We are drowning in New England today. Whither the slush of yesteryear?
The madman is still at large in Tripoli, the fool hangs on in Madison, the ferret prances in Paris. What to do with such a day?
I give you William, ninth Duke of Aquitaine, the man who put the beat in the twelfth century. Just in case we thought the cosmic funk was our own invention:
Poème sur Pur Néant
Je ferai vers sur pur néant
Ne sera sur moi ni sur autre gent
Ne sera sur amour ni sur jeunesse
Ni sur rien autre ;
Je lai composé en dormant
Sur mon cheval
Ne sais quelle heure fus né
Ne suis allègre ni irrité
Ne suis étranger ni privé
Et n’en puis mais,
Qu’ainsi fus de nuit doté par les féés
Sur un haut puy.
Ne sais quand je suis endormi
Ni quand je veille, si l’on me le dit
À peu ne m’est le cœur parti
D’un deuil poignant
Et n’en fais pas plus cas que d’une souris
Par saint Martial.
Malade suis et me crois mourir
Et rien n’en sais plus que n’en entends dire,
Médecin querrai à mon plaisir
Et ne sais quel
Bon il sera s’il me peut guérir
Mais non si mon mal empire.
J’ai une amie, ne sais qui c’est ;
Jamais ne la vis, sur ma foi
Rien ne m’a fait qui me plaît, ni me pèse
Ni ne m’en chaut,
Que jamais n’y eut Normands ni Français
En mon hôtel.
Jamais ne la vis et je l’aime fort
Jamais ne me fit droit ni me fit tort
Quand je ne la vois, bien en fais mon plaisir
Et ne l’estime pas plus qu’un coq
Car j’en sais une plus belle et plus gentille
Et qui vaut bien plus.
J’ai fait ce poème, ne sais sur quoi
Et le transmettrai à celui
Qui le transmettra à autrui
Là-bas vers l’Anjou,
Qui le transmettra de son côté
À quelqu’un d’autre.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Bouteille à la mer
Hello again, Dollfaceless, it’s been a while. No, I have not been silent so as to make room for Egyptian facebookers, nor have I been struck by involuntary dumbness brought on by teaparty adherence.
No, my prosaic attentions were lavished elsewhere, and the bittersweet moment arrived this morning: I hit Send, and my constant companion in these two years from bottle to throttle zoomed up into the clouds of copyeditors, layout departments, illustrators and bookbinders, my swarm of pixelated termites attacking some sacrificial lumber in the ephemeral conquest of the page, my titanic achievement commanding awestruck indifference from all within my zipcode, my dog’s breakfast of inspiration running in viscous rivulets down toward oceanic dissolution, my playful friend dancing in front of me on those long nights spent in the arms of Lady Cabernet, my garage-sale mountain of narrative tricks offering solace and sorrow, my servant, my master, my King Farouk… me fookin’ book.
“How does it feel, and what will you do now?” ask the many kind but totally imaginary friends in my head. Go back into therapy now that you no longer live in the fourteenth century? Dust off your Norwegian for the awards ceremony? Try to get a job at Border’s? Purchase a wooden spoon and beat the first desirable woman you see? Buy a giga-pack of Rolling Rock?
I have decided to make a lamb couscous instead.
I will put Maria Callas on the kitchen stereo, manhandle vegetables and permit myself a pinch of satisfaction to accompany the cumin. To complete this small pleasure, while cooking I will leaf through a magazine bought recently in a French-language bookstore: a glossy history special issue entitled Scandaleuses princesses.
So, yes, I did buy a wooden spoon.
No, my prosaic attentions were lavished elsewhere, and the bittersweet moment arrived this morning: I hit Send, and my constant companion in these two years from bottle to throttle zoomed up into the clouds of copyeditors, layout departments, illustrators and bookbinders, my swarm of pixelated termites attacking some sacrificial lumber in the ephemeral conquest of the page, my titanic achievement commanding awestruck indifference from all within my zipcode, my dog’s breakfast of inspiration running in viscous rivulets down toward oceanic dissolution, my playful friend dancing in front of me on those long nights spent in the arms of Lady Cabernet, my garage-sale mountain of narrative tricks offering solace and sorrow, my servant, my master, my King Farouk… me fookin’ book.
“How does it feel, and what will you do now?” ask the many kind but totally imaginary friends in my head. Go back into therapy now that you no longer live in the fourteenth century? Dust off your Norwegian for the awards ceremony? Try to get a job at Border’s? Purchase a wooden spoon and beat the first desirable woman you see? Buy a giga-pack of Rolling Rock?
I have decided to make a lamb couscous instead.
I will put Maria Callas on the kitchen stereo, manhandle vegetables and permit myself a pinch of satisfaction to accompany the cumin. To complete this small pleasure, while cooking I will leaf through a magazine bought recently in a French-language bookstore: a glossy history special issue entitled Scandaleuses princesses.
So, yes, I did buy a wooden spoon.
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