The Musings of Alencia Lysander

Why gloomy?  There is snow, White forever, or at least (the least) Forever in a globe, and it does Subside into the puddles of the ground; There is everyone and each Minding their own business -- I do ask Who has time for me?  But for me, for whom Do I have time?  Time is always (This is no exaggeration) Under my fingers and on my mind, Time is what I should only allow -- If you take it and cut it into rhythms Each pattern -- but perversions of the pattern also -- Will distract.  Distend myself on these extensions, Let each exist like colors that I draw, Lazily the way I trace one line And then another, Linking them by intersection into shapes, Variable in their portion, their color, until no result Recognizable or edifying, but this word, diverting Ephemerally lights the regions of the mind. Trace the regions, man, and tracing let them pass With the time -- and pass the passers-by.

Nothing is permanent -- no song, No mistake.  An enterprise Fizzles, an endeavor leaves Nothing more than a lingering scent. The skill to chisel The ever immortal As the same immortal sees Flickers and in an instant Is nothing more than the instance Of its own concentration. If art is a series of reflections, Halting and discontinuous, Ascending from whatever base As an arpeggio To their attainment, That moment, it alone Is what has meaning. Scattered strokes conjoin To make a symbol, lines Assemble into declarations, synoptically The mess of colors becomes form And takes on shape -- Perceived in an instant, in an instant Grasped, and in an instant, When the aim of what was grasped has been attained, Laid aside -- laid waste -- and left off for the next. The next, the next, the next (tomorrow and...) But each one known somehow with its respect To that one's previous relation, Known in an instant, replaced in an instant, Remembered and forgotten in an i...