an image imagining me

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You know my confessional blog from years ago—so silly at times, but remediable. I ceased doing it in 2011, then wanted to continue in 2015, but barely did so. Well, why not do something with its non-embarrassing postings and begin anew?

mourning walk

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I saw again last night the Juliette Binoche film “Paris” (2009) that I’d seen when it was first released in the U.S., September 2009. I’d forgotten how depressive it could be for someone on the verge of suicide. But it’s not a suicidal movie; just the opposite! Latent to it is luscious validation of life. But someone on the edge of suicide could easily fail to see.

philologist saunters by glade

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There is no pure beginning.... The Oxford University Press 30%-off sale online caused me to see that there were no new books I have to have this week (a relief: I don’t know what to do with the ones I have, apart from the hundred-or-so supposed to be priorities for near-term prospecting). But I realized I really want to see what’s what with David Sobel’s From Valuing to Value, which is available at the library. So, out I went.

note to self: don’t be haunted

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Vanessa Redgrave plays Mrs. Dalloway well. She would.
(I streamed the movie last night.)

The soldier suffering delayed PTSD in Mrs. Dalloway suddenly, in front of his wife, lets himself fall out his apartment window and impales on the iron fence below, as if it was just an impulsive retort to a passerby on the street about the surreality of polite society after surviving Hell.

imaginary yarn

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Having lived through perhaps too many filmic transpositions
of Austenian voices to now avoid teasing your pique toward proper names as modifiers, I avow a persistence of Romanticism as everlasting love of remembering.

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critical artist as obituarial character

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The March 20 ’s g.com posting—same name as this one—got updated, but only briefly—albeit obscurely enough (keeping true
to myself, you know).

to a muse

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Why there were tropes as Muses descends from why there’s personification at all: tree limbs moving, toys responding, friends imagined, gods, and angels.

Originally a muse is a way to be: in a muse, a play of mind, a reverie. Being drawn into rumination, being given in to presencing, objectifies itself into the presence of it all, which is at once a self-differentiation as the sway of swaying, play of playing: wind, inspiration apart from self-swaying, enspiriting itself. The presence emblemizes the play, appealing as a part of one apart from one, “there” marked as the appeal in itself, possibly promising a return of its potential or reincarnation of playing in terms of its terms or tangibles: psychic mirrors of one’s own potential for more musing. Wondering becomes personal wonder engaging one: a muse in “me.”