Midnight is where the Day begins(partial fragment)

[partial journal page entry of a melancholic enthusiast found crumpled up and floating in the middle of a puddle amid a crowded street ]

Alice:    ‘What a funny watch!’  ‘It tells the day of the month, and doesn’t                         tell what o’clock it is!’
Hatter:  ‘Why should it?’  ‘Does YOUR watch tell you what year it is?’
Alice:      ‘Of course not,’  ‘but that’s because it stays the same year for such a                   long time together.’
Hatter:   ‘Which is just the case with MINE,’


May 15th, ____

…I know you, you anxiously driven thoughts.  I know that one can infatuate her with words.  I can totally apprehend how Richard III could overpower a woman who was his ennemi juré and change her into his lover mistress. I know that there is nothing that works so effectively on her as falsehood, a lie, when it is rendered with the fire of wild enthusiasm, with the poisonous thrill of lust.  I know it; she actually does not love such a person, she almost loathes him, but she becomes dizzy, intoxicated, she submits. It was as if an evil spirit wanted to possess me—these spiritual trials enervate, and one becomes weary of shrieking, weary of crying, weary of raging, if nothing comes of it.  It already dangled before me as deposit a presentiment of almost superhuman powers by which I would accomplish great things—in that way rescue my pride and save my honor.  Oh, it is a hard road, the transition of being larger than life in the power of seductive evil to being nothing, nothing whatsoever, less than nothing, and even less than nothing through the antecedent aberrations of my thought…


…I suppose I’m really like an Etch A Sketch that life plays with in order to see on me just how it might look.  Similarly, an artist too has a sketch to which he now shades a little here and from which he now erases a little there before and while his brushstrokes poeticize the canvas; similarly, the mathematician’s pencil drafts a calculation, crosses it out, and then makes a new calculation before he proceeds to finalize his proof.  And similarly, I am only a sketch, only a calculation…


…The Hatter got himself in trouble for ‘beating’ Time.   I often wonder if years later Alice inwardly never forgot his punishment.  I wonder if she began to fully realize how terribly tragic was his sentence.  I wonder then, if her sympathies for his plight might eventually become overwhelming to her and that she must visit him again—She had to find out if Time was truly justified with such a cruel imprisonment.   But then, what might Hatter reply back with to her questioning? How could Alice understand fully when the one that…

I don’t know you
And you don’t know the half of it
I had a starring role
I was the bad guy who walked out
They said be careful where you aim
‘Cause where you aim you just might hit
You can hold onto something so tight
You’ve already lost it

Dragging me down
That’s not the way you use to be
You can’t even remember
What I’m trying to forget

It was a dirty day
Dirty day…

You want explanations
Things I don’t even understand
If you need someone to blame
Hey, throw a rock in the air
You’re bound to hit someone guilty…

[Smudged-out/End of Page]

Tableau of Alice, the March Hare and the Mad Hatter at the tea party in ALICE IN WONDERLAND reproduced from THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF LEWIS CARROLL by Stuart Dodgson.

Tableau of Alice, the March Hare and the Mad Hatter at the tea party in ALICE IN WONDERLAND reproduced from THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF LEWIS CARROLL by Stuart Dodgson.


ZooMoody Gaslights

A little Gaslight experiment with the sounds of Zooropa

[Appended with some unremarkable, unrelated silly Umbrellas]

(what do you want?)
(what do you want?)

Zooropa…vorsprung durch technik
Zooropa…be all that you can be
Be a winner
Eat to get slimmer

Zooropa...a bluer kind of white  Zooropa...it could be yours tonight  We're mild and green  And squeaky clean

Zooropa…a bluer kind of white
Zooropa…it could be yours tonight
We’re mild and green
And squeaky clean


Zooropa…better by design
Zooropa…fly the friendly skies
Through appliance of science
We’ve got that ring of confidence


And I have no compass
And I have no map
And I have no reasons
No reasons to get back  
And I have no religion
And I don’t know what’s what
And I don’t know the limit
The limit of what we’ve got

You must hit play while reading along to the captions, silly

Don't worry baby, it'll be alright  You got the right shoes  To get you through the night  It's cold outside, but brightly lit  Skip the subway  Let's go to the overground  Get your head out of the mud baby  Put flowers in the mud baby  Overground

Don’t worry baby, it’ll be alright
You got the right shoes
To get you through the night
It’s cold outside, but brightly lit
Skip the subway
Let’s go to the overground
Get your head out of the mud baby
Put flowers in the mud baby

No particular place names  No particular song  I've been hiding  What am I hiding from

No particular place names
No particular song
I’ve been hiding
What am I hiding from

Don't worry baby, it's gonna be alright  Uncertainty can be a guiding light  I hear voices, ridiculous voices  Out in the slipstream  Let's go, let's go overground  Take your head out of the mud baby

Don’t worry baby, it’s gonna be alright
Uncertainty can be a guiding light
I hear voices, ridiculous voices
Out in the slipstream
Let’s go, let’s go overground
Take your head out of the mud baby

She's gonna dream up  The world she wants to live in  She's gonna dream out loud  She's gonna dream out loud  Dream out loud

She’s gonna dream up
The world she wants to live in
She’s gonna dream out loud
She’s gonna dream out loud
Dream out loud

And now for some more ridiculous Umbrellas

α…If someone were to pose the inane question to me: which victim is more to be lamented, a girl who is seduced by a Don Juan type or by a Faust, I must admit that there really can be no comparisonthe one seduced by a Faust is utterly lost.  Thus it is very profound indeed that the legend logs 1,003 in Don Juan’s little black book; Faust has only one, but she is also crushed on an entirely different scale.  A girl seduced by a Don Juan still has the world of Spirit before her certainly; but a girl who is seduced by a Faust, well…for her even that is poisoned… Ω

α…And as you once so very wittily observed, when the idea of society truly ascends, communication will become so deeply intense that even to the most observant, the human race will morph into a vast single cyber-ocean where it will be impossible to distinguish the hordes of infusoria who previously formed little unique pockets of isolated floating existences.  Oooo! my latest ‘AP’ just notified me again… Ω


α…I’ve had little to win or to lose in association with the ordinary lump of humanity, partly because what they all averthis so called extraordinary lifelife which appears fairly prevalent in the whole cyber era, is manifest also in the biggest of things; whereas the past ages built works before which the observer must stand by himself in complete awe and silence; now they build a ‘cloud’  and everyone swears at once in bold-faced font they wear a cape too!  Yes, almost before a child gets time to admire the singular beauty of a plant or some animal, it demands: But is it extraordinary?This does not interest me much, its hard to realize the spiritual and deeper currents in man while claiming to one-up the next cyber-mountain-climber… Ω

[An imaginary construction of a one way chat directed at a silent Aesthete]

α…It is okay, one might say, that you cannot allow yourself to be satisfied with such a mundane and ordinary life, that your ravenous hunger for pleasure cannot be satisfied by thatbut is it more satisfied by the satiety that comes almost in the very moment of pleasure. The satiety you experienced in the same instant you embraced the pleasure?… Ω

α…but wanting to construct imaginatively is really quite futile.  You know how Musäus’s Rubezahl was tricked by his captive young princess who sent him to the fields to count turnips; he never finished, you see, and she got clean awaybut he is the very likeness of you, who like him in a certain sense is very clever, in another extremely stupid.you become fooled out of life… Ω


α…If you happen by a young woman who had become terribly unhappy in love, you do not hesitate to IM with her and tell her the contents of her life in the form of fairy tales.Heaven help that young woman!… Ω

α…But is it any better really, then…then the perspective in which you see every joy vanish with a swift fleeting sigh?  Whenever you see a young woman, you immediately become very anxious because it seems to you as if this were her happy moment that will never descend upon her again… Ω


tete de femme

α…On cyber status updates, generally it is regarded as the ultimate wisdom of life to live each moment as if one were teetering over the very precipice of death.  I knew a woman on Facebook once who became very unhappy precisely because she continually believed that she would diethis poor status-conscious lady robbed herself of all patience to live… Ω

α…I’ve heard it explained that man’s walking is a constant falling.  This, one might say, is even more the case  with his running; he is continually prevented from falling by a new fall.  So it is with you; you lack the firm posture of a devoted life view, and therefore you cannot stand but, oh boy, can you ever run… Ω

α…She’s crossing the Rubicon!  No doubt this road takes her into battle, but she will not renounce her decision.  She will not lament the pastwhy lament?  She will not waste time in regrets, like the girl stuck in a mire and first figuring-out how far she has sunk—all the while she is sinking still deeper.  No, She will hurry along the path she found and shout to everyone she meets:  Do not look back as Lot’s wife did, but remember that we are running up a hill… Ω

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


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.