tangledupinblue

"What's that?"

"The stuff that dreams are made of."

What is the stuff your dreams are made of?

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Great movie, great genre. Who can't love film noir? Who hasn't wanted to lose themselves in some sort of flip side to America? Maybe I'm writing to a lot of people who have already lost themselves in the flip side. . . I certainly haven't -- yet. . . But every day lately, I feel something stirring that makes it alltogether clear that something is going on that is very interesting.

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Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.


Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Yeats -- a bad mamma jamma ~~~~~~

That poem used to scare me. The idea that something external was out somewhere -- somewhere OUT THERE, getting its biblical shwerve on, ready to level its gaze and its sword at the world -- that fear was certainly borne out -- at least seemed to be borne out when I went to work one september morning at Chase Plaza, about 5 blocks crosstown from the World Trade Centre and well -- you all know what happenned next. Lost some friends that day, got some second chances with a bunch more, but was shaken, shaken shaken by the realization that we are a bunch of bugs that can find ourselves under someone else's foot at a moment's non-notice.

But is that vast image out of Spiritus Mundi rocking lifeward somewhere in a desert far away, or is it in the deserted corner of a psyche that I haven't visited since I began risking less and less some time ago?

I'm beginning to think that it's the latter.

I'm beginning to think that the centre is not worth holding, much less holding on to.

I'm beginning to think that I'll meet that pitiless gaze with a smile.

Rapture might take on its more colloquial meaning here.

This is Trash.