Not Paul but early Jesus, not Socrates but Heraclitus, not God but gods

Art is for everybody, but specimens of art are for some and not others. the aero plane that flies over the sea in the early 2000s somehow remade me into my eight year old self singing the kyrie eleison full heartedly in the shower when the water flowing from the shower head seemed so high. The first song at least.

By the time Oh comely came on, it would break that believing heart, and I would be back in time, faithless and faltering, with tarred lungs, ashy fingers, uncertain prospects, beset with casual confusion at looming prospect of bills and the wall hangings and the timed and scheduled nature of life.

I thought of that, reading about Davenport and the unity of the archaic form arising at all stages, making it light and animate, acknowledging the underlying virulence of unchanging time.

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Is it true about Trotsky and the ice pick in Mexico? A nez perce and a clotted wound, if one soldier deserts then ten men in the company will die. Call it duty or a rearguard annotation of self regard.

Compelled e spirit de corp, in this agonizing century. Bad weather coming soon.

Like how Bruckner, according to Chinaski, wasn’t bad, at best, which was good enough. Or else it goes like this:

there are times when we should

remember

the strange courage

of the second-rate

who refuse to quit

when the nights

are black and long and sleepless

and the days are without

end.