To Do List

• CIS 245 Lecture Lab
• EE221L Lab
• EE121 Course Plan
• Thesis Title Page Formatting 

Outline

• Windows Intro
• VMs
• VM Setup movies
• Windows Install
• Windows Feature Movies
• Participation Lab

To Do List

• ee221l analysis
• cis245 lecture prep
• Hopscotch

Hopscotch - pg. 34

An absurd joy would take us by the waist and you would sing, dragging me across the street to enter the world of fish hanging in the air.

To Do List

• CIS 245 Lecture
• EE221L Lecture
• EE221L Lab Calculations
• Hopscotch

Pakistan or The Partition of India - Opening

he Muslim League's Resolution on Pakistan has called forth different reactions. There are some who look upon it as a case of political measles to which a people in the infancy of their conscious unity and power are very liable. Others have taken it as a permanent frame of the Muslim mind and not merely a passing phase and have in consequence been greatly perturbed.

To Do List

• DMV
• EE221L
• Grocery Shopping
• CIS245 labs
• hiring paperwork

To Do List

• EE221L
• Jacket
• DMV
• CIS245

To Do List

• DMV
• Unit 1 & 2 Slides : CIS245
• Unit1 & 2 Labs : EE221L
• Mail Dissertation Signing Pages

To Do List

• Call State Farm
• Make Unit 1 Notes
• Make Unit 1 EE221L

To Do List

• Meeting 9 am
• Finished Unit1 Labs and Lectures
• Labs ##ee1l

To Do List

• Unit 1 slides
• Mattress
• DMV call

Beckett's Letters

The only plane on which I feel my defeat not proven is the
literary.

To Do List

• CIS 245: Lecture 1 and 2: First Half
• EET after lunch

To Do List

• 3 Lab Plans for CIS 245
• 3 Lab Plans for EE221L
• Moving : 9pm

Reading Plans

• Fiction: Hopscotch
• Poetry: Paris Spleen
• History: India After Gandhi

Hopscotch - pg. 401

THE business of the sophist, according to Aristophanes, is to invent new reasons.

Let us try to invent new passions, or to reproduce the old ones with a like intensity.

I shall analyze this conclusion once more, from a Pascalian point of view : true belief is somewhere in between superstition and libertinism.

José Lezama Lima, Tratados en La Habana

Hopscotch - pg. 380

Until we take away from time its whip of history, until we prick the blister made of so many untils, we shall go on seeing beauty as an end, peace as desideratum, always from this side of the door where it really is not always so bad, where many people find satisfactory lives, pleasant perfumes, good salaries, fine literature, stereophonic sound, and why then worry one's self about whether the world most likely is finite, whether history is coming to its optimum, whether the human race is emerging from the Middle Ages andentering the era of cybernetics. Tout va tres bien, madame la Marquise, tout va tres bien, tout va tres bien.

Hopscotch - pg. 379

Escapes are planned, they become technologized, they are furnished with the Modulor or with the Nylon Law. There are imbeciles who still believe that drunken-ness is a way, or mescaline, or homosexuality, anything magnificent and inane per se but stupidly elevated into a system, into a key to the kingdom. Maybe there is another world inside this one, but we will not find it cutting out its silhouette from either atrophy or hypertrophy. The world does not exist, one has to create it like the phoneix.

Hopscotch - pg. 377

71

MORELLIANA

Basically, what is the this story about finding a millenary kingdom, an Eden, another world? Everything written these days and worth reading is oriented towards nostalgia. An Arcadia complex, the return to the great uterus, back to Adam, le bon sauvage (and so it goes ...), Paradise lost, lost because I searched for you in my eternal darkness ... And so much for islands (cf. Musil) or gurus (if you have the cash for the Paris-Bombay flight) or simply picking up a coffee cup and looking at it all over, not like a coffee cup any more but like evidence of the immense asininity in which we all find ourselves, believing thhat this object is nothing but a coffee cup while even the most idiot among journalists is assigned to give us a precis of the quanta, Planck and  Heisenberg, knocks himself out in three columns eplaining that everything vibrates and trembles and is like a cat about to take an enormous hydrogen or cobalt leap which will leave us all with our feet sticking up in the air. An uncouth way of expressing one's  self,  really.

  

Hopscotch - pg. 406

and in that instant I know what I am because I know exactly what I am not (what I thereupon ignore astutely). But there are no words or a material in between word and pure vision, like a block of evidence. Impossible to objectivize, make precise that defectiveness that I caught during the instant and which was clear absence or clear insufficiency, but 

without knowing of what, what.

Hopscotch - pg. 479

'The irony of history has decreed that in the very moment in which the representation of reality wasbecoming objective, and ultimately photographic and mechanical, a brilliant Parisian who wanted to be realistic should be moved by his formidable genius to return art to its function as the creator of images ...' "

Hopscotch - pg. 479

A penciled note, almost illegible: "Yes, he suffers once in a while, but it is the only decent way out. Enough of hedonistic and prechewed novels, with psychologies. One must aim at the maximum, be a voyant as Rimbaud wanted to be. The hedonistic novelist is nothing but a voyeur. On the other hand, enough of purely descriptive techniques, of 'behaviorist' novels, mere movie scripts with the saving grace of images."

Hopscotch - pg. 384

That is how Paris destroys us slowly, delightfully, tearing us apart among old flowers and paper tablecloths stained with wine, with its colorless fire that comes running out of crumbling doorways at nightfall. An invented fire burns in us, an incandescent ture, a whatsis of the race, a city that is the Great Screw, the horrible needle with its night eye through which the Seine thread runs, a torture machine like a board of nails, agony in a cage crowded with infuritated swallows. We burn within our work, fabulous mortal honor, high challenge of the phoenix. No one will cure us of the dull fire, the colorless fire that at nightfall runs along the Rue de la Huchette. Incurable, perfectly incurable, we select the Great Screw as a rue, we lean towards it, we enter it, we invent it again every day with every wine-stain on the tablecloth, with every kiss of mold in the dawns of the Cour de Rohan, we invent our conflagration, we burn outwardly from within, maybe that is the choice, maybe words envelop it the way a napkin does a loaf of bread and maybe the fragrance is inside, the flour puffing up, the yes without the no, or the no without the yes,  the day without manes, without Ormux or Ariman, once and for all and in peace and enough.

Destroyer: What Road

Once I was made beautiful in the light of an hour,
But this year I'm just a meal laid out for August to devour.
So, quick, let's go!
It's time for a ride!
The future is yours.
No, wait, I lied!
It is not yours.
It is a replica
Of scattered ash and the road the rain's on...
What road...

Able, willing, ready!
Fuck the Spiral Jetty!
Tonight we work large! We aim high! Pillars stare at a sky
Designed to come down upon
Everyone at once...
So, quick, let's go!
It's time for a ride!
The future is yours.
No, wait, I lied!
It is not yours.
It is a replica
Of scattered ash and the road the rain's on...
What road...

I'd been working on some open-ended shit. I
Was looking for an 'in' and that was it.
Back at the recital, signs remain vital.
A statue is stone that rejects its own pulse.
Your heart's fair. Your heart's square. Your heart's not even there!...
Wasting shore leave on the girls from Point St. Claire...
There is a light and it goes out...

A Touch of Classicism in the Night!
Your backlash was right where I wanted you!
Yes, that's right, I wanted you to...
A Touch of Classicism in the Night!
Your backlash was right where I wanted you!
Yes, that's right I wanted you to...
A Touch of Classicism in the Night!
Your backlash was right where I wanted you!
Yes, that's right, I wanted you to...

To Do List

• Office Keys
• First Three Labs for CIS244
• Bank Visit

Mark Kozelek - Celebrated Summer

Love and hate was in the air, like pollen from a flower
Somewhere in April time, they add another hour

I guess I'd better think up a way to spend my time
Just when I'm ready to sit inside, it's summer time
Should I go swimming or get a friend to hang around
It's back to summer, back to basics, hang around

Getting drunk out on the beach, or playing in a band
And getting out of school meant getting out of hand

Was this your celebrated summer? Was that your celebrated summer?

Then the sun disintegrates between a wall of clouds
I summer where I winter at, and no one is allowed there

Do you remember when the first snowfall fell
When summer barely had a snowball's chance in Hell?

To Do List

• track housing
• work

To Do List

• car pickup
• mall shopping
• library books return
• money 
• packing
• directions printout

On every night

On every night

the shadows cut my days

into three separate

layers of waters bright

in salience of you

of miracular displays

of red stony speedways

for bats blinding through

in blood quickening visions

of places left, 

promises unkept - deceits

and cheats lay

in the debris of a circle

still working its way around you

To Do List

• rehearse
• get a tie

To Do List

• email title pages
• get the projector
• get a Tie
• rehearse

To Do List

• finished at 10

To Do List

• 3pm part 2
• 6pm part 1

The Spirit Of Giving

You went looking for shelter
In all the wrong spaces
You grew gluttonous and famous with faces
Nameless and blank
Superstitiously you name them
St. Christopher and Johanna
And St. Christopher and Johanna
And St. Christopher and Johanna

Overcome with the holiday spirit
Mark says the herald angels won't hear it
And remember, the wolves that you run with are wolves
Don't forget

They exist to give you something to regret, I'll beat them to it
With something sadder than that brass portrait that shines through your morning din
Something sadder than that brass portrait that shines through your morning din

I'll give you something to be sad about
Hey, the picture really captures your mouth
Poised to say:
It's your turn to go down now, it's your turn to go down now
It's your turn to go down now, it's your turn to go down now
In the spirit of giving in

Cloud Prayer Mary, come on
Cloud Prayer Mary, come on
All I wanted was an answer to the secret
Ground Floor Mary, come on
Outboard Mary, come on
All I wanted was an answer to
"Your money or your life, your money or your life"
I was sick of America and her screaming decay
I was in a band, we were singing hooray
Quite often
Ah, but your mama was poor, your daddy was poor
Whatcha gonna do
Ah, your mother was poor, your father was poor
Whatcha gonna do
About it
Cloud Prayer Mary, come on

To Do List

• photocopies
• bank trip
• notes on presentation

The Dahlia Gardens

There are places no history can reach. 
—Norman Mailer, Armies of the Night

Outside the river entrance, between the Potomac
and the curbed flowerbeds, a man walks up and down,
has been walking this last half hour. November leaves
skip in the wind or are lifted, unresisting,
to mesh with the spent residue of dahlias’
late-summer blood and flame, leached marigolds,
knives of gladioli flailed to ribbons:
parts of a system that seems, on the face of it,
to be all waste, entropy, dismemberment;
but which perhaps, given time enough, will prove
to have refused nothing tangible,
                                              enjambed
without audible clash, with no more than a whiplash
incident, to its counterpart, a system
shod in concrete, cushioned in butyl, riding
chariots of thermodynamics, adept with the unrandom,
the calculus of lifting and carrying, with vectors,
clocks, chronicles, calibrations.
                                            File clerks
debouch into the dusk—it is rush hour; headlights
thicken, a viscous chain along the Potomac—
from concentric corridors, five sides
within five sides, grove leading on to grove
lit by autonomous purrings, daylight
on demand, dense with the pristine,
the dead-white foliage of those archives
that define and redefine with such precision,
such subtleties of exactitude, that only
the honed mind’s secret eye can verify
or vouch for its existence, how the random
is to be overcome, the unwelcome
forestalled, the arcane calamity
at once refused, delineated and dwelt on.  Where,
as here, triune Precaution, Accumulation
and Magnitude obtain, such levitations
and such malignities have come, with time,
to seem entirely natural—this congeries
being unquestionably the largest
office building in Christendom.
                                            The man alone
between blackened flowerbeds and the blackening
Potomac moves with care, as though balanced
astride the whiplash between system and system—
wearing an overcoat, hatless, thinning-haired,
a man of seemingly mild demeanor
who might have been a file clerk
were it not for his habit of writing down
notes to himself on odd scraps of paper,
old bills, the backs of envelopes, or in a notebook
he generally forgets to bring with him,
and were it not for the wine jug
he carries (the guard outside the river entrance,
as he pauses, has observed it, momentarily puzzled)
cradled close against his overcoat.
                                                By now file clerks,
secretaries, minor and major bureaucrats, emerging
massively through the several ports of egress,
along the ramps, past the walled flowerbeds,
which the lubrications and abrasions of routine,
the multiple claims of a vigilant anxiety,
the need for fine tuning, for continual
readjustment of expectation, have rendered
largely negligible, flow around him.
He moves against the flux, toward the gardens.
Around him, leaves skip in the wind
like a heartbeat, like a skipped
heartbeat

            if I were a dead leaf
            thou mightest bear                              

                                            He shivers,
cradling the wine jug, his heart beating strangely;
his mind fills up with darkness

            overland, the inching caravans
            the blacked-out troop trains
            convoys through ruined villages
            along the Mekong

                                            merging
with the hydrocarbon-dark, headlight-inflamed Potomac

            the little lights    the candles
            flickering on Christmas eve
            the one light left burning
            in a front hallway    kerosene-
            lit windows in the pitch dark
            of back-country roads

                                            His mind
plunges like a derrick
into that pitch dark as he uncorks the wine jug
and with a quick gesture not unlike
a signing with the cross (but he is a Quaker)
begins the anointing of himself with its contents,
with the ostensible domestic Rhine wine
or chablis, which is not wine—which
in fact is gasoline.

            tallow, rushlight, whale oil, coal oil,
            gas jet: black fat of the Ur-tortoise
            siphoned from stone, a shale-tissued
            carapace: hydrocarbon unearthed
            and peeled away, process by process,
            in stages not unlike the stages
            of revelation, to a gaseous plume
            that burns like a bush, a perpetual
            dahlia of incandescence, midway
            between Wilmington and Philadelphia
            gaslight, and now these filamented
            avenues, wastelands and windows
            of illumination, gargoyles,
            gasconades, buffooneries of neon,
            stockpiled incendiary pineapples,
            pomegranates of jellied gasoline
            that run along the ground, that cling
            in a blazing second skin
            to the skins of children

Anointing the overcoat, and underneath it the pullover
with one elbow out, he sees, below the whiplash threshold,
darkness boil up, a vatful of sludge, a tar pit,
a motive force that is all noise: jet engines,
rush-hour aggressions, blast furnaces,
headline-grabbing self-importances

            the urge to engineer events
            compel a change of government,
            a change of heart, a shift
            in the wind’s direction—lust
            after mastery, manipulations
            of the merely political

Hermaphrodite of pity and violence, the chambered
pistil and the sword-bearing archangel,
scapegoat and self-appointed avenger, contend,
embrace, are one. He strikes the match.
A tiger leap, a singing envelope goes up,
blue-wicked, a saffron overcoat of burning

            in the forests of the night
            make me thy lyre

                                      Evolving
      out of passionless dismemberment,
      a nerveless parturition, green wheels'
      meshed intercalibration with the sun

A random leaf, seized by the updraft, shrivels
unresisting; fragments of black ash
drift toward the dahlia gardens

      from dim tropisms of avoidance,
      articulated, node upon internode,
      into a scream, the unseen filament
      that never ends, that runs
      through all our chronicles

      a manifesto flowering like a dahlia
      into whole gardens of astonishment—
      the sumptuous crimson,
      heart’s dark, the piebald
      saffron and scarlet riding
      the dahlia gardens of
      the lake of Xochimilco:

      Benares, marigold-garlanded
      sutee, the burning ghats
      alongside the Ganges: at
      the An Quang pagoda, saffron
      robes charring in fiery
      transparency, a bath of burning

Scraps of charred paper, another kind of foliage,
drift toward the dahlia gardens

                                          a leaf
                  thou mightest bear

                                          The extravaganza
of a man afire having seized, tigerlike, the attention
it now holds with the tenacity of napalm, of the homebound
file clerks, secretaries, minor and major bureaucrats,
superimposing upon multiple adjustments,
the fine tuning of Precaution and Accumulation,
the demands of Magnitude, what the concentric
groves of those archives have no vocabulary
for dwelling on, the uniformed man of action,
in whom precaution and the unerring impulse
are one, springs forward to pound and pummel,
extinguishing the manifesto as decently as possible.
                                                                        Someone,
by now, has sent for an ambulance.

The headlights crawl, slowed by increasing density,
along the Potomac, along the diagonal thoroughfares,
along the freeways, toward Baltimore, toward Richmond,
toward Dulles and toward Friendship Airport, the airborne
engines’ alternating red
and green, a pause and then again a red,
a green, a waking fantasy upborne
on a lagoon of hydrocarbon, as
the dahlia gardens ride the lake of Xochimilco.
While the voiceless processes of a system
that in the end perhaps will have
refused nothing tangible, continue neither
to own nor altogether to refuse the burning filament
that runs through all our chronicles, uniting
system with system into one terrible mandala,
the stripped hydrocarbon
burns like a bush, a gaseous plume
midway between Wilmington and Philadelphia.  

To Do List

• Pesentation Overview

Wolf Solent - pg. 550

He remembered to the end of his life what he felt at that moment, while the bone of his lower jaw met the bones of his knuckles pressed so hard against them. He felt absolutely alone -- alone in an emptiness that was different from empyt space. He did not pity himself. He did not hate himself. He just endured himself and waited -- waited till whatever  it was that enclosed him made some sign.

Wolf Solent - pg. 531

He rose to his feet, too, and they stood awkwardly there,side by side in that windless darkness. Wolf had the feeling for one second as if the world had completely passed them by ... gone on its way and forgotten them ... so that not a soul knew they existed except themselves. As the shadow of a solitary bird on lonely sands answers the form of the bird's flying, so did he feel at that moment that his spirit answered her spirit.

 

Wolf Solent - pg. 531

"I know they're absurd ... these phrases ..."" he went on. "Words like 'pluralism' and 'dualism' and 'monism.' But what they make me think of is just a particular class of vague, delicious, physical sensations! And it's the idea of there having been feelings like these, in far-off, lonng-buried human nerves, that pleases us both so much. It makes life seem so thick and rich and complicated, if you know what I mean?" 

Wolf Solent - pg. 525

She spoke with a wavering happiness that seemed to be lifting the syllables of her voice up and down on the darkness as the undulations of a full-brimmed tide might lift a drifting boat.

Wolf Solent - pg. 523

This comparison cheered Wolf's mind a good deal; and his fingers tightened once more upon the handle of his stick. "These trees, this old-man's-beard, these dark ditch plans... they all see what they've the nature to see ... No living thing has ever seen reality as it is in itself. By God! there's probably nothing to see, when you come to that!"

Wolf Solent - pg. 522

"It's because he knows by some childish instinct just where my life-illusion is weakest. It's because he sees this weak spot,like a raw scratch in the hide of a bear tied to a pole, and it  somehow gets on his nerves, so he wants to poke at it."

Eleven Addresses to the Lord

  1

Master of beauty, craftsman of the snowflake,

inimitable contriver,

endower of Earth so gorgeous & different from the boring Moon,

thank you for such as it is my gift.

I have made up a morning prayer to you

containing with precision everything that most matters.

‘According to Thy will’ the thing begins.

It took me off & on two days. It does not aim at eloquence.

You have come to my rescue again & again

in my impassable, sometimes despairing years.

You have allowed my brilliant friends to destroy themselves

and I am still here, severely damaged, but functioning.

Unknowable, as I am unknown to my guinea pigs:

how can I ‘love’ you?

I only as far as gratitude & awe

confidently & absolutely go.

I have no idea whether we live again.

It doesn’t seem likely

from either the scientific or the philosophical point of view

but certainly all things are possible to you,

and I believe as fixedly in the Resurrection-appearances to Peter & to Paul

as I believe I sit in this blue chair.

Only that may have been a special case

to establish their initiatory faith.

Whatever your end may be, accept my amazement.

May I stand until death forever at attention

for any your least instruction or enlightenment.

I even feel sure you will assist me again, Master of insight & beauty.

               2

Holy, as I suppose I dare to call you

without pretending to know anything about you

but infinite capacity everywhere & always

& in particular certain goodness to me.

Yours is the crumpling, to my sister-in-law terrifying thunder,

yours the candelabra buds sticky in Spring,

Christ’s mercy,

the gloomy wisdom of godless Freud:

yours the lost souls in ill-attended wards,

those agonized thro’ the world

It this instant of time, all evil men,

Belsen, Omaha Beach,—

incomprehensible to man your ways.

May be the Devil after all exists.

‘I don’t try to reconcile anything’ said the poet at eighty,

‘This is a damned strange world.’

Man is ruining the pleasant earth & man.

What at last, my Lord, will you allow?

Postpone till after my children's deaths your doom

if it be thy ineffable, inevitable will.

I say ‘Thy kingdom come’, it means nothing to me.

Hast Thou prepared astonishments for man?

One sudden Coming? Many so believe.

So not, without knowing anything, do I.

               3

Sole watchman of the flying stars, guard me

against my flicker of impulse lust: teach me

to see them as sisters & daughters. Sustain

my grand endeavours: husbandship & crafting.

Forsake me not when my wild hours come;

grant me sleep nightly, grace soften my dreams;

achieve in me patience till the thing be done,

a careful view of my achievement come.

Make me from time to time the gift of the shoulder.

When all hurt nerves whine shut away the whiskey.

Empty my heart toward Thee.

Let me pace without fear the common path of death.

Cross am I sometimes with my little daughter:

fill her eyes with tears. Forgive me, Lord.

Unite my various soul,

sole watchman of the wide & single stars.

               4

If I say Thy name, art Thou there? It may be so.

Thou art not absent-minded, as I am.

I am so much so I had to give up driving.

You attend, I feel, to the matters of man.

Across the ages certain blessings swarm,

horrors accumulate, the best men fail:

Socrates, Lincoln, Christ mysterious.

Who can search Thee out?

except Isaiah & Pascal, who saw.

I dare not ask that vision, though a piece of it

at last in crisis was vouchsafèd me.

I altered then for good, to become yours.

Caretaker! take care, for we run in straits.

Daily, by night, we walk naked to storm,

some threat of wholesale loss, to ruinous fear.

Gift us with long cloaks & adrenalin.

Who haunt the avenues of Angkor Wat

recalling all that prayer, that glory dispersed,

haunt me at the corner of Fifth & Hennepin.

Shield & fresh fountain! Manifester! Even mine.

               5

Holy, & holy. The damned are said to say

‘We never thought we would come into this place.’

I’m fairly clear, my Friend, there’s no such place

ordained for inappropriate & evil man.

Surely they fall dull, & forget. We too,

the more or less just, I feel fall asleep

dreamless forever while the worlds hurl out.

Rest may be your ultimate gift.

Rest or transfiguration! come & come

whenever Thou wilt. My daughter & my son

fend will without me, when my work is done

in Your opinion.

Strengthen my widow, let her dream on me

thro’ tranquil hours less & down to less.

Abrupt elsewhere her heart, I sharply hope.

I leave her in wise Hands.

               6

Under new management, Your Majesty:

Thine. I have solo’d mine since childhood, since

my father’s suicide when I was twelve

blew out my most bright candle faith, and look at me.

I served at Mass six dawns a week from five,

adoring Father Boniface & you,

memorizing the Latin he explained.

Mostly we worked alone. One or two women.

Then my poor father frantic. Confusions & afflictions

followed my days. Wives left me.

Bankrupt I closed my doors. You pierced the roof

twice & again. Finally you opened my eyes.

My double nature fused in that point of time

three weeks ago day before yesterday.

Now, brooding thro’ a history of the early Church,

I identify with everybody, even the heresiarchs.

               7

After a Stoic, a Peripatetic, a Pythagorean,

Justin Martyr studied the words of the Saviour,

finding them short, precise, terrible, & full of refreshment.

I am tickled to learn this.

Let one day desolate Sherry, fair, thin, tall,

at 29 today her life the Sahara Desert,

who has never once enjoyed a significant relation,

so find His lightning words.

               A Prayer for the Self

Who am I worthless that You spent such pains

and take may pains again?

I do not understand; but I believe.

Jonquils respond with wit to the teasing breeze.

Induct me down my secrets. Stiffen this heart

to stand their horrifying cries, O cushion

the first the second shocks, will to a halt

in mid-air there demons who would be at me.

May fade before, sweet morning on sweet morning,

I wake my dreams, my fan-mail go astray,

and do me little goods I have not thought of,

ingenious & beneficial Father.

Ease in their passing my beloved friends,

all others too I have cared for in a travelling life,

anyone anywhere indeed. Lift up

sober toward truth a scared self-estimate.

               9

Surprise me on some ordinary day

with a blessing gratuitous. Even I’ve done good

beyond their expectations. What count we then

upon Your bounty?

Interminable: an old theologian

asserts that even to say You exist is misleading.

Uh-huh. I buy that Second-century fellow.

I press his withered glorifying hand.

You certainly do not as I exist,

impersonating as well the meteorite

& flaring in your sun your waterfall

or blind in caves pallid fishes.

Bear in mind me, Who have forgotten nothing,

& Who continues. I may not foreknow

& fail much to remember. You sustain

imperial desuetudes, at the kerb a widow.

               10

Fearful I peer upon the mountain path

where once Your shadow passed, Limner of the clouds

up their phantastic guesses. I am afraid,

I never until now confessed.

I fell back in love with you, Father, for two reasons:

You were good to me, & a delicious author,

rational & passionate. Come on me again,

as twice you came to Azarias & Misael.

President of the brethren, our mild assemblies

inspire, & bother the priest not to be dull;

keep us week-long in order; love my children,

my mother far & ill, far brother, my spouse.

Oil all my turbulence as at Thy dictation

I sweat out my wayward works.

Father Hopkins said the only true literary critic is Christ.

Let me lie down exhausted, content with that.

               11

Germanicus leapt upon the wild lion in Smyrna,

wishing to pass quickly from a lawless life.

The crowd shook the stadium.

The proconsul marvelled.

‘Eighty & six years have I been his servant,

and he has done me no harm.

How can I blaspheme my King who saved me?’

Polycarp, John’s pupil, facing the fire.

Make too me acceptable at the end of time

in my degree, which then Thou wilt award.

Cancer, senility, mania,

I pray I may be ready with my witness.

Orphean Lost

The oakboughs of the cottagers

descend, my lover,

with the bestial evening.

The shadows of their swelled trunks

crush with frugal herb.

The heights lag

and perish in a blue vacuum.

And I, my lover,

skirt the cottages,

the eternal hearths and gloom,

to animate the ideal

with internal passion.

To Do List

• schematics part1
• schematics and curve managements part 2.

To Do List

• 4pm: 3rdpart review of slides
• 7pm: 1st part review  of slides
• 10pm: 2nd part review of slides

untitled

stay look at the blackbirds sore

on late february shore

shoals will consume 

ashes - fires hidden within;

unfold in lingering images:

black kites in flight

beholden to your star

rising on the velvet dawn

light steals the words

those parting words

in danger of never

see the light of the day

these insular molecular laments

burnt offerings

to the god of sea and thunder

To Do List

• Presentation - Introduction slides

Wolf Solent - pg. 512

That chestnut-coloured polished bowl was still within his vision on the smooth turf; but at this moment, in place of giving him a sense of random helplessness, it gave him a sense of reassured control.  In  this pleasant retreat, with the fumes of the Dorchester ale mounting into his head, he began to feel his hand firm and unbewildered once more upon his life's rudder.

Guido Cavalcanti

YOU, who do breach mine eyes and touch the heart,

And start the mind from her brief reveries,

Might pluck my life and agony apart,

Saw you how love assaileth her with sighs,

And lays about him with so brute a might

That all my wounded senses turn to flight.

There's a new face upon the seigniory,

And new is the voice that maketh loud my grief.

Love, who hath drawn me down through devious ways,

Hath from your noble eyes so swiftly come!

'T is he hath hurled the dart, wherefrom my pain,

First shot's resultant! and in flanked amaze

See how my affrighted soul recoileth from

That sinister side wherein the heart lies slain.