And in Arcadia I..

[jack_babalon]

Nicholas Poussin
Et in Arcadia Ego

"In the distance there is truth which ends like a knife
The bridge we have laid will always give us life
And we who cross on a goat we ride
Or fall like a fruit in a red sea tide
Just dust to live with dust and dreams
Anoint the stone with blood and screams
From all our eyes the future leaks
The path is maid, its shell is weak.
If you could understand, you would take my hand
Then I would spread so far, just like arcadia"
-Genesis P-Orridge

Strange conversation at the Waffle House last night. I sipped a bland decaf and tried to follow my friends train of thought. Said train was obviously hijacked by some kind of maniac who'd been shooting up FrenchLit for the better part of the last two weeks. I could see it in the wild eyes flashing madness behind his thick framed glasses. The devil was dancing with him across a thousand poems, and they pivoted across the dim lit galleries of Europe and waltzed through the graveyard of symbols each taking turns taking the lead. He was trying to channel in on Baudelaire's ghost- Baudelaire's ghost however doesn't do Waffle House. He was a big game hunter of archetypes who had come back from his mental safari possesed of some kind of semantic fever. I listened. My sheer ignorance keeps me innoculated from dangerous ideas. Whenever shit got to deep I focused in on the lines of wrinkles on one of the waitresses face. The lines were a map time had carved into a once soft face. They told a story I could never know and yet simoultaneously understood in a single glance. A lot like art I guess.