And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.
Moby Dick
1
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| Path of the Mississippi River over time (a map of a river's space-timee) posted by Jerry Saltz |
The Extensive if Fragmentary Evidence of Harry's Status
as the Wizard of Ozymandians
an epic poem reporting of miraculously confluent events of elusive significance, except possibly to fulfill the prophesy that everything will be turned inside out and upside down -- in honor, apparently -- of praiseworthy folly -- first time as tragedy, second as farce -- and to fly in the face of the fallacy that the human mind can fathom primordial desire, which makes everything happen at the origin of the world now now now. Out there they say they're being humble to call it chaos, as if the universe or love could have any idea what the words "order" or "chaos" mean, as if the things we think words signify have anything to do with the things they actually point to, or those things aren't part of other things that are doing things that are more revealing and interesting than the things the words point to. Nevertheless, if we know the words are pointing not to things out there, but what we can use of them, and the things are pieces of another animal, words strung together are empowered, as if we found the key to the car and read the instruction manual, to go in quest of the animal. Language reveals itself a kind of BMW, raring to go and just driving itself, the road and the wheels, the world and the word, were just two sides of the same coin.
for the junger at heart than jung himself
as the Wizard of Ozymandians
an epic poem reporting of miraculously confluent events of elusive significance, except possibly to fulfill the prophesy that everything will be turned inside out and upside down -- in honor, apparently -- of praiseworthy folly -- first time as tragedy, second as farce -- and to fly in the face of the fallacy that the human mind can fathom primordial desire, which makes everything happen at the origin of the world now now now. Out there they say they're being humble to call it chaos, as if the universe or love could have any idea what the words "order" or "chaos" mean, as if the things we think words signify have anything to do with the things they actually point to, or those things aren't part of other things that are doing things that are more revealing and interesting than the things the words point to. Nevertheless, if we know the words are pointing not to things out there, but what we can use of them, and the things are pieces of another animal, words strung together are empowered, as if we found the key to the car and read the instruction manual, to go in quest of the animal. Language reveals itself a kind of BMW, raring to go and just driving itself, the road and the wheels, the world and the word, were just two sides of the same coin.
for the junger at heart than jung himself
1. Annotated photograph of Harry with the clan into which he married
Hirsch clan with post-post-(not-not)-warlocky
(not-not-not-not-post-war lucky) Harry
and spritely spouse Suzy at far left.
Here, with his premature widow's peak, he resembles Harry Potter, but after they over-correct his thyroid condition with radioactive iodine, he suffers mild rotundity and grows a mustache, by which he bears a strong resemblance to the actor, Frank Morgan, or rather, Morgan, the actor who plays him, resembles the wizard.
2. Parallel Plot Lines
As a front, one of many, the wizard deals in circus prizes and gimmicks (like a little black bag he slaps down on the kitchen counter, and a few seconds after he lets go of it, it starts laughing its head off).
the upper air teams with ethereal, perfect ideas of everything, such as perfectly hopeless losers, who sometimes in bouncing around start falling to the ground, around their core gathering up gunk and getting fleshed out, dividing into types, then types of types,
then types of types and of types, and finally
they individualize and crystallize, but at the central ray
of the conic, cosmic shower, the real slurps up
the vertically plunging raw ideal undiluted.
When they enter earth's atmosphere,
the magnate magnetically bends the fall
of such perfectly stinky slinkies toward him
until with nowhere further down to flop,
they stop, and gaze up, spellbound, at Harry,
then types of types and of types, and finally
they individualize and crystallize, but at the central ray
of the conic, cosmic shower, the real slurps up
the vertically plunging raw ideal undiluted.
When they enter earth's atmosphere,
the magnate magnetically bends the fall
of such perfectly stinky slinkies toward him
until with nowhere further down to flop,
they stop, and gaze up, spellbound, at Harry,
grandly gesticulating like a little peg of water
in a garden fountain.
(A sacred texts mixes metaphors and miracles
for if the tracks weren't covered, there would be no freedom,
no faith, only machinery. Strange that those who think it's all machinery
don't acknowledge the machinery needed to de-mechanize machinery.)
for if the tracks weren't covered, there would be no freedom,
no faith, only machinery. Strange that those who think it's all machinery
don't acknowledge the machinery needed to de-mechanize machinery.)
Directly upon landing (having blown on a vroom from
quite literally Kansas), secretly awakens already
in the dream-driven Ozymandian
a secret scorn and weariness of Ozymandy,
it's raw rabid reality belying its status
as the virtually virtual, phantasmagoric city on the river,
the emerald Eldorado under the spell
of the wicked rich and all their mesmerized munchkins --
and he often drifts off, and then floats back
through the rainbow mists of what is to when it isn't yet,
when it's those letters he writes from Kansas
teeming with hopes as cans as wills to do,
and from there he slips right down to the state
he pops out in, OK as Okmulgee, the very locality,
when there's no hope, for nothing's lacked to hope for,
he's a ton of ok just as he is, sixteen pounds
(a record breaker) the heavyweight champion
of the state of OK, oh what a beautiful morning,
oh what a beautiful day.
quite literally Kansas), secretly awakens already
in the dream-driven Ozymandian
a secret scorn and weariness of Ozymandy,
it's raw rabid reality belying its status
as the virtually virtual, phantasmagoric city on the river,
 |
| Unretouched as found, image of approach to weirdly green tinted Emerald City just as I have often beheld it |
of the wicked rich and all their mesmerized munchkins --
and he often drifts off, and then floats back
through the rainbow mists of what is to when it isn't yet,
when it's those letters he writes from Kansas
teeming with hopes as cans as wills to do,
and from there he slips right down to the state
he pops out in, OK as Okmulgee, the very locality,
when there's no hope, for nothing's lacked to hope for,
he's a ton of ok just as he is, sixteen pounds
(a record breaker) the heavyweight champion
of the state of OK, oh what a beautiful morning,
oh what a beautiful day.
 |
| corn rising (upper left quadrant) among among the roses in Callisto's Garden |
Meanwhile, back in misery, with the wizard flown home,
the crystallized cartoon characters' confidence flags,
the stuff his touch gives magic powers to loses its charge.
When this outcome appears in his crystal ball,
the wizard's mood turns dark, as he's sucked back up
to hopes and cans, then back over the rainbow mists
to Emerald city with its tornado green skies mirroring his eyes.
The storm that carries him back wreaks havoc on whatever's
not in the eye of it, or just beyond the razor's edge
(where directly encircling the devastated zone --
where I am, he will shatter me in other ways --
the tables remain set with the wine glasses intact and upright).
the crystallized cartoon characters' confidence flags,
the stuff his touch gives magic powers to loses its charge.
When this outcome appears in his crystal ball,
the wizard's mood turns dark, as he's sucked back up
to hopes and cans, then back over the rainbow mists
to Emerald city with its tornado green skies mirroring his eyes.
The storm that carries him back wreaks havoc on whatever's
not in the eye of it, or just beyond the razor's edge
(where directly encircling the devastated zone --
where I am, he will shatter me in other ways --
the tables remain set with the wine glasses intact and upright).
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| The Miraculously Preserved (and by Now Renovated) Remains of Harry's Magic Factory in the Tornado Ravaged Immigrant House |
3. The Greenness of Harry's Habitat
see image above
4. Harry as a piece of the river plus other data.
The wizard sings Old Man River pretty much constantly. In Missouri Baptist, in the remote suburb of Creve Coeur (pronounced there, heartbreakingly, creeve core) sonorous strains of that song echo all the way to the elevator where he lies dying. (His lively ghost dancing around here demands I get his death over with at the outset.) To take his merman back, Old Man River rises up to record heights, and waits at the hospital door. We stand around his corpse singing that selfsame song. Shocking Cousin Jeanne, who disapproves of creative funerals, Kathy hires a booming baritone to sing it from the choir loft at Harry's. Some might say Jeanne has a point, as Harry so likes the baritone's singing of his song, he decides to linger a while longer and haunt the funeral. Then, when this guy I never met starts spouting about what a great guy Harry was, he occupies the microphone, which literally blows its top, which almost breaks the guys nose as it flies into the pews. Multiple witnesses can corroborate it.
The wizard sings Old Man River pretty much constantly. In Missouri Baptist, in the remote suburb of Creve Coeur (pronounced there, heartbreakingly, creeve core) sonorous strains of that song echo all the way to the elevator where he lies dying. (His lively ghost dancing around here demands I get his death over with at the outset.) To take his merman back, Old Man River rises up to record heights, and waits at the hospital door. We stand around his corpse singing that selfsame song. Shocking Cousin Jeanne, who disapproves of creative funerals, Kathy hires a booming baritone to sing it from the choir loft at Harry's. Some might say Jeanne has a point, as Harry so likes the baritone's singing of his song, he decides to linger a while longer and haunt the funeral. Then, when this guy I never met starts spouting about what a great guy Harry was, he occupies the microphone, which literally blows its top, which almost breaks the guys nose as it flies into the pews. Multiple witnesses can corroborate it.
Not just orchestrating the metaphysical mayhem that unfolds herein, greenish bluish brownish Old Man River manifests manifold marvels, like after Harry covers his chameleon eyes, and just by intoning the words --- greenish greenish greenish, blueish blueish blueish, or brownish brownish brownish, when he opens them, he has turned into another of the three main types of the billions of us. Here comes everybody, joys to the world. I didn't understand the significance of it at the time, but in retrospect I see that there are no accidents. It all adds up to Harry being the wizard. Check off the criterium of crazy enough to be right, and as for too crazy to be right, I'm afraid there's no such thing -- when you remove the filters looking out and looking in, and just let everybody's freak flag fly sky high -- instead of your kind either steering clear or cornering the market, which just gives a transfusion to the resilient illusion that isn't even crazy enough to be grand anymore, let alone right. But it feels right on the surface, it makes sense on the surface, people like it on the surface and like you for liking it on the surface, because that's how illusions work. Not that Harry being the wizard might not be an illusion, I'm only saying it's crazy enough not to be.
But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all.
The wizard's turbulent commutings materialize in the paintings of that era that most all look like storms or tornados reflecting past and future rainbows, those most faithful to the inside of Harry's head being those of the de Koonings, clearly kindred spirits.*
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| Elaine de Kooning, Bullfight, 1959 |
As the tempests he conjures up solidify in contemporary paintings, the rainbows between the storms 3-D print themselves into a great shining ribbon bending with your mind as you weave around it, or you can ride the ferris wheel cab up through the framework of the supple metal spine of the silver snake doing downward dog for a view at the top of the green sea of Oz all the way to the wizard's old house and tower.
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Materialized rainbow melting back into a mirage.
|
Hailing from a long line of our land's greatest poets, the executors of the 3-D printout think how beautiful and apt its image would appear rippling over Old Man River, so they poetically licentiously put it on the wrong side of the state.
5. The wizard's ambiguous relation to fetishes.
Among the boxes of gimmicks and gadgets, medals, and lockets... It's a pack rat's security blanket he needs to cover the cartoon characters with, missing no opportunity to hand out confidential little idols from the boxes, wads of cash so as to die with the unpaid IOU's to him later found in the closet, along with his old high school, college, and law school diplomas. What with that confidence bustin out all over his early letters to Suzy, it's not like he himself needs medals, lockets, or diplomas -- though before he gets it perfectly straight, he wastes his time earning a few of the latter. That's why he blows up like the microphone when his youngest daughter applies for a fellowship for a free ride to a straw man's faith, since he lacks a brain, which faith only works until the inflated currency crashes. He just glares more fiercely when Suzy offers: "but Harry, she could have become a drug addict" -- but nevertheless, he freaks out that she won't let him pay -- "Even the wild animals take care of their young."
aside: In a spatial world, you really need German or some other language where one thing doesn't have to touch the nose of the next to speak to it, where you can track things to their many causes known by many clauses simultaneously. The blind English, French, Spanish, and Italians, among others, think in a tunnel, out of sight out of mind, the last straw is the only one that breaks the camel's back. Over-simplifying a problem leads to greater complications.
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| Making Sense in a Sensory World or...How to Become a River, June, 2016 |
But then again, if you, as a human, spend too much time in such visionary languages, you can achieve too much distance, you can grow cold as a hawk stalking a squirrel, and you need to touch base with a language whose eyes have fallen shut in the throes of the kiss of the world by the word, le monde par le mot -- angelish English, mon mari, and maybe some rolls in the heh! with the wench of French. end of aside.
more evidence produced in next blog entry at:
Note: in case the craft remains grounded, as the soil requires fertilizer, discursive posts justifying synchronicity and other yet stranger effects in a world of experiential (versus either moral or strictly sub-microscopic) relativity can be found at
both types of fertilizers should eventually be applied for optimal flowering and fruit bearing of newly renovated, occupied spacetime.
All the blog posts reveal pockets of spacetime sliding into everyday time to incorporate and reincorporate latest and most ancient understandings in a long overdue refreshment of the long degraded screen.
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| Callisto and me, 2011, by Moises Samon krvs@me.com veronika sheer |
krvs@me.com
this would be illegal,
but I've endured a catholicity of cleansing rites
that I think should cover me, and you,
if you stick to the trail I've blazed --
unless you're a militant selective fundamentalist.
(I doubt all-inclusive fundamentals are militant.)
but I've endured a catholicity of cleansing rites
that I think should cover me, and you,
if you stick to the trail I've blazed --
unless you're a militant selective fundamentalist.
(I doubt all-inclusive fundamentals are militant.)
more evidence presented in next blog entry at:
textual analysis test.
1. physically all fact, no metaphors, though metaphysically, all facts too might be metaphors
2. physically all fact, no metaphors, except to call Harry "Old Man River" is a metafact.
note: textual analysts should have no trouble distinguishing facts and metaphors, such as the metaphor of Harry as a gesticulating fountain versus the fact of his eyes turning three colors and all the other uncanny confluences that identify him as the well known wizard. Until I wrote up this tale I thought it ridiculous that people who accepted absurdly illogical formulations in texts would then turn around and apply logical textual analysis to distinguish symbolic language from assertions of fact. But now I understand how it works, though it's still hard for me to make the leap from miraculously synchronous confluence to things like literal resurrection of the dead. But in truth, one is no more incredible than the other. So don't cherry pick writers like Montaigne and Erasmus. You can't understand the parts without understanding the whole.
to return to index: http://callistosgarden.blogspot.com/2016/
