The Tunnel

“Poets are the bees of the invisible, Rilke said.”
William H. Gass, The Tunnel, Dalkey Archive Press, 1999, p. 110.

It should have been: ‘Poets are the bees of the not yet visible.”  Flowers that are not yet visible are invisible. And so are you. Am I. Some things remain invisible though & as such are not not yet visible. Maybe that accounts for Maeterlinck’s fascination with bees.

Was Rilke inaccurate (did he say that?) or does the invisible only apply to what’s ultimately going to flower? Truth as yet undiscovered still truth is. No matter if the words are well ordered. Rilke said; Rilke sad. It’s to a large extent how extent tends to some extent being turned into ‘extend’. A tunnel from the dark side to a more truthful state, of affairs.

Capisce?

Hope is a heap of a word. I guess Gass does not do hope. But I do. As do you. The thing is whether our focus is on the ‘not’ or on the ‘yet’. Go fuck yourselves if you do not like word games. Buy plastic flowers for all I care. Or cut flowers to keep the bees away. Put them in a nicely painted vase. Put the vase on painted plates. Leave us alone. We’re not yet visible.

Yet is a Yeti of a word. The associations are yours although I am their cause. All dough, another word of a hope. One can not do hope. You cannot not do hope. It is important to get the intonation right. Reading as writing is a matter of hope. A matter of shifting the yet closer to finding the Yeti who (that? which?) cannot be found. No dough; not matter at all. Just an idea rising, still needing heat. We are the heat.

Hope is a heat of a word. My heat. And yours.

Sense-making is over-rated. We don’t make sense a lot. We find stuff without the need for regimentation. Clear-cut solutions for cut-throat issues are a real die to our do. But we are hooked to the hoodlums of hoodoo (thanks to scrabblefinder dot com) who (TA-) do (DA!) magical solutions to all of our problems [and all at once]. Solutions distilled out of religion with religion distilled out. Simple Solid Solutions involving Them or Us.

Bees don’t do shit, or so the hoodlums want us to believe. We know better: bees don’t do shit. [Intonation!, remember.]

Take this:

“(..) because I understand Rilke: love is an act of acquisition – a takeover bid – (..)”
ibid., p.125

I don’t understand. Love stands above acquisition. Poetry is not takeover of the invisible for advancing the interest of the visible. Bees are not busy with flowers, with consequences, with short term solutions. Flowers may flower in the Shit of Short Term Solutions but no Short Term Solution of Shit ever contained the seed of a flower. Let the hoodlums of hoodoo have their tough love of forcing all issues. Let them have it so we may unhook and fly our flight.

4 responses to “The Tunnel

  1. Pingback: Sunday Stories: Hooked on the Hoodlums of Hoodoo « The Weblog

  2. Pingback: Sunday Stories: PdP vs. ll « The Weblog

  3. Pingback: The Sunday Tunnel: policies and procedures « The Weblog

  4. Pingback: The Sunday Tunnel: So Alone « The Weblog

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