"She wept.--Life's purple tide began to flow"
(--Wordsworth--)
Vastly reflective today and weepy. It happens sometimes. Today it happens to the soundtrack of Van Morrison. Van Morrison in any duration is new to me. Before today I thought I was just his brown-eyed girl. Today his voice each time it bursts roots fruits out from my deepest tissues, both ripe and rotten. Last weekend I checked Astral Weeks out from the library and I’m playing it for the first time today. It fits.
Some people think weeping means something dire must have occurred, but weeping rejuvenates any lair from any emotional currency. The debris that gets caught in the body’s damp nooks dislodges with each hard heave and sob, released in wet across the eye’s heavy bag, to the temple, a right place for lips to land—at eye’s corner, from where you see but not alone with whole clarity. I feel alive when somebody weeps in my presence. That person’s purging purges me, like a Greek in the tragic amphitheater.
In the Perseus online dictionary there are 37 Latin word forms listed for weeping. Like Eskimos with their manied snow, the rubbled Romans with their varied weeping. I might be generalizing from a mere quick wisp of information, but how romantic, the togas and their various tears damping down the dirt streets.
I thought I’d overcome romanticism. Not that I wanted to. I just felt wearied of its bother, fallen into ennui from its chronic mania. Maybe just jaded rather, a pebble scared into a tomb.
I’d rather be waking in the chronic grips of mania than sleeping in a dull dull hum.
Vastly reflective today and weepy. It happens sometimes. Today it happens to the soundtrack of Van Morrison. Van Morrison in any duration is new to me. Before today I thought I was just his brown-eyed girl. Today his voice each time it bursts roots fruits out from my deepest tissues, both ripe and rotten. Last weekend I checked Astral Weeks out from the library and I’m playing it for the first time today. It fits.
Some people think weeping means something dire must have occurred, but weeping rejuvenates any lair from any emotional currency. The debris that gets caught in the body’s damp nooks dislodges with each hard heave and sob, released in wet across the eye’s heavy bag, to the temple, a right place for lips to land—at eye’s corner, from where you see but not alone with whole clarity. I feel alive when somebody weeps in my presence. That person’s purging purges me, like a Greek in the tragic amphitheater.
In the Perseus online dictionary there are 37 Latin word forms listed for weeping. Like Eskimos with their manied snow, the rubbled Romans with their varied weeping. I might be generalizing from a mere quick wisp of information, but how romantic, the togas and their various tears damping down the dirt streets.
I thought I’d overcome romanticism. Not that I wanted to. I just felt wearied of its bother, fallen into ennui from its chronic mania. Maybe just jaded rather, a pebble scared into a tomb.
I’d rather be waking in the chronic grips of mania than sleeping in a dull dull hum.
4 Comments:
it seems romanticism seeps through the cracks when we least expect it.
yes. curve-ball reminders of the mutability that makes life life.
That's a neat ol' dictionary.
yes. that dictionary's good for me now that my latin is vanishing.
Post a Comment
<< Home