Random Photo: Fast Blur Night Train x3

rail graf fast blur 3 a

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.

rail graf fast blur 3 b

rail graf fast blur 3 c

Thought Balloon: Therapy is a symptom

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*We live in a time of plague; among other plagues, we suffer a plague of diagnosis; a sub-plague of the general plague of knowing (gnosis), a plague of determined knowing. To label is to know, knowing to deter the unknowable, to prevent knowing we don’t know, knowledge applied as a deterrent against mystery, as prophylaxis against the question we do not even know how to ask.

Therapy is a symptom of the disease.

*See Karl Kraus, who wrote “One of the most widespread diseases is diagnosis.”

 

 

Random Photo

ivy snow pealing paint

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.

Found Poem: Woman True

Woman-True-findst

Woman True is one of the 27 found poems I wrote during National Poetry Month (aka April), 2015, and posted to the PoMoSco site for Poetry Scout “badges.” It was derived by word subtraction by dice roll from John Donne’s Song: Go, and catch a falling star, and today happens to be Donne’s 444th birthday. Here’s the original poem in 17th century spelling:

goe and catche donne text

A tip of my papal* biretta goes to Dave Bonta, proprietor of Via Nevatiga, who clued me in by posting this viddy on Facebook in honor of Donne’s birthday:

 

Note: In case anyone was wondering, I’ve posted both poems as .jpgs because the new WordPress interface is a piece of crap, worse than the old one, which was also a piece of crap, but one for which I had work-arounds. Getting the text editor to behave when posting poetry is sometimes more trouble than it’s worth.

*I am Pope of the Seventh Day Atheist Aztec Baptist Synod. Ask the Dancing Elders.

Random Photo: Snowflake Crashes

snowflakes on car hood.JPG

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.

Bonus snowflake:

snowflake rail thru glass glow

The promised snowfall began this morning. The first picture (snowflakes on the hood of our car) was taken with my iPhone. The second picture (snowflake on the front porch steps’ hand rail) was taken with my iPhone through the lens of the magnifying glass from the little drawer in my two volume OED boxed set.

The Crone and the Blue Baby

Buddhabrot-deep

Last night I had a long, vivid dream, most of which, in spite of its vividness, has decayed into bright flashes and shadows. But end is fixed into a fragmentary narrative because I spoke it, half awake, to Mrs. Dr. Omed as we lay in bed.

I was standing in front of what looked like an old, ramshackle hotel. I was asked, by who I don’t recall, to accompany a woman who had just given birth back to her home. The woman was old, really old, a crone, and spoke with a rural Appalachian accent.

Her baby was blue. Deep blue. He–I think he–had arms and legs and a head in the appropriate places, but resembled–was–a solid, three dimensional Mandlebrot (or Julia?) set, his skin was comprised of many little cones, each of which displayed the Fibonacci spiral. When the baby flexed in a yawn, all the Mandlebrot convolutions undulated, and waves of blue shadow ran across his skin.

We were bundled into a car, and driven (I don’t remember anyone driving, but I was in the back seat on the right side) into the countryside. The crone didn’t quite know the way home from the small town in which the hotel was located, and we navigated by guess and by golly. Then I woke up. 2am. Before we found the way home .

 

The Walker

A walk in sentences derived* from Michel de Certeau’s Walking in the City, Chapter 7 of The Practice of Everyday Life.

The walker is both tactile and tactical; he feels his way through a fog of strategy.

The walker crosses lines and steps into cracks.

The walker has no plan; whim is a weapon.

The walker strolls, in no particular direction, the needle of his compass spins like the carnie’s wheel of fortune; always a winner.

The walker can draw you a picture, but only on his hand, or in the air.

Take the walker’s picture, he can’t be recognized by it. The pictorial image is not the operative image. The strategic picture is not the tactical picture.

The walker’s path is an operative wave, capable of assuming any pattern within a territorial strategy.

The space the walker inhabits is larger than the physical space in which strategy is confined.

The lazy meandering stroll of the walker is the true mother of invention. As Virgil wrote, the goddess is known by her footsteps.

In the Gospel of Thomas, Jesus said, Be passers-by. The walker is only and always passing through.

The walker’s gait is a labile rather than a static equilibrium. A footstep is a presentiment of the fall.

The walker cannot be impersonated because he cannot be personated.

Walking is a method, not a product. The method of the walker cannot be codified or commodified; a particular walker has a peculiar walk.

The walker on the security cam is not the walker that walks.

The walker captivates space within the institution in which he is confined; thus, he can be institutionalized, but not captured, surveilled but not seen.

The walker practices the ellipsis of conjunctive loci by the tactical metamorphosis of space.

The walker is a asyndeton, not a synecdoche, of the panoptic map of territorial strategy.

The walker is a singularity within a collective of interacting singularities, the other walkers.

funny walk graf portugal crop twk

*Not to say, derivative of. Restatements or re-step-ments.