American Authors In Exile II — Desolation ON the Gains — Morning Papers XXII

What Is The Flesh That Is Upon This Whale Of A Skeleton Of The American Literaturally Canon?

THE LAST PAPER:

Asperity — yes, is the word I would hark around in your middling space as a reader from my works, to other worlds transported to you from yonder ways. Deeply, in the end, I pursue this, ready for the morning — Asperity — again, for the scape of the American bewilderment that seized the days for the becoming of this nation.

Amazingly, I’m gazing around to see what is what in the days from the concerning downs of unrest to petty squabbles, oh to gander a chaste sea around the roused island of visitors that houses the Statue of Liberty.

Caught in the undertow of the Harbor’s bidding floor — welcome to this here Maine; Marshall the eras of such good contentment; About hearty darn time, I followed up on that piece, is it not? Wiser it so becomes to be, that a serial of pieces is the desired range of form, for our pieces to be conveyed — this is a deadened question in a twofold manifest, as I have already answered any decries of no by doing this, though it does seem like this American Authors IN Exile is becoming the thing I sought it not to be;— Come what, come may, as long as sincerity is imparted, why should I complain?

A humbled dashing of this painted Scene would be the notion I had of Emerson; Cutely given the sobriquet of America’s Philosopher — in similarly cumbersome ways, you could give such tacking ideas to Whitman, being America’s Poet [Though, I would beat Dickinson as being America’s true, old accented Poet — perhaps a little less idealized, though I couldn’t omit Thoreau, in his Poetic notions, rather] and lastly, casting Tocqueville as America’s pathologist and physician — I do not reply to the remarks as him being a mere Political reflector — but all this was had to me on a ghastly lazy afternoon, the notion of What they’ll do to my name, but ‘tis the thriving farrow of Legacy.

But who would be America’s one true novelist — awfully sound like the almighty precious thing here — would we consider Melville or Twain? Nary such an idea is proposed without the notion of National Mystics being entwined, could we consider Hawthorne in this assorting rabble? This tumble and twirl by the dryer to the clothes wire. If we project ourselves forth to the nowadays, could we commence McCarthy to this Canon of American bounding ties and budding dies?

Perhaps the temper of the Nation was best captivated in the medium of conjured up Novelizations with Harriet-Beecher Stowe’s: Uncle Tom’s Cabin. But such potent measures are utterly evanescence to experience, for what was known so clearly, is now lost — even a decade after, maybe even a yearly pressing of the throes of marching time makes such things subdued, whilst the earthly goes on around the Mindful blessings of learned minds.

Desolation ON the Gains, to espouse my little happy happenstance covered over this terming piece, Brief is the manner of our discourses in pure discount to the complexity of such an idea — but after all, in your clean palms, this is but a mere Morning Paper, with such Passages it can contain. But that is our Haughty heroics to champion time in such tiny leagues!

My current reflection on the first piece of a similar invitation is very much built on images — not necessarily substance as I call it through a subject’s History, but what has been fleshed upon the rigging of all, which is the skeleton, to illuminate such lands to the prospects of Ne’er-do-wells of the literary scene, by my flashing temptation, of such imagery that puts one’s interests sound to sea!

Such is the occurrence. In a Tapestry in reference to life, I hear often a byword, which, I rather think of as a byway. Since such grand things are woven by the multitude of conceivable images from a time just had —what would be the American Tapestry, Now and at every major point in her history?

Was or is the American Image, like so much, in the chaos of creation, seeped out of its own hewed image of Violence? In the plainest of speech: Did America Make Itself By The Musket, Revolver And Sawn-Saddle?

Yes, in a multitude of reasoning Wherefore and Whys, yes, violence conjured America as much as its successful diplomatic tact and its failures — we are conceivably contrived at the birthing moment and remain to be unrevealing that thread throughout our times thereafter. Life is violent, life is full and raw, and indeed stark to our hopes, wherein the ladder of judging things by importance those belie themselves to be on, remains to be reasoned with in the empirical tact and by neat discourses, such as this. But Violence is not all there is to life — Violence is mentioned not just in the Warfare sense but on the domestic, mental, and subdued fronts; those multifaceted things —but rather a thread that weaves our perception of this life before our tardy sleep.

Diabolical to fairer sex of the American mind may react so mindfully to that claim, but I hedge my bets fairly; I don’t mean the person’s femininity either, but rather the aspects of Servitude and Compliance and pure Innocence. If one cannot pull into contrast all the damning, uplifting, and utterly mirky pieces altogether, what would one then have? Expect a falsified being melded for needy grounds; on the basis of ill-found hope. Hope is hard to resist but be tempered in where you find said Hopes — to be led astray willingly/perhaps in all foreknowledge, unwillingly — the road to hell is paved by good intentions — that attention is unfortunately so.

As I deeply gash this vessel by the undertow of Maine’s stormy bridging shores, I deliver myself on this: I bring this subject to the Public Lynching and the Authority in cloaking nature by this violent measure — to gleam a Goya, you must consider the frowning contrasts that make the gay, lighter shades what they are; to judge this America fully, you must consider the shadows that contrast the earthly shape conceived by the perception of the alighting waves and averages, and which, the shadow tapers the bodily matter down to the minimal ground.

Take it all back to the minimal, to the Skelton, till it remains to the fundamentals —the things it cannot remain to be itself, without such.

Much now could be agreed by the naysayers of Africans within America — Nowadays, the bigoted zeal is now merely cloaked, I doubt highly the intentions of some who mask behind double-speech or by patronizing schemes —such are the successful furnishings done, but images are never so clear, even on the superficial glance it may seem so, but take a closer look and you realize the cracking is done on all of the pigments that make up a picture —the prejudicing act is also woven by the ones who are the smirked at, the ones who are the sweetener to the amassing game; One may harm themselves even more so than an appointed or supposed enemy, they know all their special chords if played ill, and by their Friends too, of a targetable audience, in America.

Now, one could even believe by all the wagging fingers that their remarks are as good as the good boys and their black tails — fermented by all the lies, and by all the untruths and senseless double-truths, language is being stretched to not be the representative of ideas but as an enabling force to numb, or make one weary before the day even begins, and nary search for the truth away from such strata at least — wonderful narrative, but I can already foresee it slipping to the other extreme of the Individual-Incredulous — used again to target and beholden the once individual into another seething throng; the sumptuous reserve for power isn’t eagerly dividable, it may remain in the most pathetic or banal of areas — will there ever be temperance to find itself a home? Perhaps at least, to be aspired to, that is where my beats could be beaten upon, even if they arrive belatedly and in shambles.

To believe that systematic prejudice and heading oppression of a disenfranchised minority by the waters of their past enthrallment of that particular class of America’s clasped history, and concerning America particularly here, the mark of Slavery bleaches the globe then and still hereafter; Language is vital to anyone in throes —Language be the medium of ideas, but be heeding of how another uses their words, especially for intellectual conniptions. Be aware, be tempering, and be precise and wisely compassionate.

Bethinking of Anton Chigurh: There are ones in the play of life who concern themselves with naught but themselves and their philosophical concern, or rather act and involved when the happenstance can be tossed by the mere Sliver shilling when thinking of him.

To give you a quick and tight conclusion:

Strip it back, and see what remains in the amount so bear, until the boundary is known where if you go any further, it fails to exist as this clumping of ideas — which may be its innate constitutional value. Such as, if you regard Abraham Lincoln, in the superficial and plainest of sights you could know him, what comes to mind?; Height, Compassion, Wit, Love Of Shakespeare, A devil with the political word, shrewdness, magnanimity, a knack for telling a story; Oh, Stanton.

Take it back to such grounds of fundamentals, and perhaps the sight can be tempered regularly — in the maddening fluxes of impermanence and maddening body’s surrounding, like the atomic beginnings.

Ah, the resolution’s Lion; a Symbol glad of the hardy times, as long as the Mane doesn’t sloop. And the perfect symbol to bring this down to the aforementioned sleep. Segmenting this piece with the hearty feline above us to separate us away from the cold New England shores, lionized, indeed, but there is no true Lion in America since…

Temperance is what I always espouse — Having a heart for balance, you could then inspire in yourself the knack I have for texture and the hues weight between the separate images, from two very different artists.

Three crazies in the back of a rig wagon across to Iowa.

There was that stark skeleton which remained after stripping much back and away, after my viewing Of The Homesman — a film which disturbed much in me, of known and certainly unknown currents, as I happen to be a Doctor in those regards of Madness in course.

Men to suit, to dwell upon it, for it is the next Exile’s piece —the old American Yokel, contrasted to a ruby-roused and imbibed symbol of the American West…

Gives me much in regards to the next piece of this Exiles idea; of the American Cowboy —the boys of the States.

But let me calm you down now, there shall be a time and place for such, let us not bloat superfluously now —the waxing of Sightseers’ gets awfully long, as I become too lazy to stop.

Ta-ta Now, this was a jutting probe forth, wasn’t it just and it makes my Tuesdays fall off current of the locational!

COME ALONG WITH THE DOCTOR’S NEWSLETTER

THE MORNING PAPERS:

The Curation; Our Publication:

AMERICAN AUTHORS IN EXILE I:

As ever, Dear Reader.