Yowza!
I wonder if Chas. Mundungus is a nom de plume of Mark Irwin?
I sorta suspect so.
That would explain the extraordinary wordpool langflow, if indeed it's the same Mark Irwin who is a total poet?
A Mark Irwin also wrote Pipe Smoking In Middle Earth, and we can add to that being a co-writer for the grand upcoming Peterson book!
Hmmm...
Puzzlement from me now that I've actually bumped around a bit.
A clue found?
More like a translucent scrap really,
" Amerikanischen Pfeifenfreund Mark Irwin, alias "Chas Mundungus "
via
http://www.fdt.dsky-web.de/
but it won't allow acess to the direct link...
...but still unknown if it is the poet Mark Irwin, I'd gather a good guess that it just may be,
but maybe not.
I would still love to see a C. Mundungus book though!
A Pipeman's Handbook of Really Useful Information , was published under the Charles Mundungus name, it's a great archival anthology of web-related findings, and can still be found upon the looking, I downloaded a pdf of it and printed a copy out on paper, just as suggested in the forward, fingertips over pixelbits for me!
Here are some essay excerpts from the poet Mark Irwin, uncanningly similar!
Truth, uncompromisingly told, will always have its ragged edges.
--Melville, Billy Budd
Truth, that wobbly absolute and cousin of the transcendent, has been defined, redefined, and fine tuned by philosophers from Plato and St. Augustine through Nietzsche and Heidegger, the latter who returned to its notion from classical Greek antiquity: aletheia. The derivation of the word, a (out of) plus Lethe (the river of forgetfulness) begins to comment on the nature of art itself, which is a function of truth. In “The Origin of the Work of Art,” Heidegger tells us “the nature of truth, that is, of unconcealedness, is dominated throughout by denial.” Truth and remembering force being out of forgetfulness, and Heidegger argued that the nature of poetry is “the founding of truth,” one that occurs through concealing and revealing. Perhaps it was Nietzsche’s metaphorical death of God, however, that has most impacted transcendental notions of truth, and how later, according to Derrida and Foucault, we must reinterpret all major western texts if the phrase “In the beginning was the word, and the word was God” is no longer valid. Modern and contemporary writers, as well as composers and painters, might find consonance and safety in a phrase from Melville: Truth, uncompromisingly told, will always have its ragged edges.
Although Melville’s salient remark from Billy Budd reveals his complex quarrel with God, it also stands as metaphor for what in art is often most indefinable and thus most alluring. It’s not what seems finished to the eye that haunts us, but what remains unfinished to the heart, for that is the inexhaustibility of content we sometimes refer to as paradox.
&
...the speaker writes “to be as wrong as possible” to both the lover and implied reader. “Replace the door when you leave, it says.” But how can such a door be replaced? How can love gesture again after such abandon?. The phrase “how wrong that is, how long it glows” creates a hologram for what can never be substituted, or what can never replace emotion, though we continue to eat of its fruit in the past, to glow with its expiration.
In his “Critique of Judgment,” Immanuel Kant tells us that in nature, the beautiful” is connected with the form of the object, having definite boundaries.” He then informs us that the sublime “is to be found in a formless object,” one in which “its boundlessness is represented, and yet its totality is also present to thought.” Though it does not exhibit all the negative qualities of the sublime, Marvin Bell’s “To Dorothy” does begin “to violate purpose in respect to judgment,” and clearly suggests how the amplitude and complex-ities of truth are primarily due to their inexactness. The poem begins, “You are not beautiful, exactly. / You are beautiful, inexactly. / You let a weed grow by the mulberry / and a mulberry by the house.”
& a poem,
GO
A small word with no end to it and a wind
that continues into another country.
A word that takes on a different meaning
after someone dies, a word that has a strange
engine that says, “Continue,” but then continues
not to move as if burdened with its own
command, a breath which is all exhale. Once
in dream I was sent to the country of GO
with a message for the king who was dying
but seemed to understand, except that he was
unable to reply, then it turned out he
wasn’t really a king after all, just a man,
and all the time I was hoping he would say
something like GO FORTH, which sounds kind of
cheery before you start to think about it. The
question now’s not so much how to reconstruct
our lives, but how to stop the word that almost gets
to God before it’s really gone. The word has
a hollow noise, an otherness beyond. So
what do we do? Does one simply
say, “Now, now,” like firing blanks into eternity.
&
"And the transom of light leapt to an ocean of shadow.
Pouring out over the bridges
the knocking sound of bodies.
Pouring out over the bridges
the knocking sound of bodies.
- - - words
in a verbflash torn out of their mouths"
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I could be totally offtrack tho, LOL
Anyway, thanks for the prompt Kashmir and stirrin' the neurojolt!
: :clap: :
