This Nowhere Where, or; The Fatigue of Wondering & Wanderingness

Achoo, or haiku, to begin: 

Unstirred syrup-spots
Ear-wig stuck in sticky web
Wild wuthering wind

Jung once dreamt that he and a dwarf killed a beautiful blond youth, whom he called Siegfried. It makes me think of Freud’s writings on “language” and “text” in dreams, and how words are often concealed behind different letters, and how they can take on a kind of slant-word/phrase. In Jung’s dream, this “Siegfried” could very well be “Sigmund,” for Sigmund Freud, himself, considering the connections, which leads me to so many different thoughts about Existence, Phenomenology, &c. One thought that arose a few weeks ago is the following:

Am I only “Anywhere” to other people when my voice is heard? Online or real? What is real? Is having a “real voice” no different than being able to see a voice? Reality is no longer designated as being face-to-face, or phone-to-phone. For all anyone knows, I am not real at all, but am only “real” to Me. Am? Am what? Am Me? What is Me? Myself? “My” “Self”? SELF of ME? Vicious vice-versa. It sounds like Twos—double existence: Self[   ]Me, a space in-between. It is like the “double” in Russian Literature, like living a double-life without really living a double-life. TWO. What of this existing “I”? My & Self—Who are you really? You are who? 

Ovid: I shall speak whole silent volumes with one raised eyebrow, / Words will spring from my fingers.

Ovid already had the id in his name, and I bet that gave him a mighty ego.

On one of my favorite Independent Sites, THE AMERICAN THINKER, there was a very interesting article about The Academias, ie., College System, etc., a year or so ago, called The Real Cost of a College Education. One particular element that stood out for me was the idea that free thinking in the System has become pooh-poohed, and of which is looked down upon. From the article: 

. . . Subsidizing degrees in unpractical subjects such as English literature or gender studies results only in more such degrees being issued.  Students then graduate with just as much work-related skills as they had on their first day as freshmen.  Between lectures on the evils of capitalism and on the greatness of Franklin Roosevelt, out-of-the-box thinking is never encouraged. It therefore shouldnt be surprising that Mark Zuckerburg, Bill Gates, and Steve Jobs were all college dropouts.  The fact that their creative thinking wasnt a byproduct of the college industrial complex is a real lesson in itself. The sad truth is that when Congress does what it does best and spends billions passing an extension on the student loan interest rate cap, the establishment will rejoice as the scheme is allowed to continue. But millions of potential visionaries will be the real cost.

Has self-education been dismissed as somehow irrelevant? That would be news to Abraham Lincoln, amongst so many other great men and women in this history of the world. Shakespeare never went to a University, either; I suppose education is essentially about the individuals interest to learn, from a general perspective, rather than just making the rounds. But, in our current age of brain-dead, zombies, television, aspartame, and iPhone-eyebulging, it is no surprise that most of these systems can benefit from such lackluster and dull-numbed muteness. Like Mark Twain once said: Suppose you were an idiot, and suppose you were a member of Congress; but I repeat myself.


Leo Tolstoy: Every heart has its own skeletons.

Duane Michals:
How foolish of me to believe that it would be that easy. I had confused the appearances of trees and automobiles and people with reality itself, and believed that a photograph of these appearances to be a photograph of it. It is a melancholy truth that I will never be able to photograph it and can only fail. I am a reflection photographing other reflections within a reflection. To photograph reality is to photograph nothing.

I am unable to trick myself into soberly examining, with adequate detachment, the shadow that I cast on the reaches beyond me.

Virginia Woolf:
Month by month things are losing their hardness; even my body now lets the light through; my spine is soft like wax near the flame of the candle. I dream; I dream.


After Flickr made their all-up-in-your-grill changes lately (Justified, are they?), I find myself a bit ambivalent about it all, partially because I like the changes, and then I do not like the changes, in certain aspects, although it could be a lot worse, but I wont be one of the millions that are complaining consistently about it, so I shall remain MUM, as Gilligan would say. In that light, I plan to stay on Flickr, but I have found an interesting new place that is one of the better art-sharing sites that I have seen in quite a while: artitbe.net, which I have signed up and began posting, which can be found at the following:


It is still in its early stages, but I really love the layout and the various options, sleek layout, and easy access to the work, and other artist
s work. 

Derrida: What Comes Before The Question?
My answer:
Usually a sigh and a gulp, or vice-versa...

I found this piece of text that I wrote God-knows-how-long ago, uncertain if I have posted it to this blog before, but in any case, if it has been posted before, there is nothing wrong with a little double-dosing:
I walk into any home and its my spirit that haunts the house as I walk through like a childs first reaction to something enormous, mysterious, colorful. Get behind the circle of the clock. Tonight as I attempted to sleep I heard a vague, but very noticeable in its calling, high-pitched sound that lasted for a few moments, then vanished. The outside world deteriorates and the house stands and laughs, until it, too, is unoccupied, then its flung into the same silent rejoicing. Right now, I am in the dark, but my body is full of light. Over-anxious saliva glands. Throat as sore as an old wooden floor.

Strange to quote my own writing, is it not? Quoting oneself in a slithering second of rawring Reality, would be like speaking with your hand in front of your mouth: the words would become a physical property, bouncing off of the hand, to return directly to the gaping mouth where they were spoken from. Frank OHara once said, beautifully: Now I am quietly waiting for / the catastrophe of my personality / to seem beautiful again, / and interesting, and modern. and this: Im the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love. I wouldnt state with accurate Absolutes that I worship at the altar of Frank OHaras poetics, because I worship at the altar of no man, and I worship at the altar of no thing, but the signature quality in his writing—the New School of Poetics in the fifties—is an absolute influence that Ive always been quite receptive to (perhaps Im a poet of nostalgia and creepiness?!). I have just recently finished reading THE COLLECTED EARLIER POEMS of William Carlos Williams, as well, and this particular poem I shall share here, which is was immediately engraved into my existence:

I really make very little money.
What of it?
I prefer the grass with the rain on it
the short grass before my headlights
when I am turning the car—
a degenerate trait, no doubt.
It would ruin England.
In the narrow sense, the last line I find quite hilarious, because it seems to be this kind of affirmative demand, as if everyone would certainly understand what he means by it, and certainly this speaks for those underneath the poverty-line, or the difficult times that people can have, but being able to appreciate the small things in life (for the lack of a better phrase), all-the-while, feeling like a free soul, in some sense. To have very little money is one issue, but there is no sympathetic mode of attentiveness there, but this poem makes a dent into my consciousness, because of how beautiful the color green is used without even mentioning the word (money grass), and how, perhaps, warding off any kind of self-pity that may or may not sulk below the surface, is attentive and makes one pay attention! It speaks loud and clear, granting a kind of permanence in the collective psyche of our times. I find this to be one of his stronger suits (the grandeur of ones beautiful romantic streak that may get lost within the obscurity of the esoteric versus the exoteric; what I gather, personally, is beyond the slapstick of contemporary existence, but a true appreciation and love for life, in general). 

Emerson: Give me bareness and poverty, so that I know them as sure signs of the coming muse. . . . The solitude of the body is the populousness of the soul.

Out of my own great woe / I make my little songs.

Lord Byron:
My bosom underwent a glorious glow, / And my internal spirit cut a caper.


Earlier, the sullen swagger of muggy summer had begun to swarm me, and so did a gnat-swarm, and so I named that particular gnat-swarm, The Great Gnatsby.


Here are several interesting links that I feel are worthy to be shared:

Vampires In Ancient Literature

Pictorial Interpretations of Tennysons Lady of Shalott

Book Review: An Hourglass Figure: On Photographer Francesca Woodman, by Ariana Reines

400-plus black-and-white Photographs from the Museum of Contemporary Photography

Top 10 Famous Mummified Bodies

Paintings by Zbylut Grzywacz

Science will destroy humanity, says team of scientists

Essay on The Metaphysical Poets by T.S. Eliot

Finnegans Wake / James Joyce - the full book


I have been posting a lot of poems to my LISPY WHISPERS blog in recent times, which can be found HERE

All I smell lately is the sweet aroma of honeysuckles golden elipse on the lips of nature, breathing outward to us, into the air, oh yes, into the air...

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