Monday, June 3, 2013

Cherry Stone, Petrarch, Sonnet, Sapience, Failure, Republic (Irrony)

Many echoes are meek. They lay about and mewl quietly, forgiving objects of lassitude, fore-giving, but there are more ludic echoes, more carnival forms; "Pet Rock" sounding like Petrarch, whose 'poetic turn' in life might be said to be his Ascent of Mount Ventoux, but what is the mountain venting, a cruel mispelling, or an historic door? Is not Romanticism the turn outward that becomes the turn inward? Years ago, I remember a saying that went something like, "Buddha then, came down from the mountain, and got drunk with the butchers.." That echo may sound weak to those versed in the life of Petrarch, but look at it again. Buddha is not Petrarch. Buddha is the eye of Petrarch at the top (Ven-Top) of Vintur:

As the name might suggest (venteux means windy in French), it can get windy at the summit, especially with the mistral; wind speeds as high as 320 km/h (200 mph) have been recorded. The wind blows at 90+ km/h (56+ mph) 240 days a year. The road over the mountain is often closed due to high winds. Especially the "col de tempêtes" ("storm pass") just before the summit, which is known for its strong winds. The real origins of the name are thought to trace back to the 1st or 2nd century AD, when it was named 'Vintur' after a Gaulish god of the summits, or 'Ven-Top', meaning "snowy peak" in the ancient Gallic language. In the 10th century, the names Mons Ventosus and Mons Ventorius appear.

Ventoux becomes a Vintner, or see the drunkenness drunkenly Vent-tour-narr.
The foolish heights of drunkeness, poetry.

Petrarch was dazed and stirred by the view of the Alps, the mountains around Lyons, the Rhone, the Bay of Marseilles. He took St. Augustine's Confessions from his pocket and reflected that his climb was merely an allegory of aspiration towards a better life.

As the book fell open, Petrarch's eyes were immediately drawn to the following words:

And men go about to wonder at the heights of the mountains, and the mighty waves of the sea, and the wide sweep of rivers, and the circuit of the ocean, and the revolution of the stars, but themselves they consider not.

To take meme at the heights of physical accomplishment can serve little more than ignorance, or drunkeness, for if all of space is sacralized by grace, if the inner and outer of God's order and chaos falls to form, then formlessness should also adorn, the world itself is the thinking of God, and hermeneutics is always a divine drunkeness. Or is it all in the magic of naming? All? Or Awl, as in stylus? What is the true name of the Earth? Conceptus?

Compassion is the truest name of echo, for it is compassion, or sympathetic feeling which causes form to be as like another. Petrarch felt there could have been more compassion for old Marino Falier, his story one of failure, but also, one of success, for the Venetian Republic. Drunkeness has many forms, and sometimes divinity must be a form of government. Divination by names leads to our only subject: Irrony.

Marino Falier also needed a Ventoux(...):

Irrony is not a religion, but a precursor to such, a poetry, let's say.
Let your eye fall drunken to the page, O Pet Rock..

The Battle of Sapienza was also called the Battle of Porto-Longo.
The long port of sapience, is a place where when the ships come in,
they also are going out.

And the 'real' Gulph of Sapienza? It is near Methoni in Greece:

Methoni has been identified as the city Pedasus, that Homer mentions under the name "ampeloessa" (of vine leaves), as the last of the seven "evnaiomena ptoliethra", that Agamemnon offers Achilles in order to subdue his rage. Pausanias knew the city as Mothone, named after either the daughter of Oeneus or after the rock Mothon, which protects the harbour.

Mot - Hon

Pedasus? Or a mispelled version of Pegasus?

Word-Book: The rock which protects the harbor
is booze, or popolo, whatever you need (...)
O History, your pet rock
hears you, plainly.

The aristocrats will not forgive a grumpy old man,
not when they have made him leader.

Let the young turk
scribble on your throne.

For is not space, ever,
the serene republic?