Frank Corcoran

Dear Jacopone,

stop twitching those toes!

Gentleman, certainly, mighty odd giullare, toady of God. Your shocked fingers fingered her ( way too ) young, ( way too ) limp hair-shirt.

Musical lawyer in Todi of the very finest stone, you saw her fatal dance, then the floor collapsed ? It was your “self ” – or hers – was meant in not-quite-yet Pope Honorius´s slim paper-back ” On Contempt Of The World ” in Todi´s only book-shop ?
Knots and thorns mixed into your she-less Umbran grallya, in your dirt you recalled it , your dancing giggles for Cristo. Fancy foot-work and the wrong side of Bonifatius, gets you into San Fortunato dungeon´s dung, lauding and lalling and crooning and moaning and keening not HER but Her Church Incontinent, My Young Bride´s Robber, A Her – Him Swindle, The Big Key To What If Not Real Walls Of Palestrina, Real Music All Lost, Bony Fazius As Well As Well Crowned , Todi´s Cristo -Debt Stopped Short , Never To Go Again, And All Our Transcendental Spam Sent Awry .
You wished to burst asunder HER onion-self , her childhood piano-lessons in “The You and I Walz” , still much stuck in C major. Why so late fingered that lovely hair-corset , her Franciscan stays and her tears? You´d not nightly ? Pope Honorius dictated in the bedroom ? You despised her hair-shift and -drawers and -shirt and -blouse and -slip and -tanga and all de dainty tings made for delight ? Poetic form was thrn for you as toads dancing in Umbria .
” Jacopone” = “Famous Séamus Dauncing”, ” Hairy Trot In Todi”, ” Her Stays Stayed A More Heavenly Knickers”, ” Bony Fazius The Worst Curse” . What morphed you at all ? That dance-hall floor or her falling hair-shirt began your ” rinnce le ceol” , best done around Todi. But how eg. despise all of “my” world ? ” All ” ? ” My” ? ” World” ? Why should you ? She ? -that rickety dancing-area collapsed on her hair-underclothes ? Her stays, your moment, jabberwocked Jim ?

“Avoid the left side of God, whatever you do! Avoid Her Divine left flank, haunch, shoulder, carabhat.” Youthful he was too serious, fading fast in the dark, milky evening, the ocean-spume forced up Skellig´s West Face which was acting as a kind of gigantic, basalt sea-flute.He was me, I realized, way too serious, grown old as a youth, his not yet bearded face unreal in a black-purple Atlantic evening .
My ( i.e. his ) last words ” Whatever you say, don´t say it! ” were lost in the upward roar of ocean-wind, a great swell slapping a hundred lowing seal-mammies below on their ( – certainly for Milton ) awful calving rocks .
I loved every child´s Christmas, the dark morning not really cold, our black puddings special, our Child born to die in my place ; or was it the other way round, His puddings a-steaming ?
John Milton and our Parish Priest were as one, at least on this: that He´d left Heav´n´s high Councel-Table to be dished up in humble North Tipperary, unwrapped and freezing in our parish-crib, not far from our lambing sheep. No choice, certainly. He´d be for the knife.
“Ar dheis Dé” was deep in all families, and not just at our Feast of That Light Unsufferable; my little mind knew one of our crowd had minced his own mother up a decade before.
Christ! To give up sitting in the midst of Trinal Timelessness and to choose our darksome, clay House, our sheds, out-houses, hen-coop, corrugated-iron roofs with the cold draught that killed my first dog, Daisy or was it Keeper?
Later, holy beardlessness and youth – if not sense -were on my side, pondering: ” At Her right side may rest rightly be”, as Aunt Brigid´s soul crawled up our cleaned – out chimney like seaweedy Skellig air. Later again I´d compose my nine-fold harmony, a full consort for the weltring waves, yes, fair Jewesses to young me.
Later still, I panicked: what if it was me ? – knife-to-the-beard, young stubble, WHOSE black puddings for our Xmas ? I do wish for, I yearn for bliss, full and perfect. I want a not-too-little steam-roller which rolls in a courtly stable for our spangled host, a slight rise in pocket-money for a bright new year, the Sun in bed with Mrs. Milton.
So let´s suppose Nature – in awe of my redemptive theology – did pollute with sinfull blame Skellig West Face halcyons or its December turtle-winged harbingers? Are you serious ? While they their oozy channel keep ? While yet our Christmas Childe plus all we wish to be ” at Her right side” ? to be ” Ar dheis Dé ” ?
Sharp the childish Christmas knife. Sharp as a disappointment in the toy steam-roller department, sharp the pointing a finger at Skellig to face the scaly Horrour of just who exactly´s swindging, foulded tail? So it must have been as Childe Christmas´s well-ballanc´t world on hinges hung that I swung, flung childish Christmas dung, done our long-planned Tipperary silver chime. Young, serious MÉ, my very MICH remained beardless in my wintry panic before the sonorous, hardly concealed threat of: ” their oozy channel keep”. Meaning just what?
What might the Angelike symphony ( see double bass honks, very well I have meant them, starting equally well-meant Second Symphony ) have sounded up on the wintry West Face, through our children´s awe-filled Atlantic flute-spume ? Tender December infant, I couldn´t fathom : ” Ar dheis Dé go raibh a h-anam! ” Or is it: “May she sidle up to the right side of God´s Carabhat” ?
I was that young musicianer in that December darksome Mortal Clay House. I asked, WHOSE” flocking shades pale / Troop to th ínfernall jail.” Beardless, the young will always cower. Who´d misplaced our newly clean swadling bands anyhow – was it to controul the damned crew? Where were you, wanton Mrs. Milton ? In which SUN´s bed sported you , far from our Northern Europe yule-tide ? far from the dredded Infants hand, you, too, a yellow-skirted Fay, eh?
Yes, Time is, I cowtowed to our Skellig Song which is a-playing on every basalt sea-flute. There Time equals squared, moist M.C. out on the wet West Face. He “our deadly forfeit released”, eh? Was it, then, He who redeemed, repaired my broken toy steam-roller that Xmas with His hallow´d fire, eh? A spangled present to the Infant God and His Feary Father, eh ? Baroque begobs and Crystall sphears and black pudding special, eh , He was to die in my place, was that Their plan, eh ? Was it that which all our silly thoughts so busie kept, so near and so far on that Nativity Morning of old, eh, we sons of A Tipperary Nollaig morning ? Was it our Skellig´s wakefull , watery trump of doom that thundered through deep Kerry sea-depths with a horrid clang ? Such a Song of terror for a still beardless, Heav´n-born-childe?

LET ME DEFINITELY NEST MYSELF ON ALL WORLD – SERVERS

Soft you, before I take on ” Let me “. Consider weakish ” Definitely” and, after I´ve lambasted that, sherry-swinish ” Nest Myself”, all of this on this our
post-Samhan ” Ogni Santi” / ” Aller Seelen” ( – poor Schubert´s teeth ! ) thermometric fall .
Next in line to be criticized ” All over the world !” as creeping arrogance, a time-server for word-pigs! Her “glob” = his ” blogadr” = ” their wished for “playbar “. So whisper it wistfully, cautiously: ” pressword = wordpress/swordpressworryswishI´dódonítfirstan´foremosht/ ”
( In principle, was not our pressing out Dat But Only Just Dat Just Word long foreconceived, in fact some aeons earlier ? )
Press down. Shut up. Shut. Nest down. Mrs. Blogs, born in this Night of The SHE, she is helpless, so shes nesting on Culann´s Dawg, Cú. Down, hound, dawn fawning!
On one such “sacred”, ” livid” ( Luther ) October 31st evening, I happened to wrench the fifth rib while slipping across my own SHE Divide, up interviewing Mother on Skellig´s West Face. I´d faced wet-to-the-skin Blogadr.s, all, and I mean all, of her wet E-Mails; Luther – long before- had been pressing out The World At Stool, anti-Jewish pighound, we are more on the alert today. Marvel, though, at what he did expel: ” B.Lo.Go´dr. Sw´nish // “, the professorial theologians´ Thuringian privie practically blown apart by this lovely part-song for shitters.
Allow for ” SHE”, for our Celtic Fun On The Time-Line. October was doubtlessly grand, now the Sí were shovelling up her soil. I slipped over her own grey-hound. I had to sneak by, smacked by Samhan saints, by SHEs and by poor Schubert´s teeth, nesting with Mother´s hush-puppy hounds under a purgatorial Skellig Mór down-pour where no playbar ever did split Luther´s ” sacred” from “livid”.
I come to Martin´s beblogadred statement. I am referring, of course, to his Wartburg Question: ” Suppose I HAD rescued her out of her own vomit?” Watch that reformed barplay, his typical Augustinian pressing on HER words, her” HAD” and her “OF” .
My Diet of Worms beloved, sitting Musicus Luther how did strain, pressed he (still at you-know-where , ja ? ), propagated he, a case sensitive type, still a-sitting, he entered his post, evacuating Immortal Stool-Words:
” Let SHE out, gentle swine ! Press my Marty ICH certainly out of all great art ! Sitting rather than in good standing ( in this my private privie) , I Martin, Musicus, Marty cut ICH out of every thaumatological letting -go, verily out of Gad´s every Thuringian Word-server, each of His word-processors and, well, Son-pressers “.
Plop. Pull handle.Our theologian sedens now stroked his wordpress; the playbars coupled. ” You Lady Blog , me Blogadr. We nest ourselves on world-, time- and self-servers?”
This was ” aller Seelen”, a wet night, our ” ogni santi” on projected Irish Samhan Sí -sod and Skellig West Face ( closed to tourists, there´s sheets of foam a mile high in winter ), these were a myriad open faders, cross-overs, media-connectors. Press harder, young Sí-devils ! Strain, ye SHE-men! Grace ignoreth consequence ! Samhains prime time! Muscular ecstasy now´! Or never again for an artist a true-blue option! Wider! Open! She comes!” Schubert´s teeth ( fixed media work ), Mother´s wet hound-puppies on Skellig, drowning SHE´s ” glob” and Our Reformer´s ” blogadr ” pushed Herr Doktor Martin Luthers playbar down, aiming´for all Servants of the Strained Word.
´Tis easy speaking it : ” Suppose I had NOT rescued her out of her vomit?” Martin´s Satan snarl : ” She was all slopped out on the bed. death by drowning if you hadn´t. Certain.” Then the Tempter struck: ” What about her delayed death at sea? ” Our Reforming Sitter: ” Ancient Tempter! ” Lucifer was blazing back: ” Would have inhaled her own supper.” Dr. Marty Theologus: ” Haste to the wedding, guilt I Thee bring? ” His Mischievous Evil: ” Let the pitch-cap fit!” Our theological shitter:” Release my pressbar! ” Old Satan, his feary Father: “You did want to nest!” Luther´s Old High German Wartburg expletive was ” Blogadr! ”
After this Thuringian curse, all world-servers went silent. I´d said goodby to Mother on wet Skellig´s Wet Hell, goodbye to her wet hush-hounds and to Schubert´s syphilitic teeth, to wet Glob and drowned Blog and rescuing her out of her own vomit aeons earlier . Soft this wettish Sí Morning. Who ELSE is listening up on that West Face to my soft tale about how SHE is not necessarily of the Samhan Sí ; that we´re all flowing down the same river, down to Samhan City,

In einer eMail vom 02.11.2006 11:14:09 Westeuropãische Normalzeit schreibt FBCorcoran:

We jerky little kids swung our then little limbs over that then little style ( – Donnelly´s sawn-off instrument had successfully shot my priestly vocation to tatters. ), that escape-path from our ´Aras Mór leading to a hole-in-the-wall, our walk or you push de flat bipeds toward angelic Sister Augustine and walk tall Sister Senan and their mountainy Hidden Object of Tabernacular Adoratio, wasn´t it Big Mister ´Eamonn Mór Dé .

I am past ” forgiving ” ? – No, dope, my PIANO TRIO of your 1977 was our Cúchullanistik. No, years later I did have to FEEL that ASSYMETRIC grey – plus – Brahms piano-interior .Yes, forgive Hugh Donnelly´s shotgun´s sawn-off sound ? Yes, forgive my tattered vocation? Forgive also, up at our styles, a child´s thrust towards fulfilling the hero´s crazy project? Forgive the Tabernacle and all who can´t forgive themselves? We were jerky, all so little, help us in out of the forlorn cold . It was dire. Not a piano-trio as yet in my childish imagination, it was the sound of sawn-off thunder. How could they let us loose beyond the limits of the style in the wall ? I know my little limbs were blue with cold, how about yours in cold Áras Mór ? Smell the explosion , hark to our thousand awakened rooks yelling blue murder under a leaden night-sky ; I was no match for the Cúchullans above at the square where never a drop of Vesevo White soccoured our parents ; no glass and a half ´d stop blue child-abuse, though Áras Mór featured lead-pipes and lead roof-lining, had included once Thomas Mann´s red wines ( after all, his own Lübecker Rotspon evening-glass did look the other way as his childer turned all blue ).

I hardly knew my young body´s lower half in our ´Aras Mór cold mansion of a Saturday Night Is Bath-Night. Nor did ever actually see the white wine” Vesevo”, our Celto-Hanseatic snobs´ ” Sannio Falanghina” . Nor could my Setanta´s hurley-stick ever hope to open a Thomas Mann bottle of ” Vin Pays d´Oc” ( – apparently it used to arrive as his own red ” Rotspon von Lübeck” , imagine! ) . But could I shriek for us five children at the style, for our rooks and our parents´ ” Heal Yerselves, Mites, Ye´ll Have To ” throughout that long October forbidden night of the shotgun? Could I?

Ask not now from which Lübeck wine-cask Immanuel Kant smelled our twisted wood . Even I still smell my very own private child-abuse, our milking, his honey. Indeed, his milking of my honey. Not a bottle of Tipperary Red Rotsporn was found aboard the rubber raft for the five orphans. Sing, Thomas Mann´s desolate, blue-white children, my old favourite, how well we know that Lied “HOW SWEETLY WE SHIVER NOW” . What bliss at whose cool pianoforte for blue-cold little, precious witnesses ? Want little, waste little. Whinge little, for ye shall not be heard.

In einer eMail vom 15.10.2006 12:22:37 Westeuropãische Normalzeit schreibt FBCorcoran:

Now I’ll paste in mother, she’ll be next to her Casey sisters and cousins, her school-class photo about level, as in life, with our Dad’s caubeen in his very own photo.

Who is looking at who is what these two images (bundled phota are best) are asking me down from this Wailing Wall; in which time are these imputed glances ‘‘taking place’’, is what I should be exploring in my hunkered position.

To live your life is not as easy as to be plastering the builders’ wet-room, gleam, angle, shadows or light, its line and circle, de- and in- and excisions.

I’ll be taking next the ontology of the musical work, take Lutoslawski’s Livres Pour Orchestre of 1968, premiered in Hamburg, was it? No, Hagen; wrong, Warszawa. Wrong again. I veer away from the slippery slope ( – this wet-room is quite new) of the Polish composer’s question for whom his Chapters and his still wonderfully fresh, still very tricky, polyvalent Interludes will sound now as they swirl around the few corners the builders did leave me? Who owns? Neither hath Casey ear heard, nor Corcoran eye seen what this grand orchestral wash announces: – yes, it is sweet and it is proper to construct my wet wash-room, to work in Horace’s brass, no surrender, non serviam, no sir, it wasn’t me, sir, ask Lizz Casey, sir, bold as brass, sir . (How they cower in their lowly school snap-shot). Yes, erect wet washroom, yes, write Lutoslawski’s Sound-Pages, yes, sounding brass a sonorous Book of Life. Whose, Horace? Ah, Horatius, ’tis countless, unsung lives of Irish slaves, their being temporal, their time silent, still, unsung.

We know not the wet-rooms of our future. The past is mine, sayeth Horace. Build ye, bold as brass. Wipe down the streaming walls of orchestral wash, Lutoslawski’s great monument. Wrap sound in little Interludes between his mighty Chapters, short, tiny verses for clarinets and vibraphone and low harp-patter, piano-dabs before the big stuff gets sounding. In that photograph the air is dead, no sound. So how? Yet, the Horatian thrust to build a monument, try any class of a gazebo, even a metaphor, a wet-room extended, Mr. L’s final orchestral Chapter wrapping up all minor wind- or string-glissandi-arguments, it seems basically normal in our species, keep cool, poet, a basically decent and reasoned thing to be at, whether it’s photographing mother’s little grey school-class of 1927 or pasting his photoéd caubeen’s phota up on my father’s son’s faintly wet Italian walls.

I am very wrong, nonsense arrant and sheer. The Roman poet (I have late, too late cribrated and post-cribrated) needed neither wet-room nor Irish slave’s hunkered position as he sounded our challenge to the vermiculation which our being-in-time is heir to : ‘‘those who can, make!’’ – G’wan! In spite of every slave’s daily, holy fight against The Hole. So who is looking at who on my Wet, Wailing Wall? What precisely are they wailing about? Did they save the dam? Kept the march-music going? Were born, they saw what glory? More snare-drum ’n bugles music than Lutoslawski’s strange harp ’n vibraphone subtleties, I ask myself in this by now uncomfortable, contorted position.

(We don’t normally number Horace among the Stoics. Still… ) Perhaps my pasting parental photos up on a still damp wall there does belong also to Horatian aesthetics: carpe photon et photas, picturas de gloriosa miseria humani generis, oaf, yes, and orchestral tutti. Final whimper or final yell. Depending on your line of vision as light falls on my builders’ slapped-up result. You never hunkered in your Soracte wet-room, poet; but your: ‘‘Son, artist, keep de faith’’ could be Old Roman wind, little foreseeable win. Hunkered you are asking hunkered me to take a Pascalian leap, a wet-room risk? Far into the future, you insist, brays, blares my brass-music and we famously programmed to palliate our plight with your home-baked beans mprogramme, classical smartie-poet. This tone-poet. Or his wet-room builders. Or my parents’ phota fixed in two washy photos pasted on my washed, Wailing Wall. What’s now fixed is fixed more (or less?) for ever, will beat Time and the River, the Hole, the Dam, is that what you’re oraculating to me, Horry? Hurray for the sweet and for the decorous, to die for a wet-room, for my orchestral gazebo, a sounding ziggurat, tormented gong, clarinets and marimba and piano and the harp that once. ‘‘Horatian’’ is not ‘‘horrible’’, seldom
‘‘horrid’’. Yet, horrific oracle, orientate this orphan’s orison; the wet wind is blowing through my cell. What Greater-Than-Horace conceived the whole plot? – Did Horry mean ‘‘Fame is a meat that dead men eat’’? – Why didn’t Horsey pen, then: ‘‘Get it / While you can!’’? How shall all manner of things be well?

In einer eMail vom 24.09.2006 08:03:28 Westeuropãische Normalzeit schreibt FBCorcoran:

This scanning of all my Caseys’ 1927
National School Calendar
endears Alto Lazio of the Popes to
which of their cooler shades ? They
hadn’t a chance, Lord and Lady of All
Aeons, not a penny in his pocket
for little dote Uncle John’s future
tracheotomy ( -yet it’s pre-shadowed
in the hunkered smile; perhaps;
mother is back near the aunties, went
for the second-last row, perhaps her
chance of a worry-free year. )
Contrast this sunny bright Mystical
Garden of Roman medlars, peaches,
wild strawberries, thyme, mint and
onion, cress, capers, vipers’ ivy and
plum and oregano , my green-gold
Mystical Body , with what Protestant
Principle?

Lugging a green chair from tree to
knell-shadow to olive-hollow in this
very hot July, I mulled over the young
shades of 1927 ; why were ye?
August roasting after the early
morning -hours; in the evening you’d
sob the georgic tears of things, wield
the implacable clippers –
ivy always conceals a serpent’s tooth.
The lake, of course. – Gadaffy’s
North African light and Leitrim
melancholy, take your pick, cleanest
volcanic lake in Italy , it’s deep out
beyond Bisanzio . Did those brown
Casey children ever whinge ? I dare
carpe this diem, a lounging body
under is it an elm, now it’s become a
lovely September morning ? Onions
and garlic were out for those lads.
What the farmer don’t ken, the 1927
childer surely won’t.

Suppose I focus on mother and poor
Uncle John ( ” his trachea all ended ” ),
brown-shaded photographic sisters,

my living dead; suppose they’d
harvest this beautiful crop – my vines

bested, stragglers towards a Spïtlese?

How would beautiful God’s
mud-daughters enjoy?

Lug down from the formal garden to
Garden Number Two where it’s
cooler and wilder. Fuse
their photograph with Virgil’s in his
“Georgics”, his own shining Roman
gurney. How snorts our spinosa
( it’s three in the morning for him!), as
he dares gouge out Lazio spuds ? It is
here if anywhere that I’ll meet
these child-shadows. Their September
1927.

” I HATE the sun” is hardly his
jist, St. Patrick’s breast-plate.
Apparently you let your normal snake
go.There IS , mind you, water in
plenty. How those photographed
mites prayed the rain-psalms and ate
their salad salty. Uncle John’s cut
throat fell across the swell of
mother’s door , we’re talking of his
future, mind, far distant
still from that brown- lit 1927 pic.
Hands up, muddy childer. Thyme
and oregano heal. You’ll slap a
half-onion on the twin red pricks.
Keep it in, in under the cool dappled
Georgics: They had their kids’ joys,
their hunkered sorrow not noticed.
Clip, clip merciless with ivy. The
depressed thirties, you could argue,
mud-potatoes , not sun-dappled
apples . Or what if the Lower Garden
has landscaped railway-sleepers and
terr -cotta tiles. Hornets kill wasps
killing flies eating a lovely
garden’s yesterdays. Scan that
school-children’s group-photo
again, my grave family, their muddy
melody, his torn throat , mother’s
worried eyes. Share a pear
across seventy four
years. Stroke our garden cat, all
his oneness with 2006?

Do you remember? ‘Twas
auld September ? By the light of our
teacher’s camera? Plant us, bury us in
Upper Paradiso? ( – Apparently God
is light in the locals’ theology. )
Hauld all Lazio horses! The
November olive-harvest is as
brown as mother’s and Uncle
John’s potatoe-harvest. No cat will
ever bite ye, neither now nor never,
where dead children huddle and
quiver in ecstasy, whistling “We dare
to enjoy, Lazio” .

Between mother up at the back
and little Uncle John’s future
tracheatomy, where’s the viper gone?
Marry mud and medlar.

August 2006

In einer eMail vom 19.08.2006 17:47:45
Westeuropãische Normalzeit schreibt FBCorcoran:

So listen to what

‘‘I’m’’etching to

‘‘you’’ now.
She ( – loined, strangely

enough, no inverted

commas): ‘‘I see
you’ve a concert with

Radio Lilliput. Next

winter. Great!’’
‘‘I’’
piped up: ‘‘I’ll enjoy.
Good! It happened.
Good. Does it, ‘‘I’’
wonder still, make ‘‘my ’’
‘‘Cantata de Vacuo Nero
for Solo Violin
and Radio Choir’’ better or
worse?’’

She’d long wanted to
etch these hieroglyphs:
‘‘I’’,
‘‘was’’ and
‘‘hunted’’.
(That last time
it made not a difference;
my ‘‘my’’ querulous
and ‘‘our’’ loins, etch
this, apparent.)

She who’ll be correcting
this, ‘‘my’’ shifty chance
for ‘‘me’’ to be
writing ‘‘me’’ free, will,
take your rat–poison, not
waste an etched instant
on the Inverted Commas
Factor. So listen.

I am, after all, he who
writes: ‘‘this’’
= ‘‘he’’ .

So listen: who’s this
‘‘he’’ who writes:
‘‘this’’
=‘‘he ’’or who’s the
he who sculpts ‘‘= ’’,
and so wearily on
forth till at least at this
end of ‘‘our ’’ Crazy
Loop a summery ‘‘he’’
wrestles free of ‘‘his’’
worrying reflexivity,
near the summer’s loony
bin.

So listen: give it a chance,
will ‘‘I ’’? (Who?)
Meant is: ‘‘My lovely
inverted commas’’. Yes,
‘‘they’’ ( – see? And
there ‘‘we’’ go again…)
do all sculpt, all etch, all
define ‘‘my ’’
‘‘me’’, i.e.
this little class of one, so
small a miracle, oh so
temporal and ah
so near the void, ‘‘my’’
airy melody, the nea for
my very ‘‘self’’, for
‘‘my ’’close shave.

So listen, so hone, so
handle it as a piece of
sports-results, as “you”
would a stock-exchange
item. Listen, there will
be one or two obituaries
– The Observer still has a
bit of seriousness…
” It ” is sad, yes. Death
“is” sad. Very, “our”
glowering, crouching
friend, Mrs. Nothing.
( – don�t be surprised if
someone�s favourite
philosopher wrote :
” Das Nichts nichtet ” …

But in the kitchen Frau
Heidegger went on with
“her” washing-up. At
that hour when all good
wolves yet sleep. )

In einer eMail vom 03.07.2006 08:57:45
Westeuropãische Normalzeit schreibt FBCorcoran:

There was a man in it a long time ago. Eternally hipless, he hymned:

‘‘You always that lazy, Eheye Asher Eheye, never an e-peep from That quarter.
Job’s cousinly ‘‘WHY?’’ did try a long time before this my Evening Hymn
To Thee, High Shamelessness. Thou at least shalt give a high, shameless
indication as to whether I might try again, say tomorrow? Job willed, I
intend, You cower, cosmic still. Begob, this is a great game that I am at!’’

The fork (lightning) ran down the livid hay-fork he’d been shouldering all
the sultry evening, burrowed down his (now well-roasted) fork, into the
patch of hay-field they’d show us kids ever after. I know. I was there.
Suppose, just supposing I was that forked. For instance, approach by
stealth, my clever little maneen, round-aboutness.

That man hymned again: ‘‘Well, there was this man in the hay-field once,
a long time before he came again to write: ‘‘Eternally Hipless Peeper,
silent, surly Eheye Asher, all that. Behold my Second Job’s Evening-Hymn To His
Heavenly Wink.Hubbell’s stars may sing tetratonically that all’s well, well
eternally in their empyrean, high in their high sky. Well, is it?’’

Neither seal-mothers around Skellig Rock nor any rescuing helicopter held
that or any clue to ‘‘Why me?’’ Nor fish nor flesh nor high spume from the
mystery of the eternal rocks below, not even our own mothers’d have any sane
person’s reason to break the cosmic stillness of that one fine day’s haying to
reveal this third, bent text from that man in that field with his hay-fork:

‘‘There was a man in a hay-field, right up there, see. A long time in his
past that was in it. And forked lightening bisected his hay-fork, split his
brain, his very own fork. Happened mighty fast, the poor lips were burned
awful. Visionary years later, long retired from hay-making, he took to
hymn-writing. Here, I think, is one of his best-known Loved Burned Tunes:
‘Eheye Asher Eheye/ What shalI I get?/ Fast runs my tide/ Even
before I’ve died./ Before I ’ve even done/ Slows now my sun./ The son
He’d fried,/ His life to him denied./ Who shall tingle-tangle?/ Who
decode Heaven’s jangle?/ Untangle skein, then web?/ Make whole my
lissom dead?’’’

The fork of lightning was livid. Bisecting, it fulminated down the wet
rubber-boots, leaving a persuasive, holy stink. That’s all. ‘‘Begob,’’ joked
our cooked hymn-writer, ‘‘This Great Game. Where’s me mouse? Get me me lap-top! Quick!’’

Twilight and his strength fading after that epiphantic, hierophantic,
theophonic, theoontic fork-or-be-forked, our hymnster was not stopped,
neither was he mocked:

‘‘ Abide with me. Fast fork Your evening might/
Rubber-boots, save me! – Saved my spirits light/
When other helps, my comforters flee/
Help of the helpless, abide with me!

Swift to my close ebbs out this little tide/
Hay-fields grow dim when all around have died./
Change, more change, in all the forks I see/
Through clouded sunshine, abide with me!

I tried my fork; its glorie passed away./
Who like Thyself will fulminate, yet stay?/
Who triumphs still, who’ll rob my grave’s sting?/
What’s then Your pay-off? Which oboulos bring?

I’ll fear no foe with Thee at hand to sing./
What grave victory? Which hands to wring?
Tears, have no weight! my fork, no bitterness!/
I’ll worry through, my Thee to bless?’’

The third lightening hit him. Black. No hiss, rubber-oots or smell, forked
forker, not a whimper from a dark sky, all the rookeries quiet,
dumbfounded. Annihilated his values, burned to a frazzle his mind’s pineal effusions,
his hymn-writer’s thrust and push up into the all-quiet-now-again empyrean. In
that nano-second as the compressed millions of volts travelled down the left
side of the head, through the seeing, yearning, now sizzling ear, down
the left shoulder-blade like a Viking blade, further down through the puddings
and cleft left haunch and cleft left foot in the now cleft rubber-boot, the
man in the field was given a last chance to dream one last dream, his last
Burned Hymn. Here is his (now burned) first prose draft: ” I’d tried out
flying and looping that magical first semester – I’d put the body out
horizontal with the others, nose in front, arms flat by your side to minimize all
air-resistance, soutanes floating behind us in the tail-stream, go whoosh at
high speeds. The quick brandy-quaffing Bretagne night, often we’d a
sherry-evening down in further Gijon, then jet quick back against prevailing winds
before the Dean of Discipline’d dreamed his first dream. Heavenly!
Heavens! The speed of the thing! Air-borne was air-born again! Body rigid as a
flying-board high above all earthly woes! Secret, of course. To be caught was
to be burned. Near shaves, a few. Plenty of time to craft and scheme and try
out a rhythm before landing-time. Composed a few strong, cold ionospheric
paeans! Before his life now burned down to a cinder, the rubber-boots too,
he’d thought of a last wordy temple, a syllables- sculpture:

‘‘Abide with me./ Fast burns my living coal./ Soon burnt
-out/ My living soul./ My tongue blackened/ Very speed slackened/ The
poor ICH shattered,/ My hymns battered./

Swift to my close/ Forms now my ash./
My putógaí/ How now lash/ Can clout me/
Shall touch,/ Re-touch./
Burn,/ Re-burn my lips./ O Thou who forks,/ Where’s now my hips?/ I
jetted on high./ That flight was true,/ Hard, selfless, other,/ Perhaps
seeking You./ I feel nothing now,/ My flesh its pyre./ No more I’ll
try/ high, even higher/ To fuse vermilion/ And hymns, a million/ Times
more sheer/ Crafted dear,/ Penned in the sky,/ My pie that didn’t die.
/ O Heaven’s tangle!/ Who’ll decode this jangle?/ My lonely triangle?/
Every celestial angle?/ The million volts did/ incinerate my Id,/ My
mind’s tones./ My yearning moans/ Whiffed this burn,/ Charred self,
Turn/ This lightening off./ My hymning off./ Switch down my ecstatic!/
My energy erratic!/ These million sparks I see,/ Where’s they or Thee?/
Abide with me./ Fast fused thes embers’spark/ With cosmic stillness,/
In cosmic dark,/ O Your heat-death,/ My cataclysmic fall,/ O Alphic You,
/ Accept my sawl!’’

A few phota wandering around the black heath. That was all.

In einer eMail vom 16.06.2006 14:33:19
Westeuropãische Normalzeit schreibt FBCorcoran:

Whose used–up yarn is this spinning? The voyeur is always in me? Which
looking–glass declares an interest? Whence all these e–entrails I see,
trailed around the mulberry–bush?
Evening–questions seldom going away, let my fine fingers sing it:

Take Euclidian parallels. Take: ‘‘Can music ever be completely
programme–free?’’ Now if your answer is ‘‘Yes’’, why can’t we make a case also for the
occasional, programme–free Musing? This here is one such: perhaps in the
whole flaming firmament, this e–mail might be only the second known case of
an Uncaused Cause (lower case, please). E–scutter floweth as it will,
meandering magma loitering, causing at least a civilized smile.

It’s not actually enough to fob off Our Great E–typing Author with
‘‘uncaused causation’’ or with
‘‘let–it–flow–if–or–where–it–magmatically will’’
either. Bad enough to be caught anywhere near this theory of
‘‘any possible programme’’ (– eg. Our Muser–Author’s ounds, the scrofulous breakfast, gene
versus Jane versus Holy Joe in early boyhood).

Much worse, oh woe, not to expect anything from an e–mail, no effect,
none. Nothing. If idle is as idle strives to be, if (as here) it be
meta–musing on and on how to see behind its own very behind, then, there, be the
art of comedy chided.

This e–centred, this I–centred e–thrust, swallowed up in victory, all very
well that ; – by the way, who’ll fork out the cheque–book when the
celestial nuptials for ‘‘I’’ and for ‘‘Me’’ draw nigh, this very night and all, oh my ‘‘Musing’’, my very sawl?

What be e–writing at all, mused or fused tohuwabohu?
Then suffices no ‘‘It’s only snorting self–expression’’.
As is the humble courtier’s microtonally tuned fart. And the humbler’s
(eaten well prior) white–beans for lunch after the early morning’s quartering
up at Hangman’s Square, a mere finch in the turnip–pie, causing this (then
this in its turn, then, further causes) uncaused exhuding, this very
what?
I wasn’t it. He there. Master Magma himself, careful, boy.

Not every musing could keep up concealing the awkward given of the
e–mail reflexive, the e–mail at play, the e–mail confessional, Gödel’s E–mail,
the e–cry or the e–caoine, e–haiku and e–mourn. They’re on the prowl, our
dear anti – ‘‘Musing’’ police. Have to be. You couldn’t allow total e–licence to the e–plebs.

O Inner circle, sneak closer. Either a ‘‘Musing ’’ amuses or, in its musing, it bemuses. Either it’s an Uncaused Cause (– but ‘‘LOWER CASE, PLEASE’’)
or is eén now causing wryness, a dry throat, reach for red pencil, sure the
man’s mad as a muser? Exhausted WHO is emailing exhaustive whom the following
text: ‘‘This e–message is in love with itself’’?

What makes our homo e–scribens so different, we left the wall–paintings and
Sumerian crúisgín l´n behind a long time ago? Out with it, your cheap
attacks on e–courage! Beat intransivity, slash the e–knot of reflexiveness!
Quod scripsi non really scripsi, true or Gödel–true? Could it be that,
e–quill and e–ink put tranquilly aside, we never, never, never love
unselfishly? Who said you can’t be e–mailing ‘‘In Paradisum’’? Is Paradise my mode of
existence while I mutate into my own e–mail? All changed, changed utterly, I
now am subsumed in what I´ve written. I have become this e–text. Scared?
Naw… My actual existence is also virtuality. What is behind my behind,
then? How’ll I have a look?

In einer eMail vom 02.06.2006 01:05:48
Westeuropãische Normalzeit schreibt FBCorcoran:

Suppose I did not have to lie to my e–self. Artful enough, mind you, was
the (actually modest yet, still – it was early – fairly humble, she’d see
it, any fair–minded) plan:
I’m going to disprove once and for all my–and–your, I am merely and
gently surmizing – more NO ! ! ! – Gödel–Google Theorem 13 B.

Namely: your e–mail, any e–mail, EVERY e–mail, is always, will
always – it HAS to be always, a very e–mail out for self–service, an, you
may suppose e–extension of e–time–serving; of herself – serving
instrumentality. I must, self–deceit awake me how I might, see how this very
e–act here is self–intentional, how it is not thus once, nor might it be
only sometimes, it is so, ex natura). Nunc e–mail; e–see my, il nostro
desperate self–referential. ‘‘Mrs. Google–Gödel, indecently fast,
ringing through tonight : ’’ I am; pleading with you. My darling. Don’t, do
NOT this way take away my last vestiges of even my e–faith!
‘‘Virtual me, meself, reluctant:’’ Faith but there’s no way but this e–killing of my e–myself, too, kiss! Yerra! Once a female, how–are–you,
always eternally e–feminine, oh e–cliché; surely, you must know?
‘‘You must, but not only you must, grant me a poor e–woman, at least
this, here is your cosmos–defining e–mail ludens, your very e–mail
Parmenidean?’’

‘‘I mean ( – oh my Frau Gödel–Google, perfumed self–interest,
self–unknowing through thy silk, who’ll sew thy brocade, my e–insights into the
mind of WHICH e–man, e–woman) that you –at least once – believe you were e–mailing truth non–instrumental, e–mailing the enlargement of, say,
game–theory, and thus e–mailing our (– her imperceptible hip–twitch nearly threw me here)
‘charge–ím–on– towards the truth that does not profit,
neither fades nor grows it dark brown, doth it?’ ’’

‘‘Not now! Not here! People’ll see us! God wot!’’

She’s melting my he: ‘‘Shush! Slumber! All manner of things.’’

My Mrs. G. – G., it behoves art to watch its impertinence!

‘‘Meaning just which twitch of which of my hips?…’’

‘‘All e–mails were ever self–deceiving. No e–mail has ever yet escaped
the total gravitational pull of me. – Many being e–posted, yet do not, can
not arrive.’’

(Now was my flush weakening, it was her epiphany total, her being more
than just any one of their very e–mailable e–shifts, or eén airy a one
e–swish, a daily e–huff, a concept of an e– crossing of their
more–than–ever–conceivable–lovely–e–legs) Know what she said?

‘‘You did. Many e–mails. Many e–mails ago. Try again, my e–buckoo! Eejit
lovely! Aim Once Above And Outside Your Gravitational Great Gödel–Bucket! Listen. Lisp it me: ‘‘E–mail, e–mail, e–mail mein / E–mail auf
der Heide!’’

‘‘Receive one last e–mail, oh my she–hip–shifter, Du my e–mind–bender.’’

Thus. I believe that there was at least once in the entire e–history of
our virtual world, sorry or glorious depending on your e–view, an e–mail
sent (– ever received is a different thing) that intended towards truth,
truth that was not just a ‘‘how’ll I survive truth’’, nor a
‘‘what use is it if does not’’ etc. truth, nor a
‘‘how’ll I soften her hip, excite her down
the alley?’’ truth, nor a great
‘‘this is the ultimate in letting–the–sow–out–to–graze’’ truth.
No. The once only is all I am pleading for. One only
‘‘this truth is independent of whether you like, you receive, we profit by,
praise or scold, celebrate as being true, publish or destroy it.’’ I had her
now. Yet her hip–flick– back walloped me:
‘‘ Your e–mail is of the form : ” I believe that… ’’

‘‘What of it and of me and us?’’

‘‘I’ll tell you’’, she was never more desirable,
yours is the e–mail
self–reflexive, intransitive but transitory, self–prophecying, the worst type!
So because it must be. Postulation masquerading as expostulation.
E–persuasion as old as the Sophists. Look you: your thought aspired to ‘‘There is an
e–mail such that this e–mail belongs to Class XYZ etc.’’ ‘‘Supposing, only
supposing (– you like my hip, no?) this might – standing on its own cosmic
hips somewhere in space–time – possess a smathán of transcendental truth (– that is what your me–fondling self is getting at, isn’t it?), yet you
E–MAILED it through to me! – You blew it!’’

’Twas then I swore I’d never, never use this e–avenue again.

She wasn’t finished. With her own hips. ‘‘Want that I rape my very
self? Naw, naw. What your Irish shame busily obfuscates daily : so, every
time you think you´re sending a self–less e–mail, you are actually, hips or
nothing ever to stand between our , e–mailing selfishly. Always. Has always
to be. –Gotcha, quasi epistemologically?’’ I minced not:

Not actually, nor was I even a shade virtually. If my Corcoran’s ( –
actually Kant’s) Transcendental Theory – take : if X is true / beautiful
etc., then it is true / beautiful ( – oh, oh, divine hips divine, etc.,
etc.) irrespective of whether etc. and etc. See Appendix Tomorrow And
Tomorrow.

BUT NOW, lovely all–hips woman: here comes my Anti–Hips Defence: watch,
feel, set yourself careful, hips: Now if Z Y X is true (– see, my
beloved hips, above…) it is true ALSO WHEN, DURING, IF I EVER e–mail it
to Anyone. And, of course, if I do not.
Her lovely limbs I’d reduced to weeping. Behold, yet, her delectable
hormonics:
‘‘Franyou, You, Fran, my e–lover, I’d thought you’d disproved for the
boring world of meta–matho–physicians that my (not so recently deceased)
very late mate’s Google–Gödel Theorem 13 B. is no more. No. Would it were.
Thus. Anent your e–logic.’’

I did try to whisper (I, e–author and e–father and e–mother, was all
over the e–place, now in tears. For my child’s child, etc.). Still.
Exorably. Solvitur ambulando. Or e–ambulando. It was, between her hips,
certainly, neither cavil nor conundrum, I made my last e–spake. Text
complicated. I extricated my own hips.

‘‘I do hereby e–mail that: though I am now publishing/propagating/
e–sweating and e–spreading my Corcoran Thesis ABC via this finger’s electric
mischief, yet I do hereby swear (– by the divine hips of etc.) that – a
truth–proposition MUST BE ALWAYS independent of the mode of its patrician
progress and propagatio – in this year A.D. 2006 it is still possible – I Dunne It
– to e–utter an e– belief, an e–whinney.’’

She closed her hips lovely abruptly. Had me in tighter hip–squeeze : ‘‘By the VERY fact that you e–mailed your for you beloved ( – creepy? Let, heigh, history…) Credo – JMNOP ‘‘now threateningly
tight, they:’’
by definition you’re befaughed, mio grande ( – and listen to me, not to
your cheap Jobites!) amore. YOU E–MAILED aplusbplusc… Irrespective of
all merits internal of aplusbplusc, your e–mailing bunkerblasted its
truth–content.’’

I was very angry now. She lovely, dangerously intelligent hips, the very
worst combo. I bleated as never before :

‘‘My hips got yours! NOT proven! Yours – and Mr. G. – G.s, recently
croaked, heigh–ho, his young widow’s hips your Syllabus Of Lovely Errors:
EVEN IF A is TRUE ( – especially, his quiet grave encourageth me; to you,
too, I grant, it’s got very nearly nightly, my quiescent hips), it is
TRUE NO LONGER when e–mailed.’’

‘‘Why ever not? Granted Statement ABC is okay, it MUST surely remain
hilariously okay, whether I e–mail it or send it between your etc, thighs, or
silence it or intentionally internalize it. For ever and ever true.’’
Dead my screen. Her, my darling’s hips’ aisling, went dead.