Stream-of-Consciousness Prose-Writing Excercise: The Weight Of Weightlessness & Waiting For Nothing To Happen Long After It Already Has

“Stream of consciousness is a narrative device that attempts to give the written equivalent of the character’s thought processes, either in a loose interior monologue, or in connection to his or her actions. Stream-of-consciousness writing is usually regarded as a special form of interior monologue and is characterized by associative leaps in thought and lack of some or all punctuation.”
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stream_of_consciousness_%28narrative_mode%29

Sometimes in the moment, affections we’ve felt deeply, can suddenly seem to disappear into ambiguous mystery, and we can find ourselves wondering how we so lost ourselves to the feeling, what it was that possessed us so completely, before like a drifting mist mistress or mister with the whims of the wind, it was moving on without us, leaving us alone with only the memories and the feeling that though what we had has apparently been emptied of it’s depth of meaning, the vacancy is just as heavy and staggering… that is, if our sensitivity to the lack of weight that left with whatever it was that we thought we had, isn’t actually felt even more intensely, the freedom of uncertainty being paradoxically burdensome, as though singleness was a chain, a suffocating relationship dominated by the uncontrollable-control of our thoughts in the prison of own solitary little worlds with only the tiresome company of me, myself and I, and no one else that was quite as interesting as the company of those that once possessed our presence and attention so fully to be found on the horizon, as the walls of our own disappointments keep us from seeing other opportunities for love outside of the experience of wonder and regret we keep reliving to ourselves, until the ghost of what was is exorcised from our minds by the passage of time unwinding our sentiments from the spool of our tightly-wound skeins of our personal sensitivities.

Sadly, the weight of weightlessness is an unbalanced, unstable paradox that tips the scales in an unexpected direction with a heart-felt gravity that is hard to counteract in reality. Lost in the clouds of wonder at what once was wonderful as our questions thunder about why, like lightning in the sky, it was torn from us and thrown suddenly asunder, cast far away in a flash that has resulted in nothing but our love’s memoirs ruined in the rain that we brainstorm and chase the sun under, that has already set in vain on a day that was made on a dawn we have lost track of in a calendar labyrinth of dead-ends to what feels like a rat race in a lab experiment run by a faraway capricious scientist in the sky who likes playing games of mice and men and heart-stealing stalking cat-women with our restless minds so desperate to somehow find our way out of our routine of floating miserably through what seems like an endless maze of bad days that feel like B-movies littered with traces of the repugnant stench of cheesy Swiss plot-holes with no hope of ever finding a happy resolution this side of the nightmare, that we don’t know we’re melodramatically acting-out in inside the moment that will pass eventually when enough time has passed beyond our grasp that our feet stop kicking and we stop screaming as our aimless air-walking steps in place come down from outer-space, and we settle ourselves down, back to earth again in the land of the living with rhyme and reasoning…

Well, at least for a season, until nostalgia strikes without warning, confronted with sudden reminders of residue feelings when faced again with that man or that woman who got away, but apparently not far enough to stay or completely escape us, as traces of them or even actual close proximately makes the theory of relativity our actual experience at light-speed, as memories we thought we had finally e=mc-squared-away come flashing-back before our eyes, teasing us in our minds about how even though they left us far behind what we thought was light-years ago, they can come back lickity-split to torment us again quicker than you can say “oh shit” as we can re-experience feelings from past times of our lives with fluctuating liquidity, no matter the lucidity beholden our memory, because like physical injuries, emotional scars are experientially anchored in our hearts forever, and will always flare-up under pressure, because broken-hearts hyper-sensitize us to the littlest miniscule changes in emotional weather with senses akin to either the sixths of psychics or paranoid schizophrenics.

We fulfill prophesies ourselves, in whether or not we brew a storm in our thoughts by reminiscing with the dissonance of our feeling we still owe it to ourselves to find the answers to questions we were left alone to our futile devices to resolve, that we have already decided we could only find closure through accepting some mysteries, we are better off not wasting our lives and whiling away our time crying trying to solve, as no matter the reasons for what we lost, understanding why we lack what we wanted is still a comfortless consolation prize compared to actually having it back again.

It’s been said for centuries, that “knowledge is power”, but even if we seek it out in Latin, and like me play on words and google it sarcastically to share in the dead language literally to make believe that hitting keys with fingers and too much time on empty hands like this: “scientia potentia est” and with ease of knowing your way around wikipedia, can even come out looking even smarter by sharing that it’s also said two other ways, “scientia est potentia” and “scientia potestas est” respectively, you can still be blind to the limits of your intellect and how like me you may come out with what only looks like a shining intellect on the surface under which you are likely hiding the simple fact that you are unenlightened as to how to pronounce those strange-looking words, and like me, may simply be distracting yourself with knowledge you have no actual use for, simply as an exercise in the futility of knowing something that is of no actual use to you in the end of it’s pursuit, as is knowing the reasons behind why you were left questioning the absence felt in the wake from the dream-like feelings for the one that got away, or if like me you keep count out of self-torturing OCD you dress nicely in the disguise of beautifully tragic poetry, you might call the devil’s dozen as I call them, the unlucky 13 that got away, that left you cursed to bear the unbearable weight of being buried under weightless imaginations and whimsical fantasies beyond measure about what was and should have been, but never could have been.

…or so you may tell yourself like I just have shared in this long-winded publicized inner-monologue of my fleeting thoughts and futile feelings in hopes of trying to convince myself of the uselessness of wondering what that fickle bitch was thinking trying to worm her way back into my heart only half-way before getting second-thoughts and deciding that being in my life was to be like being the rotten apple of my eye, unsure of if she is better off more worm than apple, comparing apples and oranges, wanting to have her cake and eat it to, to be a both a moth to the flame and the flame to the moth, or a hybrid of the two, calling a moth consumed in flames a phoenix in the process of being born.

However I call her, I call it fucking boring. How about them apples? You can eat your heart out, and keep your O.J. jealousy to yourself. Hawaiian punch kool-aid poison yourself to death for all I care, I’m not making myself party to the cult of your toxic affections, I’m allergic to the bullshit your insincere sentiments are laced with. I took an over-the-counter Claritin tablet and it cleared my sinuses, and I clearly smell the tell-tale stench of cow-patty happiness a mile off covering your intentions across the hell-paving promise-less hell-raising lies on the breath of your sappy sweet-nothings that in actuality are actually nothing… at least to me, thou with a name that sounds like a dream, but is a just a nightmare I woke up from regretting having ever heard as yours, as your love is a roseless thorn’s, that by any other name would still offer nothing but thoughtless disappointment and the pain of unrequited regrets of a friendship’s lost treasure beyond hope of salvaging outside of dreams from the depths of the simultaneously, somehow shallow, Adriatic Sea of doubts and dubious double-crosses of it’s scandalous succubus Siren sea hag who is too much of a hassle to respectfully handle but apparently amusing to dismiss in eloquent ways that not only mock mermaids, but poke fun and laugh at the idea of how it also happens with giggles, as shit happens, that the idea of you leaving the instability of the sea of your fickle feelings is just as likely to happen as fish growing legs and moving inland on stable ground for a relationship with a Cheshire Cat, much less with a man with that as one of his nicknames.

“Sleepwalking”
by Beat Radio

Summer is gone don’t know where the days went
Me and my friends descend into basements
When we were kids we did things the same way
Queen of the street and ghost of the midway

We come together to hold each other up
Broken guitars and wine from paper cups

C’mon come on
Sometimes you feel the pain of everyone
Sometimes you feel like you’re the only one
Sleepwalking in the mid-day sun

We came apart
Everyone said it was a work of art
16 bit troubles for my 8 bit heart
A mad mission from the very start

I’m moving slow so everyone wonders
Nothing could break the spell that I’m under
Love is a map of stars and I’m lost in the words
On the page I can’t get across

And if I could I know we’d be just fine
I get no sleep but I’m dreaming all time

C’mon come on
This is the story of a town gone wrong
And we’re together cause we don’t belong
And everyone we used to know is gone

We came apart
Everyone said it was a work of art
16 bit troubles for my 8 bit heart
A mad mission from the very start

Who was it that said
That death is the remedy
Nearly all singers dream of?
Well, let that be my elegy

C’mon come on
Sometimes you feel the pain of everyone
Sometimes you feel like you’re the only one
Sleepwalking in the mid day sun

We came apart
Everyone said it was a work of art
16 bit troubles for my 8 bit heart
A mad mission from the very start

C’mon come on
This is the story of a town gone wrong
And we’re together cause we don’t belong
And everyone we used to know is gone

We came apart
Everyone said it was a work of art
16 bit troubles for my 8 bit heart
A mad mission from the very start

Sonnets From Hush To Hush IV (ROUGH FIRST DRAFT)

NOTE: I really did come across a man proposing to his girlfriend in the cold and dark at Frontier Park tonight underneath the Christmas-lighted trees, and I really did hear them embrace weeping as I passed right by them in the middle of the path… I wasn’t playing on the photo of the statue of either Lewis or Clark on bended knee. I wrote the first stanza before I went out looking for inspiration at the park to finish the sonnet, and I wrote the second stanza after I got back home.

Dusk’s darkness preys on Snow Angelus prayers, its Dawn-likeness playing the Frost love in silence
Two-face-Twilight rifts sad dreams, omits mad realities, rips off odds, ends, rends them beginnings
and the consolation prize of constellations’ compromises’ pyrite promised love of King Midas’ Queen
when every heart you touch turns to putty, before Browning — smelling like death’s second-cousins’
unfinished business, undead feelings left undone, haunted by ambiguous unlove’s not quite unrequited
hard-luck hearts strung-out like harps’ willow-hung, their unsung Hush wind-spun, voices dream-dying
lonely before waking Demoniac-sounding afterthoughts of being a Pre-Dawn demi-god’s forgotten poetry
inspirations siphoned from Autumn-spirits Twilight-twixt in Summer-coming, Winter-going undecided

Unlike the unhesitating silent winter night owl, who on a whim walked out on a limb with winter ghosts:
Tonight, downtown afterdark in the heart of Frontier park, the Crowkeeper watched one propose, passing
white-lighted trees as he rose from bended knee, embracing her weeping, his goal’s everlasting gold halo
The lostness of a cause is the threshold in which it stalls, closing chances hinged on this lack of slackness
in our jaws juxtaposed with our mouth’s foam, speaking out both sides of it — Arabs snow, sand Eskimos,
when a Devil’s Advocate for dream-possessed Winters who haven’t need of me to speak of out of Lalaland

“Sonnets From The Portuguese IV”
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,
Most gracious singer of high poems! where
The dancers will break footing, from the care
Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.
And dost thou lift this house’s latch too poor
For hand of thine? and canst thou think and bear
To let thy music drop here unaware
In folds of golden fulness at my door?
Look up and see the casement broken in,
The bats and owlets builders in the roof!
My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.
Hush, call no echo up in further proof
Of desolation! there’s a voice within
That weeps . . . as thou must sing . . . alone, aloof.

Beneath Lies of Omission, Lies Vulnerability (Kanshi)

This Mental Gymnast Illness
attempts equilibrium,
chemically imbalanced
on the beams of self-esteem

In my dreams, I’m important
and living’s purpose-serving,
not overwhelming, useless —
Failure’s options, aren’t, asleep

These words are fragile, transparent
If this is called heart-bearing,
this glass-chest houses caskets’
buried six-feet deep meanings

Mausoleum in the flesh,
I am a cryptic man seen
struggling to keep secrets
of those who are dead to me

Those who have moved on and left
my heart darkened in parting
with my light feelings, helpless,
haunted by what once was free

Speaking and easily read,
no pretense of mystery
or devaluing what’s said
with dead vocabulary

Disappearing inks, unsaid
feelings once strong, dwindling
Fire’s embers held passion’s breath
before dying cinder’s beliefs

Martyred, marriage-less, undead
and writing strange-sounding things
paradoxically meshed
unsettling harmony

Archaic, a jumbled mess,
beautiful monstrosity
in love with the ugliness,
the best shared with me, shitty

Mesmerizing, repellent
Magnetic, polarizing
and sadomasochistic
open-wound celebrating

Prolonged suffering, dead ends
of horse’s corpse’s betting
Habeas Corpus petitions
can resurrect, win the race

After living, that’s outlived
the usefulness of asking
and praying for directions
preferring pretend-playing

I need saving, when I’ve quit
believing in anything
relative to truth — this
abused fool’s beyond fixing

My heart’s glass house is broken
Fragile, cracked in half, shitty —
Made of toilet porcelain,
I can’t give a crap love, see?

See, I’ve already chosen
to bury shit meanings deep…
Beneath lies of omission,
lies vulnerability

“Dreaming Wide Awake”
by Beat Radio

I’ve been thinking of that moment my eyes first met yours,
after hours stealing glances from across the floor…
then we’re talking, standing closer and we’re losing track of time.
When we go I don’t think twice, before I take your hand in mine…

…and everything I know is gonna change,
and now it’s hard to tell where things fit in,
but I can feel my heartbeat getting faster,
and I’m in a state I’ve never been

Daylight breaking, we go walking through this sleepy lakeside town —
Feels like dreaming wide awake, and there’s no one else around.
Kiss you in the tall-grass underneath the weeping willow tree,
with my hands around your hips, and I pull you close to me…

…but everything I know is gonna change.
Right now it’s hard to tell where things fit in,
and I can feel my heartbeat getting faster,
and I’m in a state I’ve never been.

I was fine before I was stumbling around in the dark…
And I never wanted anything more, but I didn’t even know my own heart —
I was busy making plans. There were things I wasn’t ready to face,
but now is the only time, and this is the only place…

…and everything I know is gonna change, and now it’s hard to tell where things fit in,
but I can feel my heartbeat getting faster and I’m in a state I’ve never been,
because everything I know is gonna change, and now it’s hard to tell where things fit in,
but I can feel my heartbeat getting faster, and I’m in a state I’ve never been…

Sonnets From Hush To Hush III (ROUGH FIRST DRAFT)

“Sonnets From Hush To Hush III”
by Ry Hakari

Inkling inclinator, inspiring exasperator — Hello Opera, ain’t it a scaleless matrix
computated to “Know Thyself” through dragon-chasing Opium-like pipe-dreams,
complicated Ouroboroses’ madness ending our tales just after our beginnings?
Following stuffed-up noses, broken compass roses, senselessness orchestrated
Winter Solstice-born Nostradamus, who wrote the omen, “We call them ‘plagiarist!’
But hush’ For setting souls ajar Is not my line, I wist“, eagle-eying schemes
with the spirit of the Black Jay lifted from Aesop’s Fable of the make-beliefs
of another Crow arrayed in a Peacock’s rainbow-snake-oil story straight-jacketed

in narcissistic self-infatuation, with his Raven Queen’s raving support under fowl-wing,
together crowing “Look at me!” in songbird city, caged in poverty — And silent, sadly I,
the Snowy Owl in Eagle-eyed Black Jay humility, ill-ashen sackcloth-suited — Least,
taciturn, leaving cold-shoulders crimson-scourged from fevered-blood let sleeping lie
until streaming dried from lonely tongue-biting, love forsaking, shaking memories,
brazen-bear the mantle of the scarlet-letter-scourged Red-Winged Blackbird after-life

“Sonnets From The Portuguese III”
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!
Unlike our uses and our destinies.
Our ministering two angels look surprise
On one another, as they strike athwart
Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art
A guest for queens to social pageantries,
With gages from a hundred brighter eyes
Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part
Of chief musician. What hast thou to do
With looking from the lattice-lights at me,
A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through
The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree?
The chrism is on thine head,—on mine, the dew,—
And Death must dig the level where these agree.

Amusing Clues As The Mystery Of Robert Browning’s & My Shared “Hush-Hush” Obesession Continues

The sheer number of times Robert Browning used the word “Hush” in his poetry and plays exceeds 60 times by my count…

“I have your word — remember! — We’ll keep the old delusion up! But, hush! Hush! Each of us has work to do, beside! Go to the King! I hope — Hollis — I hope! Say nothing of my scheme! Hush, while we speak Think where He is!”
— Robert Browning, prose excerpt of his play Strafford

Below is the end of Act II of his play Paracelsus:

Aprile.
To speak but once, and die! yet by his side.
Hush! hush!
Ha! go you ever girt about
With phantoms, powers? I have created such,
But these seem real as I.

Paracelsus.
Whom can you see
Through the accursed darkness?

Aprile.
Stay; I know,
I know them: who should know them well as I?
White brows, lit up with glory; poets all!

Paracelsus.
Let him but live, and I have my reward!

Aprile.
Yes; I see now. God is the perfect poet,
Who in his person acts his own creations.
Had you but told me this at first! Hush! hush!

Paracelsus.
Live! for my sake, because of my great sin,
To help my brain, oppressed by these wild words
And their deep import. Live! ’t is not too late.
I have a quiet home for us, and friends.
Michal shall smile on you. Hear you? Lean thus,
And breathe my breath. I shall not lose one word
Of all your speech, one little word, Aprile!

Aprile.
No, no. Crown me? I am not one of you!
’T is he, the king, you seek. I am not one.

Paracelsus.
Thy spirit, at least, Aprile! Let me love!
I have attained, and now I may depart.

Very similar to the poem that is the crux of my life, “21 Shades of Blue” which speaks of a Hush-Hush:

"21 Shades of Blue" by Ry Hakari (Me) [February 28, 2006]

“21 Shades of Blue” by Ry Hakari (Me) [February 28, 2006]

“The incense-gaspings, long kept in,
Suspire in clouds; the organ blatant
Holds his breath and grovels latent,
As if God’s hushing finger grazed him,
(Like Behemoth when He praised him)
At the silver bell’s shrill tinkling,
Quick cold drops of terror sprinkling
On the sudden pavement strewed
With faces of the multitude.
Earth breaks up, time drops away,
In flows heaven, with its new day
Of endless life, when He who trod,
Very Man and very God,
This earth in weakness, shame and pain,
Dying the death whose signs remain
Up yonder on the accursed tree”
- Robert Browning, excerpt of “Christmas Eve & Easter Day”

“Wintress (X-Mas Eve 2004 Wish)”
by Ry Hakari

Winter can you please answer,
everything you do gets even stranger
I don’t understand this,
somehow I feel bliss
When feeling winters embrace,
it’s like snow falling on my face
Like white snow on the grass,
I wonder how long this will last
Will you make spring come,
summer then autumn
Despite the cold you’re bringing,
you give me such a warm feeling
I for one hope you stay,
please don’t become my yesterday
You bring me closer to heaven,
and I know I’m just a human
But for some reason,
I fell for a season

“One Word More: Part 18″
by Robert Browning (full poem at http://www.bartleby.com/42/676.html)

This I say of me, but think of you, Love!
This to you—yourself my moon of poets!
Ah, but that’s the world’s side, there’s the wonder,
Thus they see you, praise you, think they know you!
There, in turn I stand with them and praise you—
Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it.
But the best is when I glide from out them,
Cross a step or two of dubious twilight,
Come out on the other side, the novel
Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of,
Where I hush and bless myself with silence.

“A Woman’s Last Word”
by Robert Browning

I.
Let’s contend no more, Love,
Strive nor weep:
All be as before, Love,
—Only sleep!

II.
What so wild as words are?
I and thou
In debate, as birds are,
Hawk on bough!

III.
See the creature stalking
While we speak!
Hush and hide the talking,
Cheek on cheek!

IV.
What so false as truth is,
False to thee?
Where the serpent’s tooth is
Shun the tree—

V.
Where the apple reddens
Never pry—
Lest we lose our Edens,
Eve and I.

VI.
Be a god and hold me
With a charm!
Be a man and fold me
With thine arm!

VII.
Teach me, only teach, Love
As I ought
I will speak thy speech, Love,
Think thy thought—

VIII.
Meet, if thou require it,
Both demands,
Laying flesh and spirit
In thy hands.

IX.
That shall be to-morrow
Not to-night:
I must bury sorrow
Out of sight:

X
—Must a little weep, Love,
(Foolish me!)
And so fall asleep, Love,
Loved by thee.

“White Noise”
by EXITMUSIC

Christ on the cross as it’s illustrated.
I’m body soft and disintegrated.
I’m in this self half-illuminated.
I’m on the call but it’s distant and faded.

I myself I’m the robber denied.
I chased all I lost down to spiraling silence.
I’m on your side it’s just so hard to see you.
I’m on the side of the ghost and the needle.

It’s the choice in my hand,
the suicide or the slaughtered lamb.
When it’s so full of tricks,
I’ll be toasting the gold lights of life.

The trail is cold and hard,
the course of the light of the child.
A slow messenger,
I’m in charge of the coal and the fire.

White noise calling on a sudden delusion.
I’m chased out of breath trying to come back to you.
I’m in arrest of the subtle hues.
Oh, I’m in this self-sick solitude.

The sky’s fallen soft to the silence renewed.
I erased all the tops from the tall city view.
I’m in the flesh of the hungering few.
Oh, I’m on the call trying to get back to you.

It’s the choice in my hand,
the suicide or the slaughtered lamb.
When it’s so full of tricks,
I’ll be toasting the gold lights of life.
The trail is cold and hard,
the course of the light of the child.
A slow messenger,
I’m in charge of the coal and the fire.

Portions of a Spartan’s & a Sunspot’s Open Correspondence (1 of 2?): The Ill-fated Hard-To-Name Involvement That Once Was At Least A Hint Of Something, That Now & Forevermore Is No More

This is an avant-garde memory-scrapbook post, and is not polished because of it. It is more for me than anyone else. If it is well-received, which is not likely, I will write the sequel, eventually. As it is long, and “ain’t nobody got time for that“, the second half will not likely receive my time or energy.

“Eloisa to Abelard (excerpt)”
by Alexander Pope

How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
“Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;”
Desires compos’d, affections ever ev’n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav’n.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp’ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her th’ unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing,
To sounds of heav’nly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.

Far other dreams my erring soul employ,
Far other raptures, of unholy joy:
When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatch’d away,
Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.
Oh curs’d, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking Daemons all restraint remove,
And stir within me every source of love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o’er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms.
I wake–no more I hear, no more I view,
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.

The poet Elizabet Barrett (Browning) could sure be a manipulative, mixed-message-sending bitch sometimes in how she spoke cryptically to the poet Robert Browning, playing mind-games with him… Seems people back then were not all-together different from how they conduct themselves now in the present day.

Here is an excerpt of something she wrote him on February 21, 1886:

“If I could take my letter again I would dip it into Lethe [NOTE: the mythological river in the underworld that causes forgetfulness, which I wrote of in my short story prose “Love Lethe” (hover cursor over link for summary)] , saying between the lilies, instead of the post office:—but I can’t—so if you wondered, you must forget as far as possible, and understand how it was, and that I was in brimming spirits when I wrote, from two causes …

On the other hand I warn you against saying again what you began to say yesterday and stopped. Do not try it again. What may be quite good sense from me, is from you very much the reverse, and pray observe that difference. Or did you think that I was making my own road clear in the the thing I said about—’jilts’? No, you did not. Yet I am ready to repeat of myself as of others, that if I ceased to love you, I certainly would act out the whole consequence—but that is an impossible ‘if’ to my nature, supposing the conditions of it otherwise to be probable. I never loved anyone much and ceased to love that person. Ask every friend of mine, if I am given to change even in friendship! And to you…! Ah, but you never think of such a thing seriously—and you are conscious that you did not say it very sagely. You and I are in different positions. Now let me tell you an apologue in exchange for your Wednesday’s stories which I liked so, and mine perhaps may make you ‘a little wiser’—who knows?

It befell that there stood in hall a bold baron, and out he spake to one of his serfs … ‘Come thou; and take this baton of my baronie, and give me instead thereof that sprig of hawthorn thou holdest in thine hand.’ Now the hawthorn-bough was no larger a thing than might be carried by a wood-pigeon to the nest, when she flieth low, and the baronial baton was covered with fine gold, and the serf, turning it in his hands, marvelled greatly.

And he answered and said, ‘Let not my lord be in haste, nor jest with his servant. Is it verily his will that I should keep his golden baton? Let him speak again—lest it repent him of his gift.’

And the baron spake again that it was his will. ‘And I’—he said once again—’shall it be lawful for me to keep this sprig of hawthorn, and will it not repent thee of thy gift?’

Then all the servants who stood in hall, laughed, and the serf’s hands trembled till they dropped the baton into the rushes, knowing that his lord did but jest….

Which mine did not. Only, de te fabula narratur [NOTE: Latin for "Of you the tale is told"] up to a point.

Am I not writing nonsense to-night? I am not ‘too wise’ in any case, which is some comfort. It puts one in spirits to hear of your being ‘well,’ ever and ever dearest. Keep so for me. May God bless you hour by hour. In every one of mine I am your own”

I knew a girl once, who looked like Elizabeth, who sometimes treated me like Elizabeth treated Robert… I wrote of this, comparing the two of them this past summer, questioning rhetorically if they were carbon-copies, in my poem series that cryptically chronicles the events of a portion of my life shaded by the blues of profound sadness, titled “Manifesto of Residue”, in part 13 (the half-way mark in the series), in the Kanshi-Tanka hybrid poem titled “Silence, Twilight’s Grey Intermission” (hover cursor over link for prose-form excerpt).

Sunspot 01———-

Sunspot 02———-

NOTE: To understand the exchange below, note that the date of Sunspot’s previous comment was made on October 21, 2007. I wrote the poem “A Horrible Howl In A Winter Wonderland” below, exactly a month later on November 21, 2007, after not receiving any more comments from her.

The poem is a parallel to my poem “21 Shades of Blue” that my site is named for. Sunspot had recently posted a blog in which she recounted the story of the love between J.R.R. Tolkien’s character, the elf-woman Finduilas, for the cursed human man Túrin, who rejected her affections because she was betrothed to Gwindor, who had nicknamed her Faelivrin, which means “Gleam of the Sun in the pools of Ivrin”… which is a essentially a Sunspot, a Sunny spot.

Túrin respected her arrangement with Gwindor though, and didn’t want to betray the man or risk losing his friendship with the “Gleam of the Sun in the pools of Ivrin”.

At the time, Sunspot was in a relationship, and I was not seriously pursuing her because of it.

She wrote allegorically between the lines in that post, about how Finduilas was “seriously crushing” on the apparently oblivious Túrin, and talked about awkwardness between them.

“Túrin” was not totally oblivious… In the story, Findulias dies after crying out to him as she is dragged away from him. According to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/FinduilasThe effects of Finduilas’ death and her love for Túrin continued to reverberate. The Haladin buried her in a mound they called Haudh-en-Elleth, “Mound of the Elf-maiden.” When Túrin finally tracked her to Brethil and learned of her death, he swooned almost lifeless upon her burial mound.” which parallels my writing “Confused by the cruel return of the wind, His lonesome cry is the only howl he hears. Look, the sad nomad can no longer sing, Sapped of strength and his spirit weakened, He crawled into his bed of snow and needles, Having already found the loneliest place, Then froze to death slowly in his sleep“.

Sunspot broke the awkward, cruel silence, but all she said was “wow”.Sunspot 03

———-

Remember what I shared in the beginning, what Elizabeth cruelly said to Robert?

Robert was often criticized by the public cruelly about the worth of his eccentric poetry and about the quality of his character, but his friend Elizabeth was his one comfort and most valued encourager in that winter of 1886 before they were married 7 months later, and Elizabeth knew of his depressions and insecurities. My friend Sunspot was much the same to me the winter this was written, us having corresponded privately off and on at this point since I approached her two July’s prior:

Sunspot 04

Below is an excerpt of Robert’s response to Elizabeth’s cruelty in the beginning of this post:

“With which conviction—renewed conviction time by time, of your extravagance of kindness to me unworthy,—will it seem characteristically consistent when I pray you not to begin frightening me, all the same, with threats of writing less kindly? That must not be, love, for your sake now—if you had not thrown open those windows of heaven I should have no more imagined than that Syrian lord on whom the King leaned ‘how such things might be’—but, once their influence showered, I should know, too soon and easily, if they shut up again! You have committed your dear, dearest self to that course of blessing, and blessing on, on, for ever—so let all be as it is, pray, pray!

No—not all. No more, ever, of that strange suspicion—’insolent’—oh, what a word!—nor suppose I shall particularly wonder at its being fancied applicable to that, of all other passages of your letter! It is quite as reasonable to suspect the existence of such a quality there as elsewhere: how can such a thing, could such a thing come from you to me? But, dear Ba, do you know me better! Do feel that I know you, I am bold to believe, and that if you were to run at me with a pointed spear I should be sure it was a golden sanative, Machaon’s touch, for my entire good, that I was opening my heart to receive! As for words, written or spoken—I, who sin forty times in a day by light words, and untrue to the thought, I am certainly not used to be easily offended by other peoples’ words, people in the world. But your words! And about the ‘mission’; if it had not been a thing to jest at, I should not have begun, as I did—as you felt I did. I know now, what I only suspected then, and will tell you all the matter on Monday if you care to hear. The ‘humanity’ however, would have been unquestionable if I had chosen to exercise it towards the poor weak incapable creature that wants somebody, and urgently, I can well believe.”

a

ἀγάπη, Ἐλισάβετ (Tanka)

It’s esoteric
elusive, mysterious
and maybe nonsense

written in ancient Greek ink
I can’t read, disappearing

seen invisibly
I think at least, but maybe
I’m imagining

Tossing, turning endlessly
wondering what I’m thinking

Asleep but awake
dreaming I’m restless in bed…
or is that fiction???

Urban legend or urbane,
allegoric non-fiction?

“O land of all men’s past! for me alone, It would not mix its tenses. I was past, It seemed, like others,–only not in heaven. And, many a Tuscan eve, I wandered down The cypress alley, like a restless ghost That tries its feeble ineffectual breath Upon its own charred funeral-brands put out Too soon,–where, black and stiff, stood up the trees Against the broad vermilion of the skies.”
— Elizabeth Barrett Browning, excerpt of “Aurora Leigh”

I’ve never read the quote above, until just now. I wrote the poem I’ve quoted from below on August 23, 2014 and posted it here, about the relationship I have with E.B.B. in my dreams, wishing her ghost could escape my dreams with me.

“Elly, tell me what is wrong with you, why do you haunt me silently, or is it me and our promise is a mirage, a false memory? Pangs plumb the bloodlines of clotted loves not yet lost, circling the drains as the sun slowly sets days in a mass horizon grave — You wear a burial shroud invisibly (I’ve seen it), when allowed a bridal gown (or so I think), but only change names, your face. You never escape twilight’s silent cage with your suitcase, retracing nightmares eve you always hesitate and slip away as I wake! …but maybe the street to Resilience, the Skyline’s Vermilion Intermission balancing between sleep and waking, we must take individually… Elly, why are you chasing this recluse, I can’t believe it’s me you’d choose, or is it just me, only myself after I narcissistically?”
— Ry Hakari, “Resilience, Skyline’s Vermilion Intermission”

Of course this is just random coincidence and wonderful make-believe, as surely real life is not so fantastically interesting! Or maybe the majority of people’s perceptions of reality are seen as through a glass dimly, and the fabric of reality is tearing invisibly before our eyes, and only dreams can stitch up it’s seams securely? Ever wonder why we need sleep, and yet a part of our brains never sleep, the part we call “the dreaming mind” where reality and fiction blend? Maybe when we’re awake, we’re not as wide awake in our minds as our open eyes? Or maybe I’m just mad, in my own little Wonderland as the Cheshire Cat guide to nowhere-land beyond reality’s oblivion, playing games with my disembodied head and make-believe with your perceptions of me, as a mind-trick of cat-like mental-agility… or maybe you’re reading this in your sleep, and that’s how our words seem to intersect so purrrfectly, and you need to take the Vermillion pill to catapult into reality over the wall of your “day-dreams”? ;)

“Thank You For Nothing”
by Elizabeth & The Catapult

Thank you for everything
Thank you for nothing
My brother, there is no in between
Never one without the other
I may not know anything
But I think I’m onto something
For every door opening,
There’s another one slowly closing

Thank you for loving me
Thank you for leaving
Thank you for promising
And then promptly forgetting

For the gifts that were given
Just to be taken for granted
Studied indifference
Care turned to careless,
Once disenchanted

The glass that was filled
Then just as easily broken
Thank you for everything and thank you for nothing

Thank you for trusting me
And then biting the bullet
Thank you for laughing out loud
Even when you don’t mean it

They say hurting is growing
If you believe when you say it

So I’ll just keep saying it
Thank you, thank you
I’ll just keep saying it
Thank you, thank you
I’ll just keep saying it
Thank you, thank you
Thank you for everything and thank you for nothing at all
Thank you for nothing at all
Thank you for nothing at all