By Heather Adamson
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Development at the shut courting among DK and Lucasfilm, our inventive group has produce a gorgeous accompaniment to the newest installment of the superstar Wars saga. contained in the global of celebrity Wars: assault of the Clones indicates Coruscant and Kamino, new planets within the celebrity Wars universe, in addition to Episode 1 favorites Naboo and Tatooine all noticeable in staggering aspect.
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But is this persuasively different from the “Hand of Fire” that gathers the kiss of our agony? The dialectic of Gnosticism is a triad of negation, evasion, and extravagance. Lurianic Kabbalah renders these as contraction, breaking-ofthe-vessels, and restitution. Fate, freedom, power is the Emersonian or American equivalent. All of these triads translate aesthetically into a dialectic of limitation, substitution, and representation, as I have shown in several critical books starting with A Map of Misreading.
Or let us look at another instance. Sensitivity in the selection of words resides in the ability, or necessity, to feel behind the given word a history— not a past history, but a future one. Within the word, collapsed into its simultaneous oneness, there is implicit a sequence, a complexity of possible narratives that could be drawn from it. If you would remember what words are in this respect, and how in the simultaneity of a word histories are implicit, recall the old pleasantry of asking someone, “What’s an accordion,” whereat invariably as he explains he will start pumping a bellows.
Two modes of phantasmagoria clash: Through the bound cable strands, the arching path Upward, veering with light, the ﬂight of strings,— Taut miles of shuttling moonlight syncopate The whispered rush, telepathy of wires. Up the index of night, granite and steel— Transparent meshes—ﬂeckless the gleaming staves— Sibylline voices ﬂicker, waveringly stream . . . . . . . . . . . . . As though a god were issue of the strings. A woman drew her long black hair out tight And ﬁddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
A Day in the Life of a Police Officer by Heather Adamson