Sunday, July 24, 2011

A sabbath, like any other

If there is a virtue to any of those days, widely reserved as a sabbath, could it lie in learning the release of time within oneself? We don't know a meditative approach to this, living with an English dog, but naturally a tactile one suggests what's in our reach. How do those nourishings of time conduct their universal distribution in our frame, to let the elbow bend and the fingers still feel, and even reach each other, out of sight?

The project of time is so very ordinary, its allowed expenditure for us inspires odd perfect-ings, as if of title by our own acts and purchases, trying to mark its way. Astrophysics is indifferent to this play; while, braceleted or not, the residue of time's birth is making and unmaking all the figures we resemble, every one impartially constructed.

The narrative of these figures is that of the popinjay impulse, indifference of time notwith-standing; yet with this creative force at work, we speak of good and not-good consequences, as if they existed. This is a sabbath-like confection, an exclusionary purchase, marking time. Contemplating the inconvenience of an infinite number of such confections, these figures contrive the illusion of an Arbiter - the gaudiest descendant of the incongruous claim to time. Waiter, bring me shad roe.

Cole Porter
Let's Do It
Ella Fitzgerald
op. cit.

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