My heart still beats to the sound of its own
drum; literally it manically pounds inside my
chest – quite visible to any eye. It was a mistake
to take the Sangiovese. The cowslips and the
purple bowers are diminished with their lost voice –
Romanticism is such naïveté. Why mark a word up
so – the Romans weren't so cruel. Why must I
have a large appetite and a weak heart? It shouldn't
fail me but it could. It is troubled like a foster
orphaned girl exasperated with the cat-calls of her next-
door friends. Friends is such a tossed about word;
like love. If English could be Greek. Phi and Theta share
so much and are so different. Nothing to see here, pass
along. I glance at the bikinis bathing in the sun at
the Food & Wine Festival – there should be a law about
who can and can't wear bikinis. And those who can –
must! Sidewalks are ambiguous in their unclaimed owner-
ship. I mow the grass on the other side though. Smells
good however abused in poems and others. Bent grass
tells lots of stories and betrays many stow-aways. An
eyelash looks a bit like some expensive bent grass –
the kind people sit in bars and listen to experts,
inaudible experts, pontificate about. Philosophers
are no longer real – having taken up comedy or
cheese. Wittgenstein did close the book on philo-
sophy; so many still don't want to believe. They're
good historians of 19th century problems and 20th
century solutions. Correspondence is not coherent;
yet coherence is abstract. Math is tautological yet
dictates truth. I know, math is more than mere
tautology – at least so say the mathematicians.
Empiricism and Rationalism are either circular or
self-contradictory. Leaving us with nothing. Nietzsche
took a baseball bat to the head and laughed his
big German laugh. Was Berkeley crazy? (Yes!)
But there is no real answer outside of God – and
yes, which God matters. God is like the unknown
uncle who has been following your life paying for every-
thing and remaining in the dark – receiving no credit
when the police reluctantly release you from prison.
This blog is (mostly) a near-verbatim transcription of my writing journal. Margins are the same as the journal. These are exercises, not finished products. Other types of writings will most likely emerge at some point.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Journal 18 - Sangiovese and Nietzsche
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