The influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of paraheliotropic trees

The Agon of History must always be the Story of the Son trying to kill and eliminate the father, tragically, sadly, but inevitably — as the election of BHO erases and eliminates a certain American prehistory, and as others who take his place as I grow older and watch necessarily do the same to him —

Dying painfully of cancer, looking horrible, like an animal, with the fear pregnant in the eyes.

Ayschronous. The Empire Never Ended. Men in suits and tuxes but engaging in the Old Roman Empire Amorality. Looking at horrible things on stages. Total slavery. Total domination. A world ordered only by power and violence and what can happen. All good things gone. The gnawing of bones.

A story starts with a man looking in the mirror. Maybe he sees truly. Maybe he does not. Later, at the end, he looks again, and through the scars, through the wrinkles, through the strange new sad look that haunts the corner of his eyes, he looks again — and wondrously, miraculously, amazingly, it’s still him. Been there all along. And the story is like all stories about only one thing — what its like to be alive.

The strange double vision that sees a spoon and sees the word spoon, the letters s,p,o,o,n, overlaid on it — and then the sad single vision that doesn’t even see the shape or the color or the light reflecting of its curves but only sees the letters — call that Apollo —

Task of Dionysus — recurring though not constant — is to see past the letters, see past the artifacts, the strange ideas, right or wrong but always something added — and see what is there — see in the way our eyes are meant to see — see with the eye, not the mind — live in the light not in the dark — music can do it — raw — fresh — unencumbered —