 |
| Nebuchadnezzar's Wisdom |
 |
| Just a goose engaged in some mystical contemplation |
Friday, December 17, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Joyeux Noel!
It's that Christmassy time of year, and there's no better season for hallucinatory biblical ecstasies.
I think back to that night. It must have been twelve years ago today that I saw the thing.
I looked from my window to see the falling snow and I saw two dogs there, standing on two legs (I thought) - - ashpit black, with their purple tongues sagging lazily out of their mouths - - emitting what, regrettably, can only be described as a 'doggish-hum' - - growling bass on the bottom and whimpering tenor on top, united by a monkish timbre and focus. And the more I listened, the more the hum began to resemble words taking on form and falling out through the whirlwind of sound.
It's a little cheesey, but I can't help but reproduce them here:
"Oh! Jerusalem! Oh, Nebuchadnezzar's wisdom
Failed him utterly. He broke the bone inside his head
And bled for days, and his face turned black and purple.
Oh, we saw him then. We saw, on Christmas Day,
He died by sharp, sharp teeth. Oh, what red meat God makes us."
I think back to that night. It must have been twelve years ago today that I saw the thing.
I looked from my window to see the falling snow and I saw two dogs there, standing on two legs (I thought) - - ashpit black, with their purple tongues sagging lazily out of their mouths - - emitting what, regrettably, can only be described as a 'doggish-hum' - - growling bass on the bottom and whimpering tenor on top, united by a monkish timbre and focus. And the more I listened, the more the hum began to resemble words taking on form and falling out through the whirlwind of sound.
It's a little cheesey, but I can't help but reproduce them here:
"Oh! Jerusalem! Oh, Nebuchadnezzar's wisdom
Failed him utterly. He broke the bone inside his head
And bled for days, and his face turned black and purple.
Oh, we saw him then. We saw, on Christmas Day,
He died by sharp, sharp teeth. Oh, what red meat God makes us."
To be continued...
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin on the Figpecker
It grows at least as fat as the redbreast or the ortolan, and nature has moreover given it a slight bitterness and a unique flavor so exquisite that they seize upon, flood, and beautify every possible avenue of taste. If a figpecker could grow as big as a pheasant, it would be worth the price of an acre of land.
It is a great pity that this remarkable bird is found so seldom in Paris; true, a few arrive now and then, but they are completely lacking in the fat which constitutes their especial merit, and it can truthfully be said that they resemble but faintly those which are found in the east or southern parts of France.
Few people know how to eat small feathered game; here is the best way, as it was told me confidentially by Canon Charcot, a born gourmand, and a true gastronomer thirty years before the word was known:
Take by the beak a fine fat little bird, salt him lightly, pull out his gizzard, stuff him deftly into your mouth, bite him off sharply close to your fingertips, and chew with vigor: there will flow from him enough juice to fill your whole mouth, and you will enjoy a taste experience unknown to the common herd."
Metempsychosis Or, A Neanderthal Suicide
This is a bit of tricky subject, so let's not broach it hastily.
So, at some point or another, I left the aviary. I had made up my mind to return to the library and get to the bottom of the matter. If it all turned out to be a joke, then fine. At least I would know for sure.
Now, we'll have to go a little further back - - Charlie Parker's grandfather's father's master's grandson - - purveying the beaches of Provence circa 1900 - - admiring the women with their bare arms and legs - - laying on their bellies by the shore like so many recently mutated polyps, wriggling their way onto land.
"Je suis encore tres enuie," they coo, and sigh in unison, turning their heads to the side, stretching out their fine white necks and adjusting their extremely fashionable hats.
Allan smirks with gentlemanly moderation, and coughs into his handkerchief in the same manner. He makes a remark on the climate to his associate, Mr. Oswald, who gives a subtle nod of agreement.
"Very excellent, indeed. An entirely different air altogether from Alabama."
Well, straight to the cafe - - The Pestiferous Fog - - and Allan sits staring out the window at a tree full of sparrows, or nuthatches, or starlings, while Mr. Oswald bares down with all possible delicacy on a platter of two dozen oysters, tilting his head back and encouraging them down his throat.
"Hmpf," Mr. Oswald clears his pipes, wipes his mouth with the napkin tucked into his collar, "Well then. How do you feel? Better I hope."
Allan gives a small nod, not averting his gaze from the window.
Mr. Oswald smiles and takes up the last oyster in the air of a joyous ritual offering, closing his eyes and falling back into his seat; blushing like a baby after feeding.
"So, you're taking the plunge? No chance of turning you around - - making this whole thing into a vacation, rather than an exile?"
Allan does not reply at first but stares at the birds as they shake themselves from the tree, rising like a cloud of aggravated dust into the greying sky, which recieves and disperses them somewhere beyond his vision.
"No, Richard, I don't think so," Allan sighs, and smiles politely, turning his face towards his companion. "It's out of my control now."
It's possible I should I have called this "A Wealthy Alabama Landowner Travels to Provence to Convert To Hasidism" or, "Two Feather'd Guests From Alabama, Two Together" - - but that might have given too much away. However, now I'm faced with the awkward situation of getting both Allan and Mr. Oswald to the mysterious blue brick house on the outskirts of the town in order to make the startling revelation ("If this is your choice Allan, so be it. I'm back to Alabama to keep your secret."), while at the same time making sure I leave enough space to get back to our neanderthal friend. So in the interest of everyone involved, I'll omit most of the story in order to get at the meat of the issue.
There, by the stump of one of the first felled trees; the boney headed neanderthal - - pacing back and forth, clumsily cradling his head, his body swinging awkwardly under its weight - - in all his hideous nudity, followed by all his noxious odours, leaving a trail of all his greasy liqueurs. He sits down on a large stone, hiding his not-yet-perfect face in his malformed arms.
What are you crying about? Come on, for Godsakes. You're a homo erectus - - be erect! Hold your head up high! It's really very early on yet. Things are bound get a little better. We're depending on you, pri-mordial man - - really and truly. Don't give it up!
Oh, you're nothing but a child.
And so he stands up (in all his hideous nudity, with all his noxious odours), and looks down at the stone on which he was sitting. He kneels down and lays his ugly hands around it, heaving it into the air above his head.
I find it difficult to describe what happens next - - it's really very hard. It's a stain on human history - - it really is.
But I'll have to press on - - you demand it of me, I know. You'll want to know, that as this pitiable creature bludgeoned himself to death with this stone - -that his poor, lamentable, child-like neanderthal soul, imperfect though it may be, ascended to the tree of souls, up to the inverted root of divinity and then back through the leaves of the divine manifestation, floating like a single sparrow (like from the Gospel) among the limbs and twigs of the sacred foilage, where it was fed by the infinite worm, plucked from the infinite bounty of the eternal soil by the boundless beak of the very first motherbird - - the celestial bride whose song is the endless repitition of the very first words (in the Hebrew, in the Aramaic, in the King James English): "In the beggining, created God - - Bereshith bara Elohim", in an endless divine melody with no resolution; with naked simplicity and yet containing boundless contrapuntal complexity - - a thousand million voiced fugue.
The primordial man has destroyed his head! And now the whole structure falls flat like an empty sack. But, flowing over our heads, he manifests himself continually - - at one point conversing with Rossini (who eventually became a stone) - - most often coming back as some doomed suicide - - but most importantly as Oppenheimer, and as Einstein simultaneously. Which brings us back to the original story.
Qual misfatto! qual eccesso!
So, at some point or another, I left the aviary. I had made up my mind to return to the library and get to the bottom of the matter. If it all turned out to be a joke, then fine. At least I would know for sure.
Now, we'll have to go a little further back - - Charlie Parker's grandfather's father's master's grandson - - purveying the beaches of Provence circa 1900 - - admiring the women with their bare arms and legs - - laying on their bellies by the shore like so many recently mutated polyps, wriggling their way onto land.
"Je suis encore tres enuie," they coo, and sigh in unison, turning their heads to the side, stretching out their fine white necks and adjusting their extremely fashionable hats.
Allan smirks with gentlemanly moderation, and coughs into his handkerchief in the same manner. He makes a remark on the climate to his associate, Mr. Oswald, who gives a subtle nod of agreement.
"Very excellent, indeed. An entirely different air altogether from Alabama."
Well, straight to the cafe - - The Pestiferous Fog - - and Allan sits staring out the window at a tree full of sparrows, or nuthatches, or starlings, while Mr. Oswald bares down with all possible delicacy on a platter of two dozen oysters, tilting his head back and encouraging them down his throat.
"Hmpf," Mr. Oswald clears his pipes, wipes his mouth with the napkin tucked into his collar, "Well then. How do you feel? Better I hope."
Allan gives a small nod, not averting his gaze from the window.
Mr. Oswald smiles and takes up the last oyster in the air of a joyous ritual offering, closing his eyes and falling back into his seat; blushing like a baby after feeding.
"So, you're taking the plunge? No chance of turning you around - - making this whole thing into a vacation, rather than an exile?"
Allan does not reply at first but stares at the birds as they shake themselves from the tree, rising like a cloud of aggravated dust into the greying sky, which recieves and disperses them somewhere beyond his vision.
"No, Richard, I don't think so," Allan sighs, and smiles politely, turning his face towards his companion. "It's out of my control now."
It's possible I should I have called this "A Wealthy Alabama Landowner Travels to Provence to Convert To Hasidism" or, "Two Feather'd Guests From Alabama, Two Together" - - but that might have given too much away. However, now I'm faced with the awkward situation of getting both Allan and Mr. Oswald to the mysterious blue brick house on the outskirts of the town in order to make the startling revelation ("If this is your choice Allan, so be it. I'm back to Alabama to keep your secret."), while at the same time making sure I leave enough space to get back to our neanderthal friend. So in the interest of everyone involved, I'll omit most of the story in order to get at the meat of the issue.
There, by the stump of one of the first felled trees; the boney headed neanderthal - - pacing back and forth, clumsily cradling his head, his body swinging awkwardly under its weight - - in all his hideous nudity, followed by all his noxious odours, leaving a trail of all his greasy liqueurs. He sits down on a large stone, hiding his not-yet-perfect face in his malformed arms.
What are you crying about? Come on, for Godsakes. You're a homo erectus - - be erect! Hold your head up high! It's really very early on yet. Things are bound get a little better. We're depending on you, pri-mordial man - - really and truly. Don't give it up!
Oh, you're nothing but a child.
And so he stands up (in all his hideous nudity, with all his noxious odours), and looks down at the stone on which he was sitting. He kneels down and lays his ugly hands around it, heaving it into the air above his head.
I find it difficult to describe what happens next - - it's really very hard. It's a stain on human history - - it really is.
But I'll have to press on - - you demand it of me, I know. You'll want to know, that as this pitiable creature bludgeoned himself to death with this stone - -that his poor, lamentable, child-like neanderthal soul, imperfect though it may be, ascended to the tree of souls, up to the inverted root of divinity and then back through the leaves of the divine manifestation, floating like a single sparrow (like from the Gospel) among the limbs and twigs of the sacred foilage, where it was fed by the infinite worm, plucked from the infinite bounty of the eternal soil by the boundless beak of the very first motherbird - - the celestial bride whose song is the endless repitition of the very first words (in the Hebrew, in the Aramaic, in the King James English): "In the beggining, created God - - Bereshith bara Elohim", in an endless divine melody with no resolution; with naked simplicity and yet containing boundless contrapuntal complexity - - a thousand million voiced fugue.
The primordial man has destroyed his head! And now the whole structure falls flat like an empty sack. But, flowing over our heads, he manifests himself continually - - at one point conversing with Rossini (who eventually became a stone) - - most often coming back as some doomed suicide - - but most importantly as Oppenheimer, and as Einstein simultaneously. Which brings us back to the original story.
Qual misfatto! qual eccesso!
To Be Continued...
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
I Die, Alas, In My Suffering
Catalogue of Some Notable Lake Superior Shipwrecks
1680 - French Jesuit Renee de le Carre and a crew of fifty or so men, embark on an ill fated journey across Superior. Le Carre loses his mind after seeing a crew member accidently step on a hairless mouse. He sets fire to the ship and most of the crew perishes in the freezing waters.
1750 - A crew of seventy-five men -- along with another Jesuit, Guy Montaigne -- dissapear while crossing Superior. The wreck is discovered in 1968 by an amateur diver. Among the belongings of Montaigne is a shrunken head, thought to have originated in New Caledonia.
1810 - Independently wealthy, Franco-English painter Emile Rose sets up camp along Lake Superior, near what is now Terrace Bay, in order to paint landscapes. Somehow, a quasi-religious order springs up around Rose, attracting an estimated one hundred followers from neighbouring communities in a little over a year. By 1815, this number has nearly doubled and the order have started work on a large ship, which they intend to sail out to an unknown island to start an independent colony. They set out some time in May of 1818 and capsized within the same day. Miraculously, it appears that Rose was the sole survivor.
That reminds me.
Last weekend I was hanging out with George under the International Bridge, which spans the St. Mary's River, which links Lake Huron to Lake Superior - - and we were throwing rocks at the water.
"Oh shit, do you see that," George asked, gesturing towards the shore.
I looked over to the water and saw that it had worked itself up into an extremely vigorous boil - - bubbling with quite a bit of violence - - working itself up into an exploding white net.
"Hm," I said, and approached the shore.
As I peered into the water, the bubbling calmed down almost entirely, and I could see my reflection on the surface. I squinted and turned my head in an attempt to see past my image and, like when you suddenly see the faces in the image of the vase, I became aware of an enormous mass of lamprey - - thousands of them - - tangled in eachother, churning the water around them - - intermittently tightening and loosening the muscles in their disgusting mouths.
"That's strange," I said.
At this, the lampreys suddenly resumed their previous vigour, splashing water into the air.
"What the fuck is it," asked George.
"Lamprey," I said, taking several steps backwards away from the shore. "A shit ton of them."
George laughed and put his hands on his head.
"What the hell is a lamprey?"
Then, like a small atomic bomb, or like a solar flare the water splashed up and a black-grey shape rocketed out of the spout and tumbled, or really rolled up the rocks and settled at our feet. George and I looked down.
"That's fucking disgusting," said George.
Now this might seem a bit farfetched. This might be pushing it - - but I will have to push it, as the principles of Truth demand that I reveal that there before us, by our feet was a lamprey - - bent backwards, latching his parasitic mouth onto his own tail.
"He's killing himself," I said, stupefied.
"No," said George, delicately lifting its stiff, looped body up with a stick. "It's dead. Way fucking dead."
He dropped it back to the ground and it wobbled around like a coin before somehow putting itself right and gaining momentum. George and I followed it with our eyes as it rolled back into the water.
"Hm," I said, suddenly feeling very weak, easing myself down to the ground. "George, I think I have just had a vision of the grotesque regions of my true self. I really fucking think I have."
"Hm?" asked George, not seeming to hear me; feeling around in his coat pockets. "Should I roll us a doob?"
1680 - French Jesuit Renee de le Carre and a crew of fifty or so men, embark on an ill fated journey across Superior. Le Carre loses his mind after seeing a crew member accidently step on a hairless mouse. He sets fire to the ship and most of the crew perishes in the freezing waters.
1750 - A crew of seventy-five men -- along with another Jesuit, Guy Montaigne -- dissapear while crossing Superior. The wreck is discovered in 1968 by an amateur diver. Among the belongings of Montaigne is a shrunken head, thought to have originated in New Caledonia.
1810 - Independently wealthy, Franco-English painter Emile Rose sets up camp along Lake Superior, near what is now Terrace Bay, in order to paint landscapes. Somehow, a quasi-religious order springs up around Rose, attracting an estimated one hundred followers from neighbouring communities in a little over a year. By 1815, this number has nearly doubled and the order have started work on a large ship, which they intend to sail out to an unknown island to start an independent colony. They set out some time in May of 1818 and capsized within the same day. Miraculously, it appears that Rose was the sole survivor.
That reminds me.
Last weekend I was hanging out with George under the International Bridge, which spans the St. Mary's River, which links Lake Huron to Lake Superior - - and we were throwing rocks at the water.
"Oh shit, do you see that," George asked, gesturing towards the shore.
I looked over to the water and saw that it had worked itself up into an extremely vigorous boil - - bubbling with quite a bit of violence - - working itself up into an exploding white net.
"Hm," I said, and approached the shore.
As I peered into the water, the bubbling calmed down almost entirely, and I could see my reflection on the surface. I squinted and turned my head in an attempt to see past my image and, like when you suddenly see the faces in the image of the vase, I became aware of an enormous mass of lamprey - - thousands of them - - tangled in eachother, churning the water around them - - intermittently tightening and loosening the muscles in their disgusting mouths.
"That's strange," I said.
At this, the lampreys suddenly resumed their previous vigour, splashing water into the air.
"What the fuck is it," asked George.
"Lamprey," I said, taking several steps backwards away from the shore. "A shit ton of them."
George laughed and put his hands on his head.
"What the hell is a lamprey?"
Then, like a small atomic bomb, or like a solar flare the water splashed up and a black-grey shape rocketed out of the spout and tumbled, or really rolled up the rocks and settled at our feet. George and I looked down.
"That's fucking disgusting," said George.
Now this might seem a bit farfetched. This might be pushing it - - but I will have to push it, as the principles of Truth demand that I reveal that there before us, by our feet was a lamprey - - bent backwards, latching his parasitic mouth onto his own tail.
"He's killing himself," I said, stupefied.
"No," said George, delicately lifting its stiff, looped body up with a stick. "It's dead. Way fucking dead."
He dropped it back to the ground and it wobbled around like a coin before somehow putting itself right and gaining momentum. George and I followed it with our eyes as it rolled back into the water.
"Hm," I said, suddenly feeling very weak, easing myself down to the ground. "George, I think I have just had a vision of the grotesque regions of my true self. I really fucking think I have."
"Hm?" asked George, not seeming to hear me; feeling around in his coat pockets. "Should I roll us a doob?"
To Be Continued...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)