This letter to my old friend Paul who as his namesake is slowly but surely walking his own road to Damascus. He has Stargardt's Disease (Fundus Flavimaculatus) and will be completely blind one day. This could have been one of the last things he would ever read. Not very considerate of me really.
Hi Paul
I have not written to you for some time now finding myself incapable of effectively communicating as a result of having too much to say.
I began a letter to you some weeks ago that evolved into a treatise, a poem in prose, a painting of words, a philosophical and artistic entity that could not be completed in an hour, a day, a week or a month. To complete it in a year is conceivable but it would still be so intrinsically flawed that a lifetime would not suffice to hone the words into an acceptable whole.
Therefore I begin another missive which will be an equally inadequate representation of the thoughts that have preyed upon my time.
Renewed contact with old friends and principally you has opened doors long closed and books have been read from the dusty shelves of the library of memory that have demanded a philosophical response that has filled me so completely that the daily toil on my book, in itself a source of contemplation on cause and effect, of learning and interpretation, of the injustice, faith and conflict that feed the army of prejudice and discrimination that marches us resolutely to the field of Armageddon………………….
Somnambulate. A stygian shade shrouds the earth and the inhume seeds of sculpture fail to reach the sun.
In ancient Greece the artist was never deemed worthy to be blessed by a muse. The artist’s breath of inspiration was a gift from the gods and considered to be a state akin to madness caused by the inability of the mortal mind to share the thoughts of a god and the inadequacy of his hand to translate that vision into temporal form. Nor was Psyche ascribed the power of a muse but was simply a woman blessed or cursed by a beauty so breathtaking that she was the envy of Venus herself, beauty considered the mere physical embodiment of a moment soon to be eroded by the rape of time.
The classical pantheon is incomplete and gives no name to the myriad muses that invade my psyche battling to control my futile struggle to serve their will. They have lost a skirmish if not the war and their usurper Psyche has in her personification of the intangible self goaded me to become a pilgrim on the many complex paths of philosophy.
Resonance and relativity in the nature of anatomy, cosmology, astrophysics, spiritual naturalism, cosmic consciousness and lexicography; the concept of language as a fifth fundamental interaction, an electrical synapse allowing causality, a neutral monistic nexus of words as actual entities.
Neutral monism, Epistemology, Physicalism, Process Philosophy, Process metaphysics, Dynamism, Monadology, Ontology and Taxonomy feed and feast upon my Conatus Essendi.
Prose drowning in ostentatious pretentiousness purporting to be poesy; words wantonly fornicating spawning bastard cephalopagus twins indulged in the confessional of the sacrament of penance absolving the animus of creativity from stain or blemish and liberating psyche from the manacles of mediocrity to soar upon the wings of heaven.
Brutal brushstrokes from the ineffable palette of language inexorably daub virgin canvas tills the last vestige of immaculate pallor is ravaged in a chiaroscuro of morphologic abstraction.
I will try to return to an appropriate style in which to communicate but for the moment I am immersed in the richness of language and all attempts to write a sensible epistle to a Corinthian like yourself remains a fruitless enterprise, an exigent dissipation of the infinitude of a single heartbeat.
Being a bipolar narcissistic psychopath is the least of my problems at the moment but when I get my little prose poem finished I pray to be allowed once more to wallow awhile in a posture of congenial complacency.
As I have not heard from you for a while I hope that you are well and that the grayling are keeping you sane.
Love to you all, Rob.
PS
I got my hook back a couple of days ago.
I have not written to you for some time now finding myself incapable of effectively communicating as a result of having too much to say.
I began a letter to you some weeks ago that evolved into a treatise, a poem in prose, a painting of words, a philosophical and artistic entity that could not be completed in an hour, a day, a week or a month. To complete it in a year is conceivable but it would still be so intrinsically flawed that a lifetime would not suffice to hone the words into an acceptable whole.
Therefore I begin another missive which will be an equally inadequate representation of the thoughts that have preyed upon my time.
Renewed contact with old friends and principally you has opened doors long closed and books have been read from the dusty shelves of the library of memory that have demanded a philosophical response that has filled me so completely that the daily toil on my book, in itself a source of contemplation on cause and effect, of learning and interpretation, of the injustice, faith and conflict that feed the army of prejudice and discrimination that marches us resolutely to the field of Armageddon………………….
Somnambulate. A stygian shade shrouds the earth and the inhume seeds of sculpture fail to reach the sun.
In ancient Greece the artist was never deemed worthy to be blessed by a muse. The artist’s breath of inspiration was a gift from the gods and considered to be a state akin to madness caused by the inability of the mortal mind to share the thoughts of a god and the inadequacy of his hand to translate that vision into temporal form. Nor was Psyche ascribed the power of a muse but was simply a woman blessed or cursed by a beauty so breathtaking that she was the envy of Venus herself, beauty considered the mere physical embodiment of a moment soon to be eroded by the rape of time.
The classical pantheon is incomplete and gives no name to the myriad muses that invade my psyche battling to control my futile struggle to serve their will. They have lost a skirmish if not the war and their usurper Psyche has in her personification of the intangible self goaded me to become a pilgrim on the many complex paths of philosophy.
Resonance and relativity in the nature of anatomy, cosmology, astrophysics, spiritual naturalism, cosmic consciousness and lexicography; the concept of language as a fifth fundamental interaction, an electrical synapse allowing causality, a neutral monistic nexus of words as actual entities.
Neutral monism, Epistemology, Physicalism, Process Philosophy, Process metaphysics, Dynamism, Monadology, Ontology and Taxonomy feed and feast upon my Conatus Essendi.
Prose drowning in ostentatious pretentiousness purporting to be poesy; words wantonly fornicating spawning bastard cephalopagus twins indulged in the confessional of the sacrament of penance absolving the animus of creativity from stain or blemish and liberating psyche from the manacles of mediocrity to soar upon the wings of heaven.
Brutal brushstrokes from the ineffable palette of language inexorably daub virgin canvas tills the last vestige of immaculate pallor is ravaged in a chiaroscuro of morphologic abstraction.
I will try to return to an appropriate style in which to communicate but for the moment I am immersed in the richness of language and all attempts to write a sensible epistle to a Corinthian like yourself remains a fruitless enterprise, an exigent dissipation of the infinitude of a single heartbeat.
Being a bipolar narcissistic psychopath is the least of my problems at the moment but when I get my little prose poem finished I pray to be allowed once more to wallow awhile in a posture of congenial complacency.
As I have not heard from you for a while I hope that you are well and that the grayling are keeping you sane.
Love to you all, Rob.
PS
I got my hook back a couple of days ago.
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