Silly Umbrellas

α… My prized sterling silver Malacca Prince of Wales never forsakes me; it did that only once.  It was during a terrible storm;  I stood all alone on Mass Ave, forsaken by everybody, and then my faithful umbrella turned inside out.  I was at a loss as to whether or not I should abandon it because of its faithlessness and become a misanthrope.  I have acquired such an affection for it that I always carry it , rain or shine; indeed, to show it that I do not love it merely for its usefulness, I sometimes walk up and down my room and pretend I am outside, lean on it, open it up, rest my chin on the handle, bring it to my lips, etc… Ω

α…You ask me what I do in the world—answer:  I amuse myself—what do you think of that?  I know very well that my occupation is the opposite of most other people’s, but then at least I’m not bored. Ω

αI imagine you so vividly—my confession of love cannot disturb you—You do not know who I am—I do not know who you are—and yet there can be an understanding between us, and every time I see a pretty femme I think that she perhaps has read it, she perhaps has felt a faint shiver—and I ask whether.. .Ω

αYou are beautiful, my dear; your lips, what health they breathe, your eyes, how shining, how pure.  When you open them, it’s like a dark cloud hiding the moon and now suddenly disappearing,  and the moon’s radiance becomes twice as bright, because the cloud has polished it….You become angry with me, although wrongly so, since you do not know how guilty I am—I prefer to begin with a girl’s being angry with meΩ

αShe wears sorrow and not just the apparel of sorrowΩ

 

αAnd at times she nevertheless knelt before me and stretched her hands up to me!Ω

 

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Diversion in Muse Dialectics

Yesterday I loved,Today I suffer,
Tomorrow I die,
Yet, today and tomorrow,
I like to think
Of yesterday

– G. Lessing

Anyone who has ever had leanings towards productivity has certainly also noticed that it is a little accidental external circumstance that becomes the occasion for the actual producing.  Only authors who, in one way or another, have made a final purpose into their inspiration will perhaps deny this.  This,  however,  is to their own injury,  for they are thereby deprived of the extreme poles of all true and sound productivity.  The one is what is traditionally called “invocation of the muse”;  the other is the “occasion.” – The expression “invocation of the muse” can occasion a misunderstanding.  To invoke the muse may signify,  for one thing,  that I invoke the muse;  for another,  that the muse invokes me.  Any author who is either so naive as to believe that everything depends on an honest will,  on industry and effort,  or is so shameless as to offer for sale the products of the spirit will not be wanting in ardent invocation or brash forwardness.  But not much is achieved thereby,  for what was once said long ago still holds concerning the god of taste “whom all invoke,”  that he “so rarely comes.”  But if we interpret this expression to mean that it is the muse who invokes – I shall not say us,  but those concerned – then the matter acquires a different meaning.  Whereas the authors who invoke the muse also embark without her coming,  those last described,  on the other hand,  are in another dilemma,  in that they need an extra element for an inner decision to become an outer decision;  this element is what one must call the occasion.

In other words,  by invoking them, the muse has beckoned them away from the world,  and now they listen only to her voice,  and the wealth of thought is opened to them,  but so overwhelmingly that,  although every word is clear and vivid,  it seems to them as if it were not their own possession.  When consciousness has come to itself again to the extent that it possesses the whole output,  then the moment is reached that contains the possibility of the idea actually coming into existence, and yet something is lacking,  namely,  the occasion – which is just as necessary,  if you please,  although in another sense most insignificant.  It has pleased the gods to link together the greatest contradictions in this way.  This is a secret implicit in actuality – an offense to the Jews and foolishness to the Ancient Greeks.  The occasion is always the accidental,  and the prodigious paradox is that the accidental is absolutely just as necessary as the necessary.  In the ideal sense, the occasion is not the accidental as,  for example,  when I think the accidental in the logical sense, but the occasion is the accidental in the sense of fetishism,  and yet in this accidentality it is the necessary.

And yet even the most consummate,  the most profound,  and the most meaningful work has an occasion.  The occasion is the tenuous,  almost invisible web in which the fruit is suspended.  Therefore,  insofar as it sometimes seems that something essential is the occasion,  this is usually a mistake,  since in such case it is likely to be only a particular edge of it….

But what am I doing writing all this silly nonsense.  This is after all WordPress,  and the people have “liked”  – never mind asking for a like explanation.  A vacuum space in blog comments where blogging thoughts must match the length of that always exciting thumbs up,  or,  of course,  that very dreaded thumbs down, err I mean “dislike”.   So while I had much more where my thought wished to lead me I will gladly desist for progress.  However, If I may be allowed a more streamlined fancy hip way of expressing my laborious thought,  perhaps a video – Yes,  Yes,  Quite right.  I did say nothing was more boring than the consistent but I never said I wasn’t boring.  Watch intently if you feel yourself in the least poetically gifted.  Pay heed to the distinctive mannerisms of the well known pop-star and his secret agent guitarist.  O’ my poets and silent readers;  does the muse now invoke you or do you now invoke the muse?  If so I am rather curious with what she is whispering in your ears?   Please do spin that fabric of dreams nature bestowed upon you for me?  For poets speak a native tongue I can never be privy too.  And here,  something about the individual is being portrayed I am quite positive about that.  But it is to the poetic ones I unfairly lay this burden of extrapolation.   Perhaps you hear the silhouette of the unhappy lover who swings the pendulum of recollected thoughts back and forth over the past,  perhaps you hear the dread of an internal conflict that duels every night when the clock tolls midnight,  perhaps this is the very concept of anxiety,  Alas! Alas! I say perhaps,  for I am not poetic. – though fortunately I do know some who are.