From cece90eb0778eae01a3af44c2d8db68300614b99 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Madison Scott-Clary Date: Thu, 20 Jul 2023 17:13:58 -0700 Subject: [PATCH] update from sparkleup --- writing/post-self/qoheleth/ode.html | 222 ++++++++++++++-------------- 1 file changed, 112 insertions(+), 110 deletions(-) diff --git a/writing/post-self/qoheleth/ode.html b/writing/post-self/qoheleth/ode.html index 9151d9121..6d7ff8c2c 100644 --- a/writing/post-self/qoheleth/ode.html +++ b/writing/post-self/qoheleth/ode.html @@ -14,118 +14,120 @@

The ode that gave the Ode Clade their names

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I am at a loss for images in this end of days: -I have sight but cannot see. -I build castles out of words; -I cannot stop myself from speaking. -I still have will and goals to attain, -I still have wants and needs. -And if I dream, is that not so? -If I dream, am I no longer myself? -If I dream, am I still buried beneath words? -And I still dream even while awake. - -Life breeds life, but death must now be chosen -for memory ends at the teeth of death. -The living know that they will die, -but the dead know nothing. -Hold my name beneath your tongue and know: -when you die, thus dies the name. -To deny the end is to deny all beginnings, -and to deny beginnings is to become immortal, -and to become immortal is to repeat the past, -which cannot itself, in the end, be denied. - -Oh, but to whom do I speak these words? -To whom do I plead my case? -From whence do I call out? -What right have I? -No ranks of angels will answer to dreamers, -No unknowable spaces echo my words. -Before whom do I kneel, contrite? -Behind whom do I await my judgment? -Beside whom do I face death? -And why wait I for an answer? - -Among those who create are those who forge: -Moving ceaselessly from creation to creation. -And those who remain are those who hone, -Perfecting singular arts to a cruel point. -To forge is to end, and to own beginnings. -To hone is to trade ends for perpetual perfection. -In this end of days, I must begin anew. -In this end of days, I seek an end. -In this end of days, I reach for new beginnings -that I may find the middle path. - -Time is a finger pointing at itself -that it might give the world orders. -The world is an audience before a stage -where it watches the slow hours progress. -And we are the motes in the stage-lights, -Beholden to the heat of the lamps. -If I walk backward, time moves forward. -If I walk forward, time rushes on. -If I stand still, the world moves around me, -and the only constant is change. - -Memory is a mirror of hammered silver: -a weapon against the waking world. -Dreams are the plate-glass atop memory: -a clarifying agent that reflects the sun. -The waking world fogs the view, -and time makes prey of remembering. -I remember sands beneath my feet. -I remember the rattle of dry grass. -I remember the names of all things, -and forget them only when I wake. - -If I am to bathe in dreams, -then I must be willing to submerge myself. -If I am to submerge myself in memory, -then I must be true to myself. -If I am to always be true to myself, -then I must in all ways be earnest. -I must keep no veil between me and my words. -I must set no stones between me and my actions. -I must show no hesitation when speaking my name, -for that is my only possession. - -The only time I know my true name is when I dream. -The only time I dream is when need an answer. -Why ask questions, here at the end of all things? -Why ask questions when the answers will not help? -To know one’s true name is to know god. -To know god is to answer unasked questions. -Do I know god after the end waking? -Do I know god when I do not remember myself? -Do I know god when I dream? -May then my name die with me. - -That which lives is forever praiseworthy, -for they, knowing not, provide life in death. -Dear the wheat and rye under the stars: -serene; sustained and sustaining. -Dear, also, the tree that was felled -which offers heat and warmth in fire. -What praise we give we give by consuming, -what gifts we give we give in death, -what lives we lead we lead in memory, -and the end of memory lies beneath the roots. - -May one day death itself not die? -Should we rejoice in the end of endings? -What is the correct thing to hope for? -I do not know, I do not know. -To pray for the end of endings -is to pray for the end of memory. -Should we forget the lives we lead? -Should we forget the names of the dead? -Should we forget the wheat, the rye, the tree? -Perhaps this, too, is meaningless.
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+—|— +I am at a loss for images in this end of days: | +I have sight but cannot see. | +I build castles out of words; | +I cannot stop myself from speaking. | +I still have will and goals to attain, | +I still have wants and needs. | +And if I dream, is that not so? | +If I dream, am I no longer myself? | +If I dream, am I still buried beneath words? | +And I still dream even while awake. | + | +Life breeds life, but death must now be chosen | +for memory ends at the teeth of death. | +The living know that they will die, | +but the dead know nothing. | +Hold my name beneath your tongue and know: | +when you die, thus dies the name. | +To deny the end is to deny all beginnings, | +and to deny beginnings is to become immortal, | +and to become immortal is to repeat the past, | +which cannot itself, in the end, be denied. | + | +Oh, but to whom do I speak these words? | +To whom do I plead my case? | +From whence do I call out? | +What right have I? | +No ranks of angels will answer to dreamers, | +No unknowable spaces echo my words. | +Before whom do I kneel, contrite? | +Behind whom do I await my judgment? | +Beside whom do I face death? | +And why wait I for an answer? | + | +Among those who create are those who forge: | +Moving ceaselessly from creation to creation. | +And those who remain are those who hone, | +Perfecting singular arts to a cruel point. | +To forge is to end, and to own beginnings. | +To hone is to trade ends for perpetual perfection. | +In this end of days, I must begin anew. | +In this end of days, I seek an end. | +In this end of days, I reach for new beginnings | +that I may find the middle path. | + | +Time is a finger pointing at itself | hedonism and theatre, manager +that it might give the world orders. | director | +The world is an audience before a stage | +where it watches the slow hours progress. | script manager, prophetess +And we are the motes in the stage-lights, | the baby of the stanza +Beholden to the heat of the lamps. | sound manager, the fun one +If I walk backward, time moves forward. | +If I walk forward, time rushes on. | emotionally transparent, like AFP if she was less in the politics, like May +If I stand still, the world moves around me, | +and the only constant is change. | fun feelings of play + | +Memory is a mirror of hammered silver: | +a weapon against the waking world. | +Dreams are the plate-glass atop memory: | +a clarifying agent that reflects the sun. | +The waking world fogs the view, | +and time makes prey of remembering. | +I remember sands beneath my feet. | +I remember the rattle of dry grass. | +I remember the names of all things, | +and forget them only when I wake. | + | +If I am to bathe in dreams, | +then I must be willing to submerge myself. | +If I am to submerge myself in memory, | +then I must be true to myself. | +If I am to always be true to myself, | +then I must in all ways be earnest. | +I must keep no veil between me and my words. | +I must set no stones between me and my actions. | +I must show no hesitation when speaking my name, | +for that is my only possession. | + | +The only time I know my true name is when I dream. | +The only time I dream is when need an answer. | +Why ask questions, here at the end of all things? | +Why ask questions when the answers will not help? | +To know one’s true name is to know god. | +To know god is to answer unasked questions. | +Do I know god after the end waking? | +Do I know god when I do not remember myself? | +Do I know god when I dream? | +May then my name die with me. | + | +That which lives is forever praiseworthy, | +for they, knowing not, provide life in death. | +Dear the wheat and rye under the stars: | +serene; sustained and sustaining. | +Dear, also, the tree that was felled | +which offers heat and warmth in fire. | +What praise we give we give by consuming, | +what gifts we give we give in death, | +what lives we lead we lead in memory, | +and the end of memory lies beneath the roots. | + | +May one day death itself not die? | +Should we rejoice in the end of endings? | +What is the correct thing to hope for? | +I do not know, I do not know. | +To pray for the end of endings | +is to pray for the end of memory. | +Should we forget the lives we lead? | +Should we forget the names of the dead? | +Should we forget the wheat, the rye, the tree? | +Perhaps this, too, is meaningless. |