(from Choose Your Own Adventure #51: The Magic of the Unicorn, 1985)
There have been times when I’ve posted a selection and thought “I’m never going to top this for sheer existential insanity.”
And then my brother Greg emailed me (complete with a cameo appearance by his left thumb) the above photo and reminds me that Romeo Void had it right.
His review is a letter addressed to the future; to people 30 years hence who may wonder exactly what it felt like to be in a certain playhouse on a certain night. — Kenneth Tynan, on the ideal critic (“Enter Tynan, to applause…” The Guardian).
23 Tingo (Pascuense language of Easter Island): to borrow objects one by one from a neighbor’s house until there is nothing left — 25 Words That Simple Don’t Exist in English, by Alex Wain
Tumblr oh tumblr how does tumblr work HOW do you reply to posts? I see people replying to posts. It is a thing that is done! Why can I not figure out this interface? I have been on the internet since 1996.
:( :( :(
How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind’s labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.
(Source: poetryeater.com, via poetryeater)