one word gene rayburn: match
fractal aneurysms
you might have heard
the weather is splendid
down java way
in the interest of
character analysis
we offer the remainders
in telluride
the blissful contemplations
will ever do
with prismatic
satisfaction
you will ever do
if you never do
the dewdrops
of pass me round
the scylla
the charybdis
of adolescent blue.
you might have heard
the weather is splendid
down java way
in the interest of
character analysis
we offer the remainders
in telluride
the blissful contemplations
will ever do
with prismatic
satisfaction
you will ever do
if you never do
the dewdrops
of pass me round
the scylla
the charybdis
of adolescent blue.
Labels: gaming in the falklands
posted by murat11 at 5:24 PM
12 Comments:
Don't know what it means but I like it. Been having fractal aneurysms all day and would very much like to contemplate some prismatic satisfaction or any other kind in Telluride. Been between a rock and a hard place for way to long.
The referent for this one was a little bit before my time, Murat. I never really liked Gene Rayburn as a gameshow host, even when he appeared on Fantasy Island (was it one of the Falklands?), and my mom never let me watch the Match Game.
But getting past the packaging to the poem, I find that "fractal aneurysms" has a wonderful, lilting ring to it, and although I can't find it on any of the medical websites as a true disease, I think it should be one. I would love to have such a condition. "Sorry, dahling, I just can't make it to coffee, it's that blasted fractal aneurysm, you know. It is such a drag. It really spoils an otherwise beautiful, sunny day."
Now, with respect to contemplating the remainder of characters in Telluride, it's funny you should mention it. I was reading an essay by Walter Benjamin about what film has done to theater, how the aura of the performance is wiped away by the medium of film, and the art is reduced to politics or money. So perhaps there is NO remainder of character in Telluride. Benjamin argues that there is no real "character" left at all for the audience to engage.
But watching movies does give one a certain blissful (and passive) contemplation, and through the prisms of the camera lens, the producers cutting and splicing machines, and the directors takes and retakes, we do see something that gives us a vegetative sense of satisfaction.
And in our vegetative, hypnotized state, will we ever do it? I don't know. Probably never as we get more and more passive till we do pass the dewdrops around and around. People in this modern era are less and less likely to take responsibility and say that the buck stops here. Perhaps the mechanical mass production of art has trapped the human race in a blue mood between the scylla and charybdis of an eternal adolescence.
Now that is NOT a happy thought. I blame it all on Gene Rayburn...
Dee: I fear that you must have a real job. Jobs with summer vacations should not have such a deadly sheen. Several of us at the Instituto can already smell Thanksgiving just around the corner, and that's just a hop, skip, and a jump to next summer's waves. Here's to dissolving both that Scylla and that Charybdis.
Teresa: Woof: that was one for the chapbook - and the record books. Seems Gene may have more to account for than even Chuck Barris (who, no doubt, started the Falklands contretemps).
I don't quite know what to do with Walter: methinks he needs a healthy dose of weekends at the drive-in with Annette Funicello. I'm sure money and the money of film has impacted the money of theater, as well as our initial capacities as theatergoers to get the experience and its immediacy, but I doubt that its primal aspect is diminished in the long run. It engages us because it engages us, regardless of cinema's doings. It may engage fewer of us, but that's about numbers and access (and theater's own outrageous - and elitist - ticket prices). Once accessed, I believe it can still do what it ever did. And that we are there and, in effect, even more a collaborator in the performance (characters ourselves), suggests to me that there is plenty of "character" left to engage.
"Adolescent" blue was a labored line, contrary to my usual unlabored, preconscious method. "Blue" came with a blank, a need for a descriptor, and a number were quickly entertained before "settling" on adolescent, given the frequent comparison of adolescence to a navigation between the Scylla and Charybdis. In this way, at least part of this is a back to school poem.
Dear Murat: I am NOT sure that a surfeit of weekends at the drive-in with Annette Funicello would convince poor Walter that movies are indeed ART. On the contrary, he may be more convinced of his morose viewpoint than ever. But what can one expect from an essay that must be downloaded from www.marxists.org? They have such a dreary, pessimistic outlook on the present day and age and believe that the superstructure of human society is crumbling around our ears, including the arts.
Didn't mean to be a drag on your blog, man, but it was a way to digest what I had read and think about how I will use it for my thesis. If found it interesting that your poem for the day matched my reading for the day... and took that as providential!
It does not seem to matter how much of the last few lines is preconscious and how much is post conscious; they are really, really deep and strike a chord. They are my favorite part of the poem.
Have a great weekend!
Teresita: I did not feel dragged or drugged by your musings, but I think you underestimate Annette's mesmeric qualities: I bet she could take down an old dour Marxist any day of the week.
Teresa: I forgot to thank you for the third paragraph in your comment: I'm very grateful to have a reader with your tesserine intellect: it's always fun to have the poems volleyed back across the net. Mil gracias.
Any old dour male Marxist, maybe, but females get turned off pretty quick. (And of course, anyone coming up from the Mickey Mouse club presents grave question with regard to their motives: art or money...)
T: I'd say the motives were pretty clear, eh? So, for the dour femme marxistas, there's always Frankie.
Not my type. Too white and pasty. But then I'm not a dour femme marxista, so what do I know?/
And you're welcome to all my compliments. I thoroughly enjoy playing word and mind games with a master. The cotton candy/ice cream popsicle/sacred BB of my day!
Sorry, Teresa, but Frankie was chosen for the DFMs. Your destiny was the Black Ox Prince. Mo betta, no?
Oh yeah!
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