luka

Well-known member
people that can read with Prynne with pleasure are either formidably overeducated or they're uneducated. corpsey and craner can't get near it. yyaldrin can't even speak english but he loves it. he's got the requisite openess to experience and the ability to tolerate ambiguity and uncertainty
 

luka

Well-known member
Didn’t go to goldsmiths did I but Luka entertains me with his account of who I am, so I prefer to just let it unfold

most people here have agreed to be the people i want them to be. its the wisest course of action. i'll write the biographies.
 

yyaldrin

in je ogen waait de wind
can someone post "royal fern", it's one of my favourite poems by prynne. it makes me think of takeshi kitano's "dolls" a lot.

Kuklyi.jpg
 

luka

Well-known member
Royal Fern

By the beads you sleep, laden with scrip.
How can you love me in dream,
always walking from field to field.
You sleep on, seeded by snowy drift.

In strings it bales from the crest.
And singing with it, I run, half
fearingly, out of the hot shade.
Love holds me to the mallet path.

In his youth he walked much.
Tears streamed down his unlined face,
damping his shirt. Sleep glows
in its beads, staring the wing blind.

Still the snow hums, fetching my life:
the pain to come, still the key
takes cover in the chamois case.
The key is the edge of our day.

So the fiat parks by the kerb.
We hear him switch off, he is
dreaming of the void. `in time,
soup for the father in the open green.

Now the family is rejoined. In a
gold circlet they weep of pold fears.
It is warm here, the sycamore
pales at last. His to keep. Amass.
 

version

Well-known member
I wonder whether typing Prynne's stuff gives you a better feel for it. Hunter Thompson claimed to have typed out Fitzgerald and others in order to feel what it was like to have written those words in that order.
 

luka

Well-known member
it does if you pay attention to what youre typing. not if you do it in a rush like i just did
 

luka

Well-known member
anything that gets you to focus on the words will help a thousandfold. reading is very hard.
 
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luka

Well-known member
coincidentally i was reading something on the internet yestday "whats a mallet path? he (meaning prynne) doesnt even know himself"
 

yyaldrin

in je ogen waait de wind
Royal Fern

By the beads you sleep, laden with scrip.
How can you love me in dream,
always walking from field to field.
You sleep on, seeded by snowy drift.

In strings it bales from the crest.
And singing with it, I run, half
fearingly, out of the hot shade.
Love holds me to the mallet path.

In his youth he walked much.
Tears streamed down his unlined face,
damping his shirt. Sleep glows
in its beads, staring the wing blind.

Still the snow hums, fetching my life:
the pain to come, still the key
takes cover in the chamois case.
The key is the edge of our day.

So the fiat parks by the kerb.
We hear him switch off, he is
dreaming of the void. `in time,
soup for the father in the open green.

Now the family is rejoined. In a
gold circlet they weep of pold fears.
It is warm here, the sycamore
pales at last. His to keep. Amass.

so extremely beautiful.


"The film is also not in strict chronological order, but there is a strong visual emphasis on the changing of the seasons and the bonds of love over the progression of time (Matsumoto and Sawako spend most of the film physically connected by a red rope)."
 
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