Naryana’s Cows

While I looked for some good internet radio, across came BBC's Radio. Amazing website. Radio programs ranging from sports and news to contemporary classical music and Beckett plays. While you, mon hypocrite lecteur, stare at your screen the name of this topic may seem a bit off radio…. Naryana's cows is a problem involving cows and calves. But cows are not the point tonight! It is also the title of a piece by Tom Johnson inspired by the cow problem. Again amazing. All this in one program, Hear and Now, at BBC's Radio 3. If you enjoy cows, math and music do take a look. I've started posting some photographs using Flickr. I have some very likable drawings up there (and to your right side on the brighty-brighty). Soon I will put some of my drawings and spoil everything.

Lately been trying to work my way through Finnegan's Wake. So many meanings, so many! In Umberto Eco's words, Joyce 'has prepared a machinery of suggestion which, like any complex machine, is capable of operating beyond the original intentions of the builder'.

Back to music by a commudius vicus of recirculation!

I'm listening to Aria 51 by John Godfrey right now. Very interesting. Dreadful pun… Of course, by the vicus, on BBC's Hear and Now! I haven't listened to it all yet, so I'll bite my tongue for a while. All these songs played by the marvellous Crash Ensemble. I can't emphasize: all readers, tune in to BBC's Radio 3! After looking around and feeling at home, look for Hear and Now. A nice way to come in contact with contemp. music. This song, so much. The use of tape repetitions and the piano, brilliant.

'Sleep, where in the waste is the wisdom?' (FW, 114.13-20)

Technorati Tags: Radio, Flickr, Joyce, Music, Literature

I should’ve gone to the ballet

Perfectly planned evening. Day even. But. All buts in my way, boredom seemingly my only motivation. And yet with the perspective of turning a perfectly planned evening into Hell, I stopped. What a clown. These are the days someone once told me, these are the days my friend. A perfectly planned evening at the ballet. Nothing in my way. And yet. yet. yet. yet.
I lack the hability of turning future projections into concrete fears and hopes. And yet.
I should've gone to the ballet.

[...] Farewell happy fields
Where joy for ever dwells: hail horrors, hail
Infernal world, and thou profoundest Hell
Receive thy new possessor: one who brings
A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less than he
Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least
We shall be free; th' Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secure, and in my choice
To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav'n
- Paradise Lost, Book I 249-264, John Milton

Technorati Tags: Life, Poetry, Ballet, Doubt, Milton

Boredom

Passing the hours away. Nothing else to do, nohow to passaway hours. No will to do anything. Better fix it. Only indifference between death and life brings true freedom. Better to die of vodka than of boredom – Maiakovsky. Everything might for a moment seem impossible. Even the simplest action shudders when it is confronted with the enormity of time through which it will not resist. Resisting is impossible. Time will swallow what I was, what I did, where I lived. Time will swallow everything, thus everything is without meaning. God is either curel or incompetent. Or simply he never existed, or should've never existed. What are the roots that clutch you, Son of Man? Everything tastes sour, allthings seem ugly, everywhere hopeless. Time clutches and drags and weighs down, every fiber fights, but death must eventually approach and deliver. Deliver from pain to endless bliss of nothingness. Why must we strugle against the inevitable? We can only live by. For though everything is rendered meaningless by time, so does time make every small deed a necessity. We must spend our time somehow, only without purpose. No purpose necessary, no objective. Just fill time is all we can ever do. If possible.

Technorati Tags: Poetry, Boredom, Russia, Time, Death

I am the Future

From hell.
Mr Lusk,
Sor
I send you half the Kidne I took from one woman and prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer

signed
Catch me when you can Mishter Lusk

“I will show you fear in a handful of dust”

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,	20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,	25
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Noigandres

Noigandres, eh, Noigandres
Now what the DEFIL can that mean? – Ezra Pound