made with it) it is adorned- it is made to look appealing- and placed in a nice bowl ...
virgo worries about the apple browning... then adds lemon to keep it fresh and hold on to its virginal properties ...
libra should i eat it? should i not? (brings it to a potluck, wants to show it and share it.) ...
scorpio (wants to know where the apple came from, how it got there, and then...) mmmmmmmmmmm ...
"the sea and the strand"
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i'm writing from different places of myself. themes merge btwn blogs, but i want to create separate ones in order to structure these different parts of myself. i tend to use astrological symbols throughout my writing because it enters my thought-systems regularly and is part of my language.
“To try to write love is to confront the muck of language: that region of hysteria where language is both too much and too little, excessive and impoverished.” -barthes
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