tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post5863921918698754802..comments2024-01-28T03:56:39.351-08:00Comments on TOM CLARK: Suicide with Squirtgun in Happy ValleyUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-53269588031342667962009-05-21T23:53:34.840-07:002009-05-21T23:53:34.840-07:00Dale,
In a battle between Sir Opossum and the Wh...Dale, <br /><br />In a battle between Sir Opossum and the White Knight Transcendence, my two bits would be on S.O.<br /><br />But I suppose that would merely be a battle between two kinds of absenting--slinking off and slipping away.<br /><br />It's said a handful of air may have its uses.<br /><br />Many thanks, and your face still looks unbespattered and uncrushed to me.TC/BTPnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-43694060152731721162009-05-21T22:52:48.172-07:002009-05-21T22:52:48.172-07:00Tom, this is great--wow (mouth open, eyes wide). T...Tom, this is great--wow (mouth open, eyes wide). The transcendent always slipping away--never there. And yet, it's that absence, a perpetual yearning with brief glimpses out of it, that makes art whatever it is to us. You know I've had my face crushed in the mud of rhetoric for several years. (No, those are flowers, or they're supposed to be.) The sense of contingency v. transcendence has been struggled over for so long. As a poet, and I don't want to label it, but I have always been curious in how words bring you right up next to something that can't quite be reached. Like the action occurs between the letters and spaces and sounds. That absence, that we'll join, and is irrevocable, seems to permeate everything--but you have to keep both eyes open, and swing if the ball crosses home plate. Anyway, thanks for entertaining these musings, and for leading off with Sir Opossum. Always a delight to bump into familiar company.Dalehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13285558511682553411noreply@blogger.com