“Swerve me? The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run. Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under torrents’ beds, unerringly I rush! Naught’s an obstacle, naught’s an angle to the iron way!”
― Herman Melville, Moby-Dick or, The Whale
Downtown McKinney, Texas
Oblique Strategy:Don’t be frightened of cliches
Are you making your plans for next year? Do you have fixed in your mind the exact person you want to become?
Your mind, though, is not of one voice – but of at least two. Do you hear the little voice already telling you that you will fail and you will never become the person you think of? “It is too late anyway,” the voice says.
Where will you fall? Who will win in the end? Does it even matter?
“With the sound of gusting wind in the branches of the language trees of Babel, the words gave way like leaves, and every reader glimpsed another reality hidden in the foilage.”
― Andrei Codrescu, The Posthuman Dada Guide: Tzara & Lenin Play Chess
All visible objects call my shadow
unreasoning mask, reasoning thing
from behind the sweep in my soul
grooved to run over unsounded gorges
except by tranquil beauty and brilliancy
of the ocean’s skin, angle to the iron way!
Call Me Ishmael
– – Moby Dada 2
We are too much like oysters
can ever be under torrents’ beds
the undoubted deed in looking at things spiritual,
I spit my last breath substance; from hell’s heart
they weary me, make me faint, I grapple with thee
–then, talk not to me of blasphemy and tow to pieces
To produce a methodically knocking
I’d strike the sun off from the comber of my death!
enveloped in topmost grief, not excluding its suburbs
though many there be who have tried it
Give me Vesuvius’ times of dreamy quietude
Ho, ho! for hate’s sake
as soon as I can. Towards thee I roll, from hell’s heart
I didn’t use random words as in the link above, of course… rather seperate lines and phrases from quotes from the book, sliced and reaarranged at random.
“hark, now hear the sailors cry,
smell the sea, and feel the sky
let your soul & spirit fly, into the mystic…”
― Van Morrison
“Where lies the final harbor, whence we unmoor no more? In what rapt ether sails the world, of which the weariest will never weary? Where is the foundling’s father hidden? Our souls are like those orphans whose unwedded mothers die in bearing them: the secret of our paternity lies in their grave, and we must there to learn it.”
― Herman Melville, Moby Dick