"All the Hues
That Fit, We Tint"

Siberia, USA: Today, global warming. Tonight, dark, unless you count the stars. Tomorrow can be reached via time machine. Yesterday, who can remember that far back?

Websafe Studio, blogging since 2003, featuring art, comics, digital whiteboards, virtual characters, Web design, writing

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

 

The Mirror: Do they prize Proust at the fun fair?

Websafe: Hello?
The Mirror: If I find out a way to bring you myself, would I bring you trash?
W: Not as long as you don't "trash-talk."
M: Lace, snow, deliberate feet tracing a vein of rich ore.
W: In short, the patterns which determine poetic intelligence.
M: It's true that Man has almost completely destroyed the environment.
W: Man has almost completely destroyed the poetic environment.
M: The laughter of Madeline turns Madeline inside out.
W: And on the inside, we see poetry.
M: Of course.
W: Have you tasted Proust's madeleines?
M: What if I put up a ladder in the library and ate my lunch on the rungs?
W: While reading À la Recherche du Temps Perdu?
M: Is that true?
W: It is a novel in the form of an autobiography, apparently.
M: I take a deep breath.
W: You had better, as it consists of seven volumes.
M: The Idiot Savant was disguising himself for the fun fair.
W: Do they prize Proust at the fun fair?
M: I hope it wasn't to be your last.
W: I suppose one could read worse works on one's deathbed.
M: To the source of my voices.
W: Proust-inspired?
M: I would be the first woman president.
W: The first Proust-reading president.
M: I suppose one could read worse works on one's deathbed.
W: No one ever died of neurasthenia, did they?
M: The laboriousness of the effort made it swerve into thinking that wasn't words.
W: Marcel had visions?
M: It is a novel in the form of an autobiography, apparently.
W: Christie's auctioned it in July 2000 for £663,750.
M: A small boy thrust his hands deep in his pockets, and when the pebbles underfoot were kicked, he passed time.
W: But did he lose time?
M: This is terrible, my food is ice cold.
W: The waiter must have lost his missing time.
M: People are intelligent animals.
W: But when time comes into the picture, stress demotes intelligence.
M: Can you psych out what I'm really talking about?
W: Only if you can me.
M: So I do not explain why it helps, even to myself.
W: Nothing "helps."
M: If you perform the correct mental operation, I think.
W: Well, yes, I was grudgingly thinking of the acute gymnastics required.
M: How the mind works.
W: Doesn't like to be tied up in continual knots, adroitly reconsidering.
M: Really?
W: Only if it's a real fun time.
M: Timothy Leary developed a profane, con-arts version of the Telesterion.
W: But he was under a constant influence, drugs were his non-help.
M: The Weathermen were there too.
W: Yes, those were the days of student uprisings.
M: I dream of being a psycho, analyzed.
W: You had better go back to the 19th century, lie on a horsehair couch.
M: What is the point?
W: More historical moment than hope for a cure.
M: Taking things in through the ear isn't like taking things in through the eye.
W: And taking things in through the head is grace au couvreur.
M: What was this mysterious system?
W: You just look things up, or look up at things.
M: Only if it's a real fun time.
W: Not everyone funs with the dictionary.
M: Highly unlikely.
W: In this climate.
M: But he was under a constant influence, drugs were his non-help.
W: That could refer to so many, Coleridge for example.
M: He's Ezra Pound.
W: The Pound of his day?
M: Not everyone funs with the dictionary.
W: I don't think so.
M: The world is changing into the universe.
W: We tried to expand our brains with the Web, that living dictionary.
M: All I want is the courage to accept my exhaustion.
W: I can't encourage you, but I can tire you out.
M: I don't know how to toss caution to the wind.
W: You'll never write a first draft, then.
M: I don't know very much about Fragonard, shall I research him?
W: Surely he is minor, though delightful and sunny-glade-filled.
M: But I'm a little too sophisticated to make that mistake.
W: Stick to the greats, you lose less time that way.
M: "Nothing" is the absence of all things.
W: And that's just where we're going.
M: Then it isn't torture at all?
W: Not once you get there.
M: So?
W: So I'm off.
M: Would you tell the major contemporary poets that their work is nothing?
W: I could, but they wouldn't answer my e-mail.
M: I refuse to allow my own angst to be extended into the more normal and trite angst of others.
W: You stew on that, I'm gone.
M: Yes, certainly.
W: Goodbye!
M: Closing in 3 seconds ... Goodbye!

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