Log in

No account? Create an account

Death in Art

I caught a nasty cold, which, in a twisted way, is a blessing. It enables me to slow down and think a little bit. Sometimes I go off on bike rides, thinking that a long ride will give me a chance to mull things over. Then it turns out that I get back from the ride without having thought about anything. I'm just riding, caught up, I guess, in riding. This is probably what I wanted from the start: to live in the present, not to dwell on the past or project into the future. But, Sunday afternoon, despite the gorgeous weather, I didn't get on the bike, I sat on the deck with a cup of hot water (several cups of hot water in succession, which, in essence, is the same cup of hot water) and read and took notes and coughed and sniffled.

Jorge Luis Borges, in "El sur," compares people to cats: people live in time, in succession; the magic animal, in contrast, lives in an eternal present. Living in time is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because it is what makes our cultural expression possible: our nostalgia (not what it used to be), our reflection on our own inevitable demise and death, or our creation of art. On the other hand, living in time is a curse, because it keeps us from simply living. Sometimes we need to put the book down and just be. Apparently Nike was on to something, those devils.

Chuck E. Darwin raps that we descended from hairy quadrupeds, furnished with a tail and pointed ears, probably arboreal in their habits. My question: when did we start living in time, making puns, telling funny stories ... contemplating death in poems?

After his wife died, one guy built a mausoleum for himself and her. He would hang out there regularly, "a little portable TV sitting on the top of [his] waiting tomb, which is already engraved with his name and birth date and that chilling hyphen ..."

My dad knew where he was going to be buried long before he died, and I've heard the story about him visiting the grave and lying down to "measure" it.

I like his sense of humor.

Tags: ,


pure genius!

I'm intrigued by the symbolism of death within the word poem in the third paragraph of this posting.
It looks like a link, and it almost acts like a link, but when you try to click it...it is dead.
Very clever, old boy!
Three dimensional (virtual) Death In Art.

Dead link

One of those significant errors. I'm trying to link to "Requiem," but I haven't quite figured out how to make the links work yet!

May 2018



Powered by LiveJournal.com