Words were never so simple as we were taught to believe. Tricksters of the trade make things look like all the chess moves were preordained. And if we are reading second hand, through the prism of translation, so much the better for our lack of understanding!
Words are not to understand, but to experience, to share, the ordinary daily world we work so hard at from being cornered.
Do we understand the invisible string of musical notes? What do they mean? Already heard and gone, and where did they go, these industrial sounds?
Words work within their industry, economy, structures.
Dust particles, falling, drifting, piling up, the tongue the only rule, the teeth, lips, mouth.
The poem is an old thing, some kind of tool, maybe, an implement, but what was it used for?
He started off so serious, as if he were out to save something, someone. But first he had to persuade there was some danger. These comics, by the way, these unsophisticated, small-scale drawings, are made with fingers on the simplest of phone apps, with just a few basic colors, and no tricks.
But mostly at night, in the middle of the night, when sleeplessness becomes comical.
You seem to tap into new technology with a pleasurable vengeance. I’ve lost the doodles I scribbled down over the years, on scraps of paper, mainly during difficult telephone calls. I remember them as ciphers, and essential fun, expressing in a few lines what words could not have dug up.
I found this on Stevie Smith … https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2017/mar/17/glenda-jackson-poet-stevie-smith-interview-1977
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“Not waving but drowning.” I shall go about happily waving today, happily treading water. I see you have set up that other site. Will take a closer look later. Interesting. Thx.
The words augment, but leave the lines untouched! Happy Easter.
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Lent over. Fast over. Back to ordinary time. Thx Philippa. The reception of these comics has been exceptional. I may have found my true calling, with apologies to those who can truly draw. What a curse it must be to have true talent. And I can switch back and forth, to a poem, here, a cartoon, there. Inspired by Stevie Smith, you know. I might have been a contender, were I organized. Times the body seemed organized, and then the brain fails. Nice to get things running all at once, on time, in the pocket, as the jazzists say. The poem in the pocket easily and rhymed truly. Next up.
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