Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

bury yourself in yourself?
isn't that what Kierkegaard did?
and his punishment was . . .
not to burn in hell I think but
his punishment was to have lived “bereft of all lust for life.”

How do we transform our infirmities, our inadequacies our fears into something that shines from neighbor to neighbor, makes friends, saves the world. The hero with a thousand neuroses or something like that.

mind over matter
that is what I been trying to do with my existence these days

so wet warm and noisy inside my brain

I don't think I got time enough to read any of his books. I am a very slow reader. It sometimes takes me years to finish a book, really, no hyperbole. Husserl probably the hardest for me. Spinoza sounds funny, I might take a stab at one of his books next

thanks for reading amiga
feels good to have a reader.
I read you
you read me
better read than dead

That made me think of if he could get his hands on a vial of her blood, or a disease she carried around or a strand of hair and then look at it closely under the microscope in order to be close to her, even if she was across the ocean in a TB hospital or in a foreign prison or somehow unattainable.

Also I thought of that sitcom six feet under or whatever it was called pushing up daisies...
the one where he brought his love back to life, but could not touch her or she'd die again.

Wow, I feel like such a poser I know so little about him, I tried to read him forty years ago when I wore bloody underwear the time of my three scarlet letters acid abortion and adultery. Sorry I lie it was the fall of 1974 when I read Kierkegaard for the first time. Also the summer I first read Sylvia Plath, the summer of 1976 I first read Anne Sexton, that was the summer I fell in love with "pickles" at the Ship Wreck Saloon.

but that is another book another poem maybe. All I remember was the bit about the spider in the out-house. How do you make love with a black widow spider, jack be nimble.

What you say makes sense to me
Sylvia Plath was unobtainable to me, cause you know the princess never marries the butcher boy.

The way I carried Sylvia Plath's only novel around with me for so many years and miles, I read that book so many times I forget, ten or 15 maybe.

to bring her back to life?
to understand her disease?
the phenomenology of female spatial existence
what would I know about PMS or her fatal biology
I let her rest now, but I still think of Anne Sexton a lot, she was there with me too, the first time I read her poem When Jesus Suckled, she kept me company many a mile thinking about that truck that owned me.
I never learned a thing from their deaths, it is their life's work that learned me.

I know nothing of Regine, but I have done worse

Kierkegaard I barely understand
Did he die young
of a broken heart
so hard to remember
some broken hearts never mend
the lines to a sad country song
I think Kierkegaard wrote my life
but ain't got time left to wonder
I got to get on with it it
she is long gone
the spontaneous despair of an old norewegian bathchelor
my life
such as it is
I would rather go hungry
than eat lonesome stew

that was the summer I fell in love with "pickles" at the Ship Wreck Saloon.

I know how I smiled when you said that when. Not sure why I hadn't commented, but I did think of myself sitting in a saloon picking up the pieces of the ship that just had passed within.

the night I read The Jesus Papers
for the first time
Lies all lies
I am a truck I own you
two million miles and forty years ago
never will be home, I just run out of road

How did he know how many husbands she had in truth?

I have found my patron saint of hell