The hearth

Baking potatoes in the oven. Baking apple butter muffins. Drinking anise star tea. Dreaming of a country home, a mile long driveway, a wood stove to roast a proper chicken. A shed to throw pots, craft curvy pitchers. Make my own kiln.

Writing a paper on Medea. Not the Euripides play, Medea, who chops up her children (she was under diresss), rather the Medeia from The Argonautika. A softer perspective, a mistaken young girl unfairly put under a love spell so that gods Hera and Athena could manipulate the fate of their beloved Jason.

Soon it will snow. Soon the air will fill with fresh opportunity.

I will be baking bread, gingerbread cookies.

Real Estate

As soon as I have 26,000,000 Euros, I'll be purchasing this home in the south of France:

You must all come visit.

Wittgenstein, and the continuing search for answers

While reading Bertrand Russell's introduction of a Wittgenstein book, I came across something interesting. First, Russell explains atomic facts (although it contains no parts that are facts, nevertheless does contain parts)... anyway, after all his exposition on the subject, Russell gets to this point, which I'd like to discuss:

"The fact that nothing can be deduced from an atomic proposition has interesting applications, for example, to causality. There cannot, in Wittgenstein's logic, be any such thing as a causal nexus. "The events of the future," he says, "cannot be inferred from those of the present. Superstition is the belief in the causal nexus." That the sun will rise tomorrow is a hypothesis. We do not in fact know whether it will rise, since there is no compulsion according to which one thing must happen because another happens."

Okay.

So, if I hold fast to this theory, then my present circumstances will not be compelled to continue into the future. In truth, there is no actual "causal nexus" that can incite them to continue. Now, I assume Witt. refers to the inanimate, or nonhuman, counterpart. But consider the human, me. If I choose to "repeat" a circumstance, I may. It will never be as precisely and accurately the same as a previous experience, but perhaps that's where humans are dumb dumbs. If we can stop for a moment, and simply realize the impossibility of events of the future being "inferred from those of the present", then what is there to worry about? Perhaps we are all superstitious then. All bound to false ideas and repeated fairy tales, stories passed on generationally.

So, we come to expect that the sun will rise, but one day it may not. On that day, fear would settle into our minds. But if we take into account this theory, then we will come to lessen our expectations of events repeating. I suppose in that there is both comfort and uncertainty. But for my cure, now at this time, I take this direction as meaningful and good. If I cannot repeat the event of my recent painful breakup due to the inability of things to exist causally and within a contained center, then I am happy to know that this experience will not happen again.

Something to be thankful for.

And the Witt. reading continues. Was reading The Apology, but had to put it down. Was crying too much. Reading about death, what am I thinking. To contribute to my pain, tonight in Epic class we read passages from book 4 of the Aeneid: Aeneas' short flirtation/relationship/"marriage" with Dido causes her to kill herself. Great.

It often seems that knowing things are useless unless you know the right things.

Lisa Robertson, and even more personal reflection

Sorry folks, this blog is nothing but the display of far too personal pain lately. But somehow, it helps in putting it out there.

To something else:

Saw Lisa Robertson read last night. She is quite eloquent, and with a humourous bend in her dialogue (which occured afterwards, a comic routine aided by Erin Moure, who couldn't stop giggling. Cute.). I liked the selections she read from The Men most. From her newly re-released book (a new Canadian version from Coach House, who else) containing several essays about this subject matter and that, she read a specific piece about "the history of scaffolding", which she shared with the audience had to mostly be made up from photographs; imagine, no previous history had been invented. She said she thought the scaffolding to be animate, which made sense, as the piece could have replaced the word with a human being, and been as affective. Perhaps even more so. There were moments where I drifted which did not occur during the reading of The Men. I'll have to order that one through BookThug. Very enticing material.

I asked some questions. Noone else seemed to have any. I had lots. Even more, and more. Asked if she saw herself as a language poet (as I've heard many not familiar with her work to refer to her as). She outright said no (which I agree with, but wanted to hear it from her mouth), but if she had to associate with one group over another, she said she'd have chosen "feminist poet". I can certainly see that in her work.

If a man writes about his manly life, what type of poetry is that considered...

Maybe it's all just plain goddamn poetry.



On another note, sometimes the more I learn the more I feel I know
absolutely
nothing.

I need a vacation. I need money for a vacation. Maybe a retreat where some kind people will lavish kindnesses upon me, provide me with many affectionate embraces, and give me the answers I'm seeking (so I can stop thinking about it all; it's driving me mad trying to figure out my future). I've been putting wishes out there, from my own whispering lips to the air, skyward I suppose, as is the practise. It has worked in the past, but this time, perhaps I'm wishing too much. Or, don't know quite what to wish. My wishes recently had been shared with my closest friend, now (as you know) separated from. Can I wish the same things? A cabin in the woods, a cottage somewhere near water, enough money to sustain myself, a healthy life, many books and thoughts and companionship to drown in, love ... ?

I have been reading pieces of The Apology. But maybe it's too soon to dive into philosophical readings. My heart is weak. Too easily torn at the moment. I associate too much with the heart. The mind is lazy, perhaps. Or tired. Or even, untrained... yes, could be that. But the heart is too often master of myself. I need to achieve some balance there.

Or, I will continue to think things such as this:

Sorrow is like a tree. If you've become accustomed to the leaves dropping, falling slowly, with merely a sound to inform you of their leaving, it is as if the very hope you require to go on--to continue to love--slowly disappears until the tree is bare. I do not want a bare tree. I want spring.

But can one person master the elements on their own... all on their own?

I want to believe in love, oh I do I do.

I am overwhelmed. Ancient Greek is overwhelming.
In other news, went to see a poetry prof for some help with "direction" (that's what they're calling it). She called me Wendy.

I have a long essay to write. A long portfolio to hand in. A collection of verbs, stems, declensions and other relevant things to memorize. Oh, and some myth tests to correct, which I continue to work on and which seem to elude completion for some reason.

I may just implode. Correction, I am imploding. I may explode.

My Montreal jazz-type radio station is all static.

It's Monday!

A poem from Stan Rogal:

SUB ROSA TRANSFORMATION: 1

What hoary secret whispers across the pitch
to strike a body blooming?
What aloed tentacle seeks to balm the sanguine wound?
From any perspective
            hips shift & breasts heave to the cadence
                                    animal avidum generandi
Aristotle's beast greedy for generation
           hid in a fold of legs
                  set to grind a child exstatic.
Here is such livid music & such white light
That sparks a vessel madder red
            parting lips with the taste of Mandrake, love apple
                  & every other nightshade
Magic.
Listen. The heartfelt noise of it.
The sound.

In other news, Concordia professor and Montreal area poet Robert Allen has died. He was supposed to be my advanced poetry professor this year (David McGimpsey had stepped in instead). Saw him read a few weeks ago, launch his long poem The Encantadas; he read truly wonderfully.

Other things are happening, but if I wrote about them, I would have no time to do them. The doing will take precedence.

Finished a weekend helping Classics prof organize his conference: Recovering Philology. Many interesting papers.

Much is happening.