poem: Rimbaud 'a season in hell', Cassavetes 'Shadows'...

"I became a fabulous opera; I saw that all creatures have a fatality of happiness: action is not life, but only a way of spoiling some force, an enervation....Not a single sophistry of madness - madness to be confined - was forgotten: I could recite them all again, I know the system....Happiness was my fatality, my remorse, my worm: my life would always be too enormous to be devoted to strength and to beauty."
Je devins un opera fabuleux: je vis que tous les etres ont une fatalite de bonheur: l'action ne'st pas la vie, mais une facon de gacher quelque force, un enervement.  Aucun des sophismes de la folie, - la folie qu'on enferme, - n'a ete oublie par moi: je pourrais les redire tous, je tiens le system.  Le Bonheur etait ma fatalite, mon remords, mon ver: ma vie serait toujours trop immense pour etre devoiee a la force et a la beaute.
~ Rimbaud, page 65, New Directions edition
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/season-in-hell-the-drunken-boat-arthur-rimbaud/1100647012?ean=9780811219488

John Cassavetes' Shadows is part of the Criterion Collection on Hulu.

This fabulous opera, this passion-play, this tableaux

They have not failed me in their sport

Truth it may not be

Fireworks fail instantly

Rushing toward its end

"Stop" I say to the glow left over

"I have more"

Fancy cannot control itself and then the dark.

"Why not?" I say in black pitch, out loud.

In the belly of the beast, in the caverns of hubris

The words taken in, like a shadow

My breath short

We are, we are, we are...racing as it were

To folly's end.

"Here's my station But if you say just one word i'll stay with you" ~ Christine and the Queens

http://www.sergioalbiac.com/

Toutes les formes de l'amour , de la souffrance , de folie ; il cherche lui-même , il épuise en lui tous les poisons , et préserve leurs quintessences . Tourment indicible, où il aura besoin de la plus grande foi, une force surhumaine , où il devient tous les hommes le grand malade , le grand criminel, le grand maudit - et le scientifique suprême ! Pour qu'il atteigne l' inconnu! Puisqu'il a cultivé son âme , déjà riche , plus que quiconque!

http://tinyurl.com/og8jgg6

“A poet makes himself a visionary through a long, boundless, and systematized disorganization of all the senses. All forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he exhausts within himself all poisons, and preserves their quintessences. Unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith, a superhuman strength, where he becomes all men the great invalid, the great criminal, the great accursed--and the Supreme Scientist! For he attains the unknown! Because he has cultivated his soul, already rich, more than anyone! He attains the unknown, and if, demented, he finally loses the understanding of his visions, he will at least have seen them! So what if he is destroyed in his ecstatic flight through things unheard of, unnameable: other horrible workers will come; they will begin at the horizons where the first one has fallen!” 
― Arthur Rimbaud

9/25/15

Tell me where is fancy bred.  Or in the heart or in the head?  How begot, how nourished?  It is engendered in the eyes, With gazing fed, and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies.  Let us all ring fancy's knell I'll begin it.  - Ding, dong, bell.  ~ Merchant of Venice III, 2, 3

...once there, a time...12jan13

...there was a time, not long ago, though time may lie to me (it has before)...

you and I were confident in the candlelight, you were enraptured by words
'laying in folds of gossamer' with you wanting sleep, together
limbs were entangled and I brushed at the small tendrils of hair from your sweet temples
I kissed you like a psalm
those lips - I can taste them still: I knew then I would
your eyes carried grey like a low sky in winter
the smell of your bed, you bowed your head in willing deference at moments
I believed it to mean you cared
please say it were so
please lie and keep lying
and say it was so
     - A Songbook, 21JAN14

"Ma vie est usee.  Allons!  feignons, faineantons, o pitie!  Et nous existerons en nous amusant, en revant amours monstres et univers fantastiques, en nous plaignant et en querellant les apparences du monde.  saltimbangue, mendiant, artiste, bandit, - pretre!  Sur mon lit d'hopital, l'odeur de l'encens m'est revenue si puissante: gardien des aromates sacres, confesseur, marytr...."
- Une Saison En Enfer, "L'eclair", Arthur Rimbaud

Comment active est la colère, mais prolongée est chagrin d'amour! Les maximales éclat prévue avant en plaques de nacre. Mon amour! Il s'est avéré peu et présenté à si peu. Vie pitoyable, vous avez fait une parodie de mon mieux. - A Songbook, 21JAN14