The Fool (selected fragments)

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Jean Fournell
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The Fool (selected fragments)

Postby Jean Fournell » Wed Sep 21, 2016 6:25 pm

Go tell the young messiah
What happens to the heart

Go tell the young messiah
What happens to the heart
Many happy returns!


The Fool

O see the darkness yielding
That tore the light apart
Come healing of the reason
Come healing of the heart

O troubled dust concealing
An undivided love
The heart beneath is teaching
To the broken heart above

Leonard Cohen, Come healing

1 — A distant land

In a distant land, somewhere between some-time and no-time precise travelling directions can be found on the information panels in the every-man's land of truth elaboration and discovery , there used to live a ruler.

This ruler ruled about more or less harmlessly in that land, and he had a fool-at-court who had the knack of various jobs: juggle with both hands and one single ball, peel a banana all by himself, and wear the fool's cap in such a fashion that it didn't fall off all the time (helpful as some people are, they had tied a chinstrap to it).

One might guess already that this fool, besides his professional activity, still had quite a bit of free time left. And in this free time now, he did that inside his head which is called thinking in the case of normal people, and for which in the case of fools there is no word.

Thus it went through the fool's mind, for example, that he really had a hard time riding: sometimes the horse was too slow, most of the time it was too fast, then it was stubborn as well, it loved running away more than anything and at times, falling off, he had got nastily hurt.

One might answer to this: "If you're not able, why not leave it alone?", but matters were not that simple. Because ever and again the ruler went touring in his land, now here and now there, in order to rule about more or less harmlessly everywhere in turn. And since the fool belonged to the court's staff, he had to go travelling along, too. And he couldn't opt for driving, because in that land the wheel didn't exist although no one knew it.

For the wheel is one of those weird inventions which nobody misses as long as they don't exist quite to the contrary of the stove, which allows better control of the fire, and which resembles a closed fireplace, at long last not smoking so bad anymore, and which itself is derived from a simple fire, merely pushed against the wall.

The wheel is not an improvement of a pre-existing phenomenon, but an achievement in its own right, a kind of surprise one might say.

Of course the fool was given lots of advice by those who knew about horses (as is customary in the horse-world), and of course this advice came from people who belonged to the somewhat special sort of folk whom you recognise straight away by the unpleasant hardened look in their eyes about which it is said that those who can crack nuts with their lashes have got something wrong with their training.

Only it would seem to the fool that none of this advice was of any actual help at all.
___________________________________________________
Therefore know that you must become one with the bow, and with the arrow, and with the target
to say nothing of the horse.

... for a while
... for a little while...

(Just a filthy beggar blessing / What happens to the heart)
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Jean Fournell
Posts: 223
Joined: Thu Jun 20, 2013 4:09 pm
Location: Provence

The Fool: 1.1 – An unwheel

Postby Jean Fournell » Wed Sep 21, 2016 6:30 pm

Synopsis:

Occasionally, a wandering storyteller appears at the ruler's court,
whose precise travelling route was possibly not even known to himself, since it was mainly determined by chance-happenings.

He tells things like:
How one day the wheel was not invented

The main character, who sets out to invent the wheel, saws off the corners of the triangles that are being used instead. Since this seems to make his cart roll more smoothly indeed, he calls upon friends and relations to help him saw off the remaining corners, too. The others, with their fresh look, perceive that cutting off one corner brings about two new ones, and so they abandon him to puzzling over the intricacies of all and nothing. Absentmindedly, he pulls the sawn-off metal scraps long and longer, and thus instead of the wheel inadvertently invents the pasture-fence.
Last edited by Jean Fournell on Sat Oct 08, 2016 5:19 pm, edited 2 times in total.
___________________________________________________
Therefore know that you must become one with the bow, and with the arrow, and with the target
to say nothing of the horse.

... for a while
... for a little while...

(Just a filthy beggar blessing / What happens to the heart)
User avatar
Jean Fournell
Posts: 223
Joined: Thu Jun 20, 2013 4:09 pm
Location: Provence

The Fool: 2 – A preacher in the desert

Postby Jean Fournell » Wed Sep 21, 2016 6:35 pm

The one on the stone

Synopsis:

A clochard stands gesticulating on a stone bordering a public lawn area. With an effort, he manages to broadcast the final results of his Château Migraine philosophy:

"Everything is relative.
Well, I mean: taken in itself, it is.
Taken in itself, everything is relative.
To some extent."


The fool can't make head or tail of this, but he realises that the dog, coiled up on a jacket by the stone, wide awake and fully at peace, lives in an unconditionally reliable mutual belonging-together with the clochard, however dire the circumstances.

And this, the fool preserved in his heart.
And he went on his way.
Last edited by Jean Fournell on Fri Oct 07, 2016 11:24 pm, edited 2 times in total.
___________________________________________________
Therefore know that you must become one with the bow, and with the arrow, and with the target
to say nothing of the horse.

... for a while
... for a little while...

(Just a filthy beggar blessing / What happens to the heart)
User avatar
Jean Fournell
Posts: 223
Joined: Thu Jun 20, 2013 4:09 pm
Location: Provence

The Fool: 3 – A kind word

Postby Jean Fournell » Wed Sep 21, 2016 6:37 pm

Fall studies

Synopsis:

Someone marvels at the fool's hurtful way of falling off his horse, and later tells him that most people he knows had learned to fall with the martial arts practitioners. Such a rare kind word makes the fool wonder if there are things like windows into the world of the reasonable ones.

Besides falling, he learns that those of the "Way towards appropriateness of means" have a notion of "combat against oneself", which he not fighting, only falling can't understand.

And then presumably it wasn't that important either.
Last edited by Jean Fournell on Fri Oct 07, 2016 11:30 pm, edited 1 time in total.
___________________________________________________
Therefore know that you must become one with the bow, and with the arrow, and with the target
to say nothing of the horse.

... for a while
... for a little while...

(Just a filthy beggar blessing / What happens to the heart)
User avatar
Jean Fournell
Posts: 223
Joined: Thu Jun 20, 2013 4:09 pm
Location: Provence

The Fool: 4 – A hidden glance

Postby Jean Fournell » Wed Sep 21, 2016 6:40 pm

Astonishments

Synopsis:

Overhearing a conversation about recruiting mounted bow-people, the fool wonders why they consider riding so much easier than archery.

At the training field, one of the archers sends him a hidden glance, and later teaches him abdominal respiration and shows him a few of its effects. As for the learning process, he advises the fool to use patience, which the fool discovers to be required indeed.

And this inward glance astonished him again and again.
Last edited by Jean Fournell on Fri Oct 07, 2016 11:31 pm, edited 1 time in total.
___________________________________________________
Therefore know that you must become one with the bow, and with the arrow, and with the target
to say nothing of the horse.

... for a while
... for a little while...

(Just a filthy beggar blessing / What happens to the heart)
User avatar
Jean Fournell
Posts: 223
Joined: Thu Jun 20, 2013 4:09 pm
Location: Provence

The Fool: 5 — A ball

Postby Jean Fournell » Wed Sep 21, 2016 6:46 pm

The frog

The fool liked to join the others sitting in a circle when the wandering storyteller appeared at the court, for while he'd be listening to those stories, it didn't really matter that he couldn't think, but did that inside his head for which there is no word.

In one of the tales, a girl had a golden ball, which she lost when she was playing with it by the rim of the well. The fool knew immediately that this ball was the breathing in the underbelly, which sometimes is there, and everything is fine, and which sometimes is gone, and one doesn't know if it will ever come back as though it had fallen into a deep well, into which no one can follow it.

And already the fool was sinking towards the bottom of the well, and thence further through the water layers into the ocean and into its deepest faults, which with these reversed mountains of water are their highest peaks. On the highest top of the deepest crack, when he was vast enough to encompass both mount and vale, the fool found the golden ball and took it into his hands without juggling. A deep calm had filled him; and with the ball, he felt the breathing in the moonshine on the snow mountains at the bottom of the sea in the swing of ebb and flow, and he shared this breathing of the great calm.

In the swing of the breathing he saw the water as it flooded small stretches of land and let them emerge again, and how it would occasionally wash away houses built in the wrong place; he saw avalanches rumbling down the mountains, and storms roaring. Small waves in the breathing of the ocean, which however brought desperate misery to those who got into their ways.

He understood this misery, and he understood pain and disease and hunger and death, and he understood the revolt against those things, which only would worsen them if it did not help to bring about a solution. And he understood that he understood, and that he could not step in and modify the course of events, and that his revolt would never disturb the Great Breathing, but at the most his own breathing in unison with the breathing of the world.

He became one with the calm of the universal harmony in the swinging of the cosmos, and the ultimate synthesis took place, and the constraints of space and time dissolved and disappeared. Because when foolery and wisdom unite, everything is said and done that, from the very beginning to the very end, is ever to be said or done.

The reader may already have guessed, from the simple fact that the story is still going on, that something out of the ordinary is about to happen.

What happened was, that a frog appeared in front of the fool. A frog, or, rather, what was left of a frog, who, more dead than alive, his feet torn on the sharp mountain rocks, almost frozen to death by the ice and snow, dehydrated from the saltwater and all but drowned in it, summoned one more time his dwindling powers. He managed to utter, barely audible, what sounded like: "The ball does not belong to you alone!"

At this point, something opens up for which the storyteller needs time if he wants to report it, but which itself has nothing to do with passing time, something which rather takes place at right angles to time's flow, "upon a time" as it were, in a kind of time which, for the sake of easier distinction, is called eternity.

In this eternity, the word of the frog struck the fool like a blow against the elbow when it hits the nerve which is also known as the funny-bone except that it raced through all of the fool's nerves, through his whole body, and that the fool, suddenly, with this one blow, was far more clear-minded than he would ever have believed was possible. He realised with certainty that the frog was right, that he was right in a way that admitted no hesitation, no objection and no intermediate positions, that he was absolutely right.

And that this dying frog had come to fetch him, the fool, out of his nirvana, out of his utopia of nowhere, in which to dwell was undoubtedly his own absolute right but without hoarding the golden ball in it!

And that it would not suffice to send him packing, this almost finished frog, telling him to just grab the ball and be off, because he was quite simply not able any more to make his way back, and because above all it was not the frog who had withheld the ball here, but he himself, the fool.

With the golden ball in one hand and the frog in the other, the fool used the energy that burned in his nerves to give a powerful contracting start; and at the point where time goes on passing, they were at the bottom of the well.

The frog still could manage a few exhausted swimming movements, which activated his skin respiration; and thus the salt and the cold got sufficiently diluted, and the withdrawn water started to seep back into his body, and he would keep on living.

It then took yet a considerable while until the frog prince was restored so far as to be able to take the ball upwards...

Whoever will ask now, how a frog, whether half dead or fully alive and kicking, is supposed to carry a golden ball, three times heavier than himself, from the bottom of a well up to the surface, is thereby opening the door to the study of the storyteller.

There's then writing material lying about there, one or the other blank page, ideas and sketches, blueprints and clippings, barren notions and miscarriages, premature births and releases we still contemplate in the baby-blues, and some of which provide further inspiration while others cause the ink to dry out; and way back in the rear of the shelf there are those boxes with the dust-collecting things, re-written to insipidity or completely bogged down, which we should rather have thrown away when we had the chance, but which now have grown so dear to our heart that an understanding after-world, one day, had best add them into our coffin for incineration.

All of this harbours nothing secret or forbidden, of course only, it can't be put to any use either, except maybe in the hands of another storyteller. And even that is not quite sure.

As for the frog prince, let me say only so much in a subdued voice: that the fairytale is located "In the olden times, when wishing still did help"; and that the fool was simpleminded enough to take that literally; and that, when there was nothing else left for him to do, he seriously wished that the frog would make it, whereupon success needed no more than to proudly join in and be the third one of the lot.

And the rest has already been told, if I'm not mistaken.
___________________________________________________
Therefore know that you must become one with the bow, and with the arrow, and with the target
to say nothing of the horse.

... for a while
... for a little while...

(Just a filthy beggar blessing / What happens to the heart)
User avatar
Jean Fournell
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Location: Provence

The Fool: 6 – A cloud

Postby Jean Fournell » Wed Sep 21, 2016 6:51 pm

The wild rider

Occasionally, the fool had wondered what on earth it might be good for, this loveless clatter of hands on horses, which everybody seemed to practise like a most normal thing to do, and which for him belonged to the routine, too, because it simply was part of the set-up, and because he already had difficulties enough with these creatures and did not want to wilfully add even more.

Now it was, however, as though the world-redemptive breathing in oceanic flow with its abrupt end in bad conscience had widened his range of awareness. Several times of late the fool had noticed that he saw things which happened beside him instead of perceiving only what he had right in front of his eyes, in a narrow scope. He had even gone so far as to slowly open his outstretched arms in order to see how far back he could keep both hands in sight; and he also had the impression that on the whole he had become more attentive for his surroundings.

Maybe this explains, partly at least, why one day the fool, out of the corner of his eye, noticed the wild rider on a strip of grass by the wayside. The reins were resting on the horse's back just short enough so it probably wouldn't step into them , and while it was grazing serenely, the wild rider one by one groomed its hooves.

The fool slowly stepped closer.

"No horse-patting, otherwise no problem", the wild rider said, stomping back into the ground the rough stone he had just smoothed the edge of one hoof with. And that worked for some time indeed, until the horse-patterer in the fool finally broke through.

As if he had been waiting for just this to happen, the wild rider immediately laid his hand on the fool's patting hand: "Don't."

There was a peculiar feeling emanating from this laid-on hand, comparable only to the electric touch between people shortly before their way towards becoming lovers yet without the erotic sparkling, and thus all the more peculiar.

This feeling of a non-patting hand had a healing effect, whereby the fool's hand in turn changed from something like a tool, connected to his body by mere coincidence, to a laid-on hand, a real hand, on a real horse, as the hand of the wild rider was a real hand on the fool's hand, and as the hands of real people are real hands which feel whom or what they are laid on, and which share their closeness and reality even when no healing is possible or required.

The horse had turned towards the fool, with a bewildered look, ready to react, when he was about to begin his accursed patting now it was calm; and inside the fool the perception arose that there was a connection between the horse and himself.

The wild rider gave the fool a nod, so slight that one had to know it in order to see it.

After the two of them had travelled on, the fool stood motionless for yet a while, because the peculiar feeling was emanating from his own hands now, and from himself into these hands of his, while these two hands became real hands, which indeed belonged to him, and which no longer were merely accidental tools, attached to him by coincidence.

What was it that had been written in the cloud up there in the sky, and the last remnants of which were dissipating right now? "If you need a helping hand, you'll find one at the end of your arm"? The fool was not quite sure.

It was a long way from these hands, which the wild rider had only just awakened, to knowing hands, that much the fool understood; but a small beginning had been made, a tiny beginning and that was proof that learning is possible.

The arbitrary high-handedness of the horse-patterer was subordinate now to the unity of the fool and his hands and what he laid them onto.

Only, this was not at all to the liking of the horse-patterer, and in a magnificent rearing up he immediately stretched himself right into the fool's hands; then however kept on growing, growing beyond them, he grew out of them, slipped out of the fool.

And was dissolved like the cloud a moment ago.

'Maybe there are not only windows into the world of the reasonable ones, maybe there are even doors', tumbled a motley bright-coloured plastic ball through the fool's mind and fell into an abyss.
'For such a wild rider, the world of the reasonable ones is far too narrow that's why he's a wild rider', the abyss yawned, turned over to the other side, and went back to sleep.

The fool walked home. It had been a weird day, and, weirdly enough, he was not afraid.
Last edited by Jean Fournell on Tue Dec 13, 2016 12:27 am, edited 4 times in total.
___________________________________________________
Therefore know that you must become one with the bow, and with the arrow, and with the target
to say nothing of the horse.

... for a while
... for a little while...

(Just a filthy beggar blessing / What happens to the heart)
Cate
Posts: 3457
Joined: Tue Nov 06, 2007 4:27 am

Re: The Fool: 5 — A ball

Postby Cate » Sat Oct 01, 2016 9:12 pm

Jean Fournell wrote:The frog


... something opens up for which the storyteller needs time if he wants to report it, but which itself has nothing to do with passing time, something which rather takes place at right angles to time's flow, "upon a time" as it were, in a kind of time which, for the sake of easier distinction, is called eternity.
takes place at right angles to time's flow
I like that. That's where all the most interesting things in a story happens isn't it, in a story or when we think back in our lives.
Do you like Tom Robbins Jean? He plays with time and is a bit fanciful, your sequences remind me a little of his writing style.
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Jean Fournell
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Re: The Fool (selected fragments)

Postby Jean Fournell » Sun Oct 02, 2016 12:51 am

Cate wrote:in a story or when we think back in our lives
Or when fools do that inside their head for which there is no word...

But it will get worse, of course.

Never heard of Tom Robbins. So I asked the internet, and it looks like I might like him indeed.
In order to be on the safe side, I ordered his "Wild Ducks", and now they'll fly backwards all over the Atlantic.
Courageous little things!
___________________________________________________
Therefore know that you must become one with the bow, and with the arrow, and with the target
to say nothing of the horse.

... for a while
... for a little while...

(Just a filthy beggar blessing / What happens to the heart)
User avatar
Jean Fournell
Posts: 223
Joined: Thu Jun 20, 2013 4:09 pm
Location: Provence

Re: The Fool (selected fragments)

Postby Jean Fournell » Fri Oct 07, 2016 11:39 pm

(Continued fragment 6)
___________________________________________________
Therefore know that you must become one with the bow, and with the arrow, and with the target
to say nothing of the horse.

... for a while
... for a little while...

(Just a filthy beggar blessing / What happens to the heart)
User avatar
Jean Fournell
Posts: 223
Joined: Thu Jun 20, 2013 4:09 pm
Location: Provence

The Fool: 7 – A lesson or two

Postby Jean Fournell » Fri Oct 07, 2016 11:49 pm

"Dreams lend wings to fools"

"And how come that sometimes I'm almost merged with the horse, but then again each of us only has his own view? That at times I'm firmly anchored in the abdomen, but then again there is only some queasy muck left? That my horse marvellously knows a thing it has learned, but then it must all start from scratch again, because nothing will fit any more?"

"Here you are touching upon the question of permanence in a world whose basic characteristic is the impermanence of all things. We call this 'The Great Lesson', and it is not yet being taught.

If you really want to, there's no third person we'd know of who could prevent you from riding it one day. However, this does not then depend on your will alone, since you are not the only one concerned. The Great Lesson goes beyond yourself and therefore escapes your control.

And whether it can actually take place at all, that's a question in which humankind, experience shows, tends to draw rash conclusions which is why wisdom recommends to keep silent about this matter.

For the time being, there's that at hand which we call somewhat awkwardly 'The Small Lesson (in which the Great Lesson is contained)'. And even if often enough we take things easy and shorten it to 'The Small Lesson', this is nevertheless an abbreviation where nobody forgets what seems to be left out."
Last edited by Jean Fournell on Sat Oct 08, 2016 5:22 pm, edited 1 time in total.
___________________________________________________
Therefore know that you must become one with the bow, and with the arrow, and with the target
to say nothing of the horse.

... for a while
... for a little while...

(Just a filthy beggar blessing / What happens to the heart)
User avatar
Jean Fournell
Posts: 223
Joined: Thu Jun 20, 2013 4:09 pm
Location: Provence

The Fool: 8 – A small group

Postby Jean Fournell » Fri Oct 07, 2016 11:51 pm

A picture

The fool had heard that it's a good idea for a rider to have a precise picture in mind of what one would like to do, together with the horse.

Now his great fear was that the horse might run away with him, and that had happened often enough, and he did not want it anymore. But it was difficult for him to imagine a picture of this not-running-away. For days he racked his brains about it, and he had almost given up when suddenly there was talk that the painter-at-court was planning to prepare an exhibition soon.

The painter! Of course! And already he hastened to the atelier, knocked on the open door and asked if the painter wouldn't please draw him a little sketch of a horse which isn't running away.

The painter was of the good-natured kind, and in three or four strokes of coal he threw a horse onto the paper, standing by the wayside, peacefully grazing. No, that's not what he meant, the fool objected, he didn't mean a horse that's grazing, but a horse that's running away indeed, only that, instead of running away, it did not run away.

"Shoemaker, stick to your last Fool-at-court, stick to your cap!" the painter grumbled, a bit gruff now nevertheless, and left in order to start preparing himself for the preparations for his exhibition. But then he looked back again and told the fool that here at the court there was a small group of "Those-who-work-with-the-not", and that they perhaps could show him what he wanted to know.

When the fool arrived at their place, he saw one with a spade, turning over a garden patch. Others were weeding, or pruning or trellising vines or fruit-trees, a few repairing a roof, yet others building a shed or mending a pathway, and a woman on the grass in front of the sanitary facilities was swinging her sickle with striking precision.

"The painter sends me", the fool said to the one with the spade. "But I believe I'm in the wrong place."
"You believe that he sent you to the lazybones, however politely rephrased, is it?"
"Yes, well, at least not work, at any rate "
"This misunderstanding happens occasionally: we don't idle, but work with the not, like others might work with horses; and right now we are enjoying one of our little diversions, which for some of us are a sort of recreational pauses. So if you have a question, go and ask the cook."

In the kitchen big pots were being washed, vegetables cleaned, some of them cut into fine pieces, and here like outside an odd composed serenity prevailed. Most of those present were silent, a few chatted, at times someone would laugh, and all of them radiated a kind of inner calm, in strange unison with their buzz of activity.

When the fool looked at the cook, he got a terrible shock. Those friendly eyes welcoming him seemed to see straight into his own and to reach down through everything inside him to his very foundations.

There was no threat in them, no danger emanating from them and yet the fool was sick with fear.

He realised that the cook had nothing to hide, that anyone could look into him as much as they might wish to, that he needn't be afraid of anything; whilst he, the fool, suddenly became aware, as though through the eyes of the cook, of how much he himself could never dare let be known, not at any cost, of all the disgusting black stuff which he was full of, inwardly, right up to the top, and which nobody must ever ever get the slightest glimpse of.

It was a bit like when his horse looked into him and mirrored his soul, only much worse. Because the horse saw and mirrored, whereas the cook also knew and recognised and was himself evidence that it was possible to go beyond.

"Welcome in the House of Non-Fear", the cook said. "What can I do for you?"

"The painter sends me", the fool collected what willpower he could. "I had asked him for a picture of a horse that is not running away with me, because I cannot imagine that myself, and because they say one should have such a picture in mind, so that the horse more easily understands us. For I'm frightened each time the horse runs away and even beforehand."

And while the cook was wondering what answer he should make to this, he added in a small voice: "And to say the truth, almost always actually..."

Meanwhile, the cook had got the fool's idea: "For your picture, we are not competent here. That you must figure out yourself, depending on the situation. Now grazing, now go at a walk, now a side pass, now a volte, depending on the situation. Horses are not able to do what we do here; and even among humans it is only becoming for few of them, that's why we are a small group. We work with the not if a horse tries that, it immediately gets frightened in a totally incomparable way, the so-called cold dread.

If you were one of our group, I might possibly suggest: 'Do not work with the not with a horse', but you aren't, and you wouldn't know why I'd say that.

Now I don't know much about horses, and so I ought not really give you any advice, but for outsiders one might say perhaps: 'For a horse, take only positive pictures, without expressions like not or un-; get yourself used, with patience and forbearance, to figure carefully enough until you've found an adequate picture for the given situation; and gradually develop a picture making reflex if indeed you really have to.'"

"So there is no standard not-run-away picture, fitting all cases, but only ever new singular pictures?"

"Thus one might say, more or less. After all, riding is an art, a constant new beginning, and not a science. By the way, ideas like that of a not-run-away picture are generally specific fear-reactions, which may lead to all kinds of avoidance coping. Thus whole worlds have already been shrunk away, without the remains becoming significantly better for it. Not to want something is often a big problem for humans; we here call this problem 'suffering'. But that needn't concern you, of course."

"And you here make fear and suffering disappear?"

"No, we don't. We couldn't, even if we wished to. We work with the not, but not in order to conjure things up, or away. We can't afford to botch our jobs, because fear has a thousand razor sharp eyes and would immediately detect each of our mistakes and take advantage of it. We are under strict supervision, as it were, and must learn to deliver sound, honest work."
Last edited by Jean Fournell on Sun Oct 16, 2016 10:53 pm, edited 1 time in total.
___________________________________________________
Therefore know that you must become one with the bow, and with the arrow, and with the target
to say nothing of the horse.

... for a while
... for a little while...

(Just a filthy beggar blessing / What happens to the heart)
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Casey Butler
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Re: The Fool (selected fragments)

Postby Casey Butler » Sat Oct 08, 2016 5:38 am

As soon as possible.

I have a new wheel... A Shimano DH-3N71 with a dynamo build into the hub. I figure it's a more appropriate metaphor, but I haven't taken a photo of it yet.
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Jean Fournell
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Re: The Fool (selected fragments)

Postby Jean Fournell » Sat Oct 08, 2016 5:24 pm

The hub, I'm afraid, will have to wait until fragment 12.2 ...

Thanks for your encouragement, Casey.
This stuff in fact exceeds my translating skills, and rewriting what I had spent seven years writing in the first place is quite some language learning adventure.
I'll do what I can.
___________________________________________________
Therefore know that you must become one with the bow, and with the arrow, and with the target
to say nothing of the horse.

... for a while
... for a little while...

(Just a filthy beggar blessing / What happens to the heart)
User avatar
Jean Fournell
Posts: 223
Joined: Thu Jun 20, 2013 4:09 pm
Location: Provence

Re: The Fool (selected fragments)

Postby Jean Fournell » Sun Oct 16, 2016 10:54 pm

(Continued fragment 8 )
___________________________________________________
Therefore know that you must become one with the bow, and with the arrow, and with the target
to say nothing of the horse.

... for a while
... for a little while...

(Just a filthy beggar blessing / What happens to the heart)

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