its a world for hopeless lunatics and holy fools.
:... From Genesis Through Revelation: Playlist #2 ...:
I Want My Innocence Back by Emilie Autumn
Keep On Runnin' by Cat Power
Mad World by Gary Jules
I Grieve [For You] by Peter Gabriel
O Come, O Come Emmanuel by Enya
Love to Be Loved by Peter Gabriel
Sadness by Nine Inch Nails
The Half Killed by Dario Marianelli
:... If Prometheus Wept in Winter: The Wisdom of Prometheus Bound ...:
"Prom: I made men cease from contemplating death.
"[The state described is that of men who, through fear of death are all their lifetime subject to bondage. That state, the parent of all superstition, fostered the slavish awe in which Zeus delighted. Prometheus, representing the active intellect of man, bestows new powers, new interests, new hopes which at last divest them from that fear.]"
. . .
Consider Prometheus, after all. Chained to the rocks for millions of years, disemboweled each day by a raptor and left each night to contemplate the coming torture. One might say that this was not Hell, however, for Hell is and has always been known as the absence of God. And Prometheus had God, didn't he? Indeed. It was God who chained him to the rocks.
Some Notes.
I keep going back to Dostoyevsky's "Idiot". I scribbled the word yurodivi in the margin of my letters notebook and watched it evolve, twirled my pen between chilly fingers as the thought spread like cold breath across the page. Holy fool is applicable - at best, the only position for which he is suited. I read bits of the novel. I read bits of "Paint it Black" as well, which is always fictionally inspiring if damned bleak. Its honesty redeems it. There is not an ounce of pretension within those pages, not the hint of a trace of hauteur... just all the things we've never asked and all the things we've never said and it's such a pity to watch unfold. Such a pity to face at the end of the day. I keep writing despite the fact that I've not a clue where I'm going... original plotlines have been scratched, rebuilt, left crumbling and sans completion... only to be resumed again. I write daily towards an ending upon which I still haven't decided, past plot points which beg to be cut, and the writing itself is not writing. It's all elongated sketch, messy and dreamy and hopeless. I wrote the very first sketch of all this nonsense about a year ago, on a page in the middle of my notebook. It expands forward, ever forward, toward the front of the book. Irréversible. My story runs backwards.