a cream cracker under the settee
[she had passed through the dusk. and therefore the air was silent save for one soft hiss that fell. and therefore the tongues about him had ceased their babble. darkness was falling]
i have returned to campus for a single week, and once again i lack a muse! as i sit lonesomely with my fingers resting on the keys, i wonder
"with whom am i to badinage?
who will listen receptive and attractive?
and who will provide divine inspiration?"
pages of notes lie flat and pale upon my desk, but i seek more liveliness, more fleshliness
something altogether more hilly and perilous
[a trembling joy, lambent as a faint light, played like a fairy host around him. but why? her passage through the darkening air or the verse with its black vowels and its opening sound, rich and lutelike?]
a week you say? perhaps i will deign to help… for we are very similar you and i, musing with mutual gesticulation, shunning the direct glance of the cameric abyss
[...tick tock tock tick…]
try: "if i had been receptive, i would have heard a tick."
but such a conditional is quite vacuous if the only possible conception that he can have of his being receptive at that time is simply that of being able to hear what is there to be heard
only a spatial theory can satisfy the demand that the factor accounting for the presence or absence of a perception of perceptible phenomena should be at once a priori connected with the propositions about the world, and yet subject to significant empirical control…
[he walked away slowly towards the deeper shadows at the end of the colonnade, beating the stone softly with his stick to hide his revery from the students whom he had left: and allowed his mind to summon back to itself the age of Strawson and Evans and Harrison]
ah what serendipity! "i'm here all week" quoth she
my bill has been well-fitted and filled, fleshly and skilled!
and my desk! dangerous and diverting as any wood can be
and with that i shall wend my merry way to sleep, to wake up musingly tomorrow
aren't the fates sometimes kind?
my psychic told me she had an ass like rodin: gauguin, joanne d'arc
[exit music (for a blog)]:
"so if you got a trumpet, get on your feet, brother, and blow it.
if you've got a field, that don't yield, well get up and hoe it.
i look at you and you look at me and deep in our hearts know it.
that you weren't much of a muse, but then I weren't much of a poet."]