Here is a link to a pdf word document of 'little book:' . . .
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Little Book
A Little Book Open: An Opened Person An Open Book
Continued
from: Writing Saga # 21; the House and its Rooms and its Environs…
‘There are moments in our lives, there are moments in a day, when we seem to see beyond the usual. Such are the moments of our greatest happiness. Such are the moments of our greatest wisdom. If one could but recall his vision by some sort of sign. It was in this hope that the arts were invented. Sign-posts on the way to what may be. Sign posts toward greater knowledge.’
- Robert Henri; 1865-1929; ‘The Art Spirit’
The
attic:
Here was the place of my extremes in expression, all rising up from my upstairs rooms and going through their ceilings! And the extremities whistling through were dancing-writing. When joy was so full I spontaneously danced and did cartwheels inside. I guess it’s not terribly normal to dance in one’s attic, but then I don’t rush to be normal. The writings that came out of the attic were the most incomprehensible when I was all-free and free-flowing, and the most simple and plain when I was not so free. But in the attic there was always a passion to ‘recall my vision by some sort of sign;’ and whether the sign was complex or clear, a dance of words would come to me, all at once. And though I couldn’t capture the half of it, or even a millionth part of it, at least there was some small sign of it . . . for my own pleasure even if for no one else’s.
Here was the place of my extremes in expression, all rising up from my upstairs rooms and going through their ceilings! And the extremities whistling through were dancing-writing. When joy was so full I spontaneously danced and did cartwheels inside. I guess it’s not terribly normal to dance in one’s attic, but then I don’t rush to be normal. The writings that came out of the attic were the most incomprehensible when I was all-free and free-flowing, and the most simple and plain when I was not so free. But in the attic there was always a passion to ‘recall my vision by some sort of sign;’ and whether the sign was complex or clear, a dance of words would come to me, all at once. And though I couldn’t capture the half of it, or even a millionth part of it, at least there was some small sign of it . . . for my own pleasure even if for no one else’s.
‘Cherish your own emotions and never
undervalue them.’ - Robert
Henri
The
cellar:
This was the site of my seeming dark ventures in communication which went below everything else. Here the 'ragged writing' which emerged was entirely composed of a kind of polarity in a total juxtaposition of two intimately experienced opposites: my own soul and my spirit, split, by suffering, divided asunder by the Light which came only out of Darkness; as the light of the stars shines only in the dark. Eventually this writing came together in the angel's hand and became little book . . .
LITTLE BOOK OPENED.
I thought people would welcome it, as it made so shining clear what constituted living faith, which brought delight, and what didn’t: the difference between the holy and the profane illumined and exposed by the Life that is our Light, written inside two parallel columns on the two edges of each page both sides of the page.
Few welcomed little book. All the people I sent it to never replied, at all, sadly; and I lost friendships as they withdrew from me. That unnerved me and made me withdraw 'little book;' but at least no one killed me, not yet anyway. So now it lives hidden away on "a little shelf" in "the cellar," away in the place of my glorious "Darkness:" which is that Light that lights every person that comes into the world...the glory within the pitch-dark Most Holy Place, the Holiest of All...safe there within the ark of the covenant...a person.
This was the site of my seeming dark ventures in communication which went below everything else. Here the 'ragged writing' which emerged was entirely composed of a kind of polarity in a total juxtaposition of two intimately experienced opposites: my own soul and my spirit, split, by suffering, divided asunder by the Light which came only out of Darkness; as the light of the stars shines only in the dark. Eventually this writing came together in the angel's hand and became little book . . .
LITTLE BOOK OPENED.
I thought people would welcome it, as it made so shining clear what constituted living faith, which brought delight, and what didn’t: the difference between the holy and the profane illumined and exposed by the Life that is our Light, written inside two parallel columns on the two edges of each page both sides of the page.
Few welcomed little book. All the people I sent it to never replied, at all, sadly; and I lost friendships as they withdrew from me. That unnerved me and made me withdraw 'little book;' but at least no one killed me, not yet anyway. So now it lives hidden away on "a little shelf" in "the cellar," away in the place of my glorious "Darkness:" which is that Light that lights every person that comes into the world...the glory within the pitch-dark Most Holy Place, the Holiest of All...safe there within the ark of the covenant...a person.
*
These
are the titles of the next two, very simple dancing ‘ragged writings’ out of the House of Amethyst Poetry:
Star Finder
Butterfly Bay
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