Druthery and Vivaldi
(Feb 26/06)
Sitting as I was in the druthers of my thoughts, I thought, no, druthers are for the druthered, I will not be druthered nor sit in the druthers of my thoughts, my druthery. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was playing on the transitory, a floral reminder of music’s panacea, its ability to pull one from the druthers of one’s thoughts. The ambrosia of violins at frolic, the entanglement of the sacred with the profane, all this, these this’, drew me out of my druthers and into the angelic ‘otherness’ of Vivaldi. This ethereal ‘otherness’, however, has its limits, out of which I careened, like a catgut strand of mares’ tail. Now, by force of habit and a prejudice for Freudian repetition, I listen, with an inattentive ear, to a radio-drama on the inauspicious CBC, or Crapulous Broadcast Clamor. I watched no Olympic sporting events, even though the television was in-sodomy of them, an odd and unvaried assortment of jumping and skiing and oval-racing and lute-sledding, skeletal whatnots and whatfors. I have neither fondness nor time for nationalism, as I’d much rather be a citizen of the world, not some geographical disposed subphylum with the appropriate ID bracelet and a SIN card without a photography or thumbprint. May the best he or she win, regardless of race, ethnicity, geographic latitude or taste in haberdashery. Wars are fought over geography, religious precocity, capital gain and national fondness, none of which I feel a particular affection for or attachment to. Perhaps this was the cause of my earlier druthers, or simply a touch of ennui and bad manners for not caring about Venn diagrams and circles in congress, one looped into the other until the vinculum is octagonal and seamless.
Sitting as I was in the druthers of my thoughts, I thought, no, druthers are for the druthered, I will not be druthered nor sit in the druthers of my thoughts, my druthery. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was playing on the transitory, a floral reminder of music’s panacea, its ability to pull one from the druthers of one’s thoughts. The ambrosia of violins at frolic, the entanglement of the sacred with the profane, all this, these this’, drew me out of my druthers and into the angelic ‘otherness’ of Vivaldi. This ethereal ‘otherness’, however, has its limits, out of which I careened, like a catgut strand of mares’ tail. Now, by force of habit and a prejudice for Freudian repetition, I listen, with an inattentive ear, to a radio-drama on the inauspicious CBC, or Crapulous Broadcast Clamor. I watched no Olympic sporting events, even though the television was in-sodomy of them, an odd and unvaried assortment of jumping and skiing and oval-racing and lute-sledding, skeletal whatnots and whatfors. I have neither fondness nor time for nationalism, as I’d much rather be a citizen of the world, not some geographical disposed subphylum with the appropriate ID bracelet and a SIN card without a photography or thumbprint. May the best he or she win, regardless of race, ethnicity, geographic latitude or taste in haberdashery. Wars are fought over geography, religious precocity, capital gain and national fondness, none of which I feel a particular affection for or attachment to. Perhaps this was the cause of my earlier druthers, or simply a touch of ennui and bad manners for not caring about Venn diagrams and circles in congress, one looped into the other until the vinculum is octagonal and seamless.
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