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ambitious_wenchFound this in today's Word of the Day email from A.Word.A.Day:
The Word of the day is "corybantic".
Not sure why that quote hit me, but I'm sitting here listening to the whir and hum of my PC CPU fans. I'm reminded of all the times I've sat in the belly of some aeronautical beast, waiting for takeoff.
The only thing missing is the slight vibration of the floor beneath my feet.
There, I've shut it down, and now I can hear the whir of an airplane in the sky outside.
I'm going to be modeling today. I have to leave the house at about 7 or so to catch a bus to down town Providence, and then take the #60 Newport to Bristol. I have to get off at the Mt. Hope Bridge, and then walk to the Roger Williams University--my alt.devilbunnies friends will recognise the name. No, to the best of my knowledge, there is no Ft. Roger Williams in all of Rhode Island.
So little chance of writing today.
I am still considering ditching what I have and going free-verse poetry. I think of Whitman's "Leaves of Grass", and "Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock".
First, T.S. Eliot:
"I have heard the mermaids singing each to each
I do not think they will sing to me"
Then Uncle Walt:
" I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable;
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world."
I vacillate between the two.
Perhaps it's time
I sang to the mermaids
enticed their slimy forms to slither close
while I live on
calling on
from the rock-strewn strand.
Let seaweed-bedecked heads
rise from the shallows
shoulders draped in seafoam
green hair swirling in gentle eddies
pay tribute to my song.
While I sit beside the sea
running the shuttle
beneath the strings
warp and woof
weft and weave
words tied in knots
for texture on the cloth
singing all the while
as my feet press levers
a dance in time
to my rhyme.
Let those ladies
of the shingle
thirst for the sound
of my voice
and beach themselves
for want of the cloth
I weave
singing all the while
Singing each to each
singing all the while.
©E. Howe Nov 4 2003
"The radio is nothing but a conduit through which pre-fabricated din
can flow into our homes. And this din goes far deeper, of course, than
the eardrums. It penetrates the mind, filling it with a babble of
distractions, blasts of corybantic or sentimental music, continually
repeated doses of drama that bring no catharsis, but usually create
a craving for daily or even hourly emotional enemas."
Aldous Huxley; On Silence; 1946.
The Word of the day is "corybantic".
Not sure why that quote hit me, but I'm sitting here listening to the whir and hum of my PC CPU fans. I'm reminded of all the times I've sat in the belly of some aeronautical beast, waiting for takeoff.
The only thing missing is the slight vibration of the floor beneath my feet.
There, I've shut it down, and now I can hear the whir of an airplane in the sky outside.
I'm going to be modeling today. I have to leave the house at about 7 or so to catch a bus to down town Providence, and then take the #60 Newport to Bristol. I have to get off at the Mt. Hope Bridge, and then walk to the Roger Williams University--my alt.devilbunnies friends will recognise the name. No, to the best of my knowledge, there is no Ft. Roger Williams in all of Rhode Island.
So little chance of writing today.
I am still considering ditching what I have and going free-verse poetry. I think of Whitman's "Leaves of Grass", and "Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock".
First, T.S. Eliot:
"I have heard the mermaids singing each to each
I do not think they will sing to me"
Then Uncle Walt:
" I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable;
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world."
I vacillate between the two.
Perhaps it's time
I sang to the mermaids
enticed their slimy forms to slither close
while I live on
calling on
from the rock-strewn strand.
Let seaweed-bedecked heads
rise from the shallows
shoulders draped in seafoam
green hair swirling in gentle eddies
pay tribute to my song.
While I sit beside the sea
running the shuttle
beneath the strings
warp and woof
weft and weave
words tied in knots
for texture on the cloth
singing all the while
as my feet press levers
a dance in time
to my rhyme.
Let those ladies
of the shingle
thirst for the sound
of my voice
and beach themselves
for want of the cloth
I weave
singing all the while
Singing each to each
singing all the while.
©E. Howe Nov 4 2003