On WordSmithing

 

On my wordsmithing I've been told before that my strength is in my poetry, not my prose. In my prose I aspire toward the clear and precise use of language that may require a reader to occasionally consult the dictionary — or wonder whether he or she is in one of these places:  List of Fictional Institutions (not a complete list, of course) 

Sometimes only poetry captures a certain worthiness or unworthiness, a moment, a feeling, an idea or intuition — something beyond the immediate ken of Normyville and those who jump at the opportunity to take the clot-shot. So (as those who come here all know) I do spelunk around down in this more spontaneous, creative realm.   

And in my past doctoral dealings with law and government I have to keep in mind that my perspective on those phenomena stressed the influence of consciousness. (<= also known as Woo, you might say, and as Lord HighClif describes it: a kind of resonance from the ether, the kosmos, that we mistakenly refer to as our "thinking brain." NOTE: In your copious free time, scroll down and listen to the interview, 1:10:35 long: White Hats vs. The DeepState  Clif's the man (and if he ain't, don't know whoo is).

That Spirit-like phenomenon we call "consciousness" is more the prime mover, mutating law and government within a bubbling socio-CULTural cauldron, once it is entrained by the unscrupulous. 

 
In another's words,  
"I have longed to move away...
...From the repetition of salutes,"
etc.,

Dylan Thomas’s “I Have Longed to Move Away" 

THE POEM STUCK IN MY HEAD

 

I have longed to move away

From the hissing of the spent lie

And the old terror’s continual cry

Growing more terrible as the day

Goes over the hill and into the deep sea;

I have longed to move away

From the repetition of salutes,

For there are ghosts in the air

And ghostly echoes on paper,

And the thunder of calls and notes.

I have longed to move away but am afraid;

Some life, yet unspent, might explode

Out of the old lie burning on the ground,

And, crackling into the air, leave me half-blind.

Neither by night’s ancient fear,

The parting of hat from hair,

Lips pursed at the receiver,

Shall I fall to death’s feather.

By these I would not care to die,

Half convention and half lie.