Republished by Blog Post Promoter
Republished by Blog Post Promoter
Republished by Blog Post Promoter
The assassination of the first self-appointed Roman Emperor, Gaius Julius Caesar, by Roman Senators, made the Ides of March a turning point in Roman history. Although March (Martius) was the third month of the Julian calendar, in the oldest Roman calendar it was the first month of the year. The holidays observed by the Romans from the first through the Ides often reflect their origin as new year celebrations.
The Romans did not number days of a month sequentially from the first through the last day. Instead, they counted back from three fixed points of the month: the Nones (5th or 7th, depending on the length of the month), the Ides (13th or 15th), and the Kalends (1st of the following month). The Ides occurred near the midpoint, on the 13th for most months, but on the 15th for March, May, July, and October. The Ides were supposed to be determined by the full moon, reflecting the lunar origin of the Roman calendar. On the earliest calendar, the Ides of March would have been the first full moon of the new year.
Most pre-modern calendars the world over were lunisolar, combining the solar year with the lunation by means of intercalary months. The Julian calendar abandoned this method in favor of a purely solar reckoning while conversely the 7th-century Islamic calendar opted for a purely lunar one.
The Ides of each month was sacred to Jupiter, the Romans’ supreme deity. The Flamen Dialis, Jupiter’s high priest, led the “Ides sheep” (ovis Idulius) in procession along the Via Sacra to the arx, where it was sacrificed.
— excerpted and edited from Wikipedia.org
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It’s not easy to say what I really think about Life in this Universe. It’s complicated. It’s a Love / Hate relationship. The random, unpredictable drama of it is entertaining, amusing and terrifying. I love the sensual scenery on Earth and the impassioned sensations of sex. I hate pain, lies, stupidity and injustice. The wonder and mystery of an endlessly starry night is a facade of pretended majesty. The sounds of soft, subtle jazz are sublime. A trusted companion is comforting. Ice cream is irresistible. The blissful buzz of booze is bemusing. I am enamored with the innocent insouciance of animals. Life Forms are reflections of The Divine Essence of Life.
Yet, I detest greed and the callous brutality of possessions. I would love to love this universe. But, it’s not my universe. It’s not the universe I would create if I could create my own. It is full of recycled pain and dying and death. Agony, mystery and ignorance are everywhere. There are no real angels or faeries here. No honor. No Integrity. No Justice. No Mercy. No Poetic Magic. This universe in impassive and intolerant of nonsensically nonsequitur nonsense.
This universe is frozen, dark, impartial vacuum dotted with incandescent infernos of light-emitting balls of eternally burning gases! Sprinkled, intermittently, throughout are gaseous clouds of radioactive poison and icy balls of rock. It swirls and grows relentlessly in an eternally timeless now of revolving, random rotation. It is not me. It is not mine. I can’t own it and I don’t want it. Yet, I can’t leave it behind! (as far as I know, I’m stuck here….)
Does it have a purpose and destiny? Does it know that I exist? Does it care?
No. It does not.
I am a Nothingness of Thought. I’m not from here. I didn’t begin anywhere. I am not a Thing. I Am Endlessly Emitting Emotions, Ideas, Compassion and Creative Notions.
I am Universes Apart from this universe. Universes apart.
In My Own Universe I Am what I dream: Sensual, Dramatic, Comic. I AM. Motionless. Curious. Playful. Joyful. Pleased with my Own Existence. I Create. I Change. I Destroy, or not, at My Whim. I Am My Universe in My Universe. You’re welcome to share it with me, as long as you Admire My Creations. I’d like to Admire Yours too. More than anything, I don’t like being Alone and Bored.
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— Lawrence R. Spencer. Saturday Night Musing. November 2012.
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William Burroughs’ Thanksgiving Prayer from J. Sprig on Vimeo.
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TEXT:
“Thanks for the wild turkey and the passenger pigeons, destined to be shit out through wholesome American guts.
Thanks for a continent to despoil and poison.
Thanks for Indians to provide a modicum of challenge and danger.
Thanks for vast herds of bison to kill and skin leaving the carcasses to rot.
Thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes.
Thanks for the American dream,
To vulgarize and to falsify until the bare lies shine through.
Thanks for the KKK.
For nigger-killin’ lawmen, feelin’ their notches.
For decent church-goin’ women, with their mean, pinched, bitter, evil faces.
Thanks for “Kill a Queer for Christ” stickers.
Thanks for laboratory AIDS.
Thanks for Prohibition and the war against drugs.
Thanks for a country where nobody’s allowed to mind the own business.
Thanks for a nation of finks.
Yes, thanks for all the memories—all right let’s see your arms!
You always were a headache and you always were a bore.
Thanks for the last and greatest betrayal of the last and greatest of human dreams”.
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William Seward Burroughs II ( /ˈbʌroʊz/; also known by his pen name William Lee; February 5, 1914 – August 2, 1997) was an American novelist, poet, essayist and spoken word performer. A primary figure of the Beat Generation and a major postmodernist author, he is considered to be “one of the most politically trenchant, culturally influential, and innovative artists of the 20th century.”[1] His influence is considered to have affected a range of popular culture as well as literature. Burroughs wrote 18 novels and novellas, six collections of short stories and four collections of essays. Five books have been published of his interviews and correspondences. He also collaborated on projects and recordings with numerous performers and musicians, and made many appearances in films.