Hog Skin Road

I guess the principle onus, or if hawkish, a Horus en chorus, two channels
for the accepting vessicle, or victim, something like a historical motif:

Two-ness untoi a throid, howlbeit:

[?]

Perhaps to begin with something from Paul Metzner's _Crescendo of the Virtuoso: Spectacle, Skill, and Self-Promotion in Paris during the Age of Revolution, and to call special attention in this context to the pun that Rabelais made in Gargantua about the name of Paris itself as being derived from Par is (pour ris) which is described most nimbly by Bahktin in a sequence about certain loud crouds and their unofficial aspect:

You may well ask yourself the reason I digress so soon upon departure into example, but I think it will become clear. The something to be alluded to in "C of the V" are the foil to risibility I seek, namely, the piano duels of Beethoven within the chapter on Paganini, and to be specific, the mention

of a structural element with regards to improvisation which relates to the theme of 'an unofficial aspect of the world', something the Jellybean Weirdo is deeply invested in, in the name of "Saint Illudo Vicognitar"..

So here, by glorious example, is the technique of irronism made manifest along the path of official channels,
to show how graphemic index can be lead into a multiplicity, into an irroniam which is directly adjacent to something like an erroneam. In words, the supposedly unreadable can be read, and that which is given, can reveal an otherness contained within by method of "combinarresonancing".. a foolish mixing :)

There is a wonderful image which might have been a great influence on the style and thought of Magritte which is shown quite presciently in Olga Anna Dull's excellent essay _From Rabelais to the Avant-Garde: Wordplays and Parody in the Wall-Journal Le Mur_ from _The Spirit of Montmartre: cabarets, humor, and the avant-garde, 1875-1905_. The image was drawn by Auguste Roedel, and is titled "Odilon Redon"..

This is sort of a recapitulation of some version of a style war, or perhaps, simply an homage, or associational
response. Instead of just scanning the image, I would like to present it to you as an homage to an homage
placed in palimpsest upon something like a stormy sea, the stormy "sea of possibility" or to forward the irronity, the 'sea of no possibility' which often seems more vast and probable in the social owlroade of ta-day.
And I would also like to call attention to the image as being a direct precursor, structurally, to my own use of the cellphone metaphor, a universal prosthesis involved in the modification of being, an instrumentalized perceptual apparat / apparition. In fact, to rejoin the Pour-risians, an

"Apparisian" nest-say-paw:

I presente

Odd Ill One Redone (Odilon Redon)

But I think the best possible route to thinking of style wars, or rather, ireticomparisonia would have to be something fatalistically and gratuitously sumptuary, if one thinks of obscurities as a form of voluptas, which I tend to, arguably. The reference would have to be from a reader of Jean Paul:




There is that sea, again..


The seeing of no possibility.


But why end on that note?

Why not end with Jean Paul's weird vision of seeing his own tiny





Economy night light?

How about a misericord?

A rustic blick, a rumination upon Montaigne's last essay perhaps.
A subtle rectification and linkage to an older post:

Thomas Browne described Man as a "great and true Amphibium"

great-great-etc.

Pi and Pied, and Foot, and Soot, Toof and Thus, Soothe, and Suck, a Cussing, Accursed,
a Ruckus and a Succor upon the Raucus Scour aka to Rouse up in the Sour and Ruse
ala Roussel within the Roux of cells, this Sleach of Color, Calle Lures: [sud-din] lo-werd:

To understand the grotesque is to go beyond it, to a point where incongruity does not exist,

something to consider here for bloggers, and supposed enemies, and possible friends:

The final line of Coleridge's _This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison_:

"No sound is dissonant which tells of Life."


Life? Well, all life dissonant with death, but hey,
a Coleridge quote makes you sound at least sort of edgemegated..
Our own network of associations is indeed a prison of sorts, but one
which at least has the form of a prism.

yours,
Little Gerg, from the Bureau D'esprit
as housed in a spherical room.







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