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Eidolon
Hear ye, hear ye, rejoice and sing:
Internet — land-line — connected — ping ping!
There has not been regular Internet access since a couple weeks ago so I do apologize for any lack of email responses or blog posts. But after all, it is (despite the lack of sunshine and heat) summer. Yeah, yeah, I can hear the grumbles of the West Coasters already, but you just have to take the cold with the hot sometimes.
For your delectation and due to my lack of any more substantive post, I offer a few stanzas today. Imagine that they are the priceless relic in an unlit box in the rear sanctuary of some cathedral ("put in thy chants . . . before the rest as light") or, perhaps, the contents of the JA ("fill'd with eidolons only").
Walt Whitman (?1876), from Leaves of Grass, via Wikiquote
Tags: poems
Internet — land-line — connected — ping ping!
There has not been regular Internet access since a couple weeks ago so I do apologize for any lack of email responses or blog posts. But after all, it is (despite the lack of sunshine and heat) summer. Yeah, yeah, I can hear the grumbles of the West Coasters already, but you just have to take the cold with the hot sometimes.
For your delectation and due to my lack of any more substantive post, I offer a few stanzas today. Imagine that they are the priceless relic in an unlit box in the rear sanctuary of some cathedral ("put in thy chants . . . before the rest as light") or, perhaps, the contents of the JA ("fill'd with eidolons only").
I met a seer,
Passing the hues and objects of the world,
The fields of art and learning, pleasure, sense,
To glean eidolons.
Put in thy chants said he,
No more the puzzling hour nor day, nor segments, parts, put in,
Put first before the rest as light for all and entrance-song of all,
That of eidolons.
...
All space, all time,
(The stars, the terrible perturbations of the suns,
Swelling, collapsing, ending, serving their longer, shorter use,)
Fill'd with eidolons only.
The noiseless myriads,
The infinite oceans where the rivers empty,
The separate countless free identities, like eyesight,
The true realities, eidolons.
Not this the world,
Nor these the universes, they the universes,
Purport and end, ever the permanent life of life,
Eidolons, eidolons.
...
Thy very songs not in thy songs,
No special strains to sing, none for itself,
But from the whole resulting, rising at last and floating,
A round full-orb'd eidolon.
Walt Whitman (?1876), from Leaves of Grass, via Wikiquote
Tags: poems
Posted 09 June 2006 at 13:36.
A graduate student in music and anthropology writing a dissertation about music in Moravia, the eastern third of the Czech Republic. At some point, the Czech Republic's "second city" (that would be Brno) captured my attention, and I've since been blogging about events, arts, music, and other stuff—basically whatever interests me in and around the cityscape. I'm not living in Brno now, but I keep up with the cultural pulse from afar as best I can.
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