No more words! A funny thing for a writer to demand. Not for an artist or a composer, necessarily. But it’s a strange call coming from an author, who obviously depends on words for his/her brick and mortar.
Silence. The fear of. The desire for. The demand, the scream, the crying out loud. Stop!!!
“Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.”
— Ludwig Wittgenstein
“The silence of these infinite spaces frightens me.”
Chatter. Is it an escape from mortality? Do we talk, write, think in language to avoid silence? And do we associate silence, consciously, unconsciously, with death?
If we remain silent, and do everything we can to avoid thinking in language, but still hear other humans, we can not avoid thinking in words. But we can take a break, and extend that as far as our strength carries us, if we … Click to continue . . .
It’s that day again. And there have been so many since 1904. Well, that makes it, what? One hundred and eight years now? Molly and Leopold Bloom. Molly, Bloom and Stephen. Molly and Blazes Boylan. James and Nora. Sam and Diane.
Ulysses, the greatest novel in the English language, and perhaps the greatest novel of obsession ever written. The obsession was with the novel itself, with its possibilities, with the haunting, nagging, agonizing sense that Joyce could be at all places at one time, cubist, in his head and on the page. He could be back in the Ireland of 1904, with Nora Barnacle, and also all the days that led up to its publication in 1922, a year that saw one of the most amazing outpourings of literature, philosophy and Comparative Myth in the 20th century. Aside from Ulysses, that year brought us The Waste Land, by T.S. … Click to continue . . .
Shows a listing for events all over the world. If you’re lucky enough to be in Ireland this week for the celebration, and would like your photography displayed on the web, please drop us a line, or two, or three.
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On a somewhat related note . . .
The Celtic Twilight
Was more than a dark ruse
More than a way
To craft an independence of mind
Free from English dominance
And Big Houses
And colonial rule
It was a way to remind the British
That their land had once been
A Celtic Twilight too
And that another imperial power
Had once done what it could to crush
The life out of druid and muse
In the land of Stonehenge
We have new poetry from several excellent writers for our June issue. Donal Mahoney, Corey Mesler, Isaac Black, William Doreski, Ricky Garni and Steve F. Klepetar. They’ve each added a spark to Spinozablue and expand its history.
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Pathways have always intrigued me. Especially deep pathways that go on forever, with tall thick woods all around that deepen as you go further in. They should scare you just a little bit and make you question why you started in this direction, wondering if you’ll ever get out. But at the same time, they should be green and thick and verdant enough to make you not care one way or another. Should you make it back out or not . . . should you ever see the light of day again, your home sweet home, your girl, your trusty steed. Of course, there is always the dragon in the center to find. Or the pot of … Click to continue . . .
Awakened by incubi of rot I resurface, strung upon viscera. I want my body to want, but today I am bone and shudder. I lift one finger and point with it toward a new way to write, or waking, a new way to wake, vigilant.
Steal this Love
O spunky little fast-paced noir, with your com- forting women and your loose-lipped gunsels and your capers gone wrong, gone wrong, I love you with my gray, way- laid heart.
I am an Open Brick
The news of my life has been greatly exaggerated. The lineup is all friends of mine from a past I disown. The women—and we must always speak of the women—are as beautiful as we let them be. I was told to wait here inside the reign of saints. The news of my life is about as interesting as the… Click to continue . . .
Main Street ran through my living room until I shut and locked both doors. I don’t know or care how traffic detours around my house but I resented the threat to my cats.
A heavy black girder bridge spans the gap between this town and that one. I wouldn’t drive or walk across it for fear that the massive girders would bend satirically, dumping me into a vale of thorns and nettles.
You, of course, cross daily, driving your mauve Porsche with élan. When that engine winds up Main Street the cats dodge to their beds and crouch to spring on whatever creation threatens to evolve in their presence.
When you step inside, breathing like the average carnivore, we all relax in a cross-species sigh. When you drive me to the hospital for my shift as a volunteer we avoid the huge black bridge