03-26-2012, 10:40 AM
P.S. The real "bitch" is recursive thought.
P.P.S. 2 points awarded for using "bicameral consciousness".
I been reading Jaynes's The Origin Of Consciousness
In The breakdown Of The Bicameral Mind. for the
last 30 years. Sections instructive to poets-- particu-
larly the 'analog I' and 'metaphor me.'
[quote='Leanne' pid='93056' dateline='1332723989']
To be perfectly frank, having spent the last five years or so as "a housewife", I have real difficulty reconciling the almost diametrically-opposed readings I get from this: one, that there is something rather satisfyingly zen about watching the cycle of the dryer and letting the mind drift; two, that housewives have nothing better to do than sit staring at their toes wishing the dryer was going.
**
Poetry, to my way of thinking, is all lies.
There is no truth in poetry. It's all "What
if things were such and such?"
The poem is the result of 'such and such."
If there were such a man as Prufrock, then ...
If there were a wasteland, then ...
If there existed a housewife, then ...
But she's not a real housewife, Prufrock's
not real. There is no wasteland. No Keatsian
love in a hut. No child died. No coy mistress
exists. It's all a magic curtain.
Plus, I have no idea what I'm talking about.
but it doesn't matter when you're 78 years
and have done all the damage you're going to
do.-- and the grandkids bring their babies,
and the wife loves gardening and the accounts
are full and settled and the robins try to
build nests in the wreath hanging on the door,
and your shoulder cracks when you lift your
arm.
Bless all here ...
rh
P.P.S. 2 points awarded for using "bicameral consciousness".
I been reading Jaynes's The Origin Of Consciousness
In The breakdown Of The Bicameral Mind. for the
last 30 years. Sections instructive to poets-- particu-
larly the 'analog I' and 'metaphor me.'
[quote='Leanne' pid='93056' dateline='1332723989']
To be perfectly frank, having spent the last five years or so as "a housewife", I have real difficulty reconciling the almost diametrically-opposed readings I get from this: one, that there is something rather satisfyingly zen about watching the cycle of the dryer and letting the mind drift; two, that housewives have nothing better to do than sit staring at their toes wishing the dryer was going.
**
Poetry, to my way of thinking, is all lies.
There is no truth in poetry. It's all "What
if things were such and such?"
The poem is the result of 'such and such."
If there were such a man as Prufrock, then ...
If there were a wasteland, then ...
If there existed a housewife, then ...
But she's not a real housewife, Prufrock's
not real. There is no wasteland. No Keatsian
love in a hut. No child died. No coy mistress
exists. It's all a magic curtain.
Plus, I have no idea what I'm talking about.
but it doesn't matter when you're 78 years
and have done all the damage you're going to
do.-- and the grandkids bring their babies,
and the wife loves gardening and the accounts
are full and settled and the robins try to
build nests in the wreath hanging on the door,
and your shoulder cracks when you lift your
arm.
Bless all here ...
rh