Narcissus-X Ponders Quietude

As stillness is to sound, so darkness to light. Is Narcissus-X in abeyance, because no art is found?

Still life with apple
Stork and raven disputing
Over naught but paint

Paint and easel, brush and cloth, artist staring at blank canvas. Not even the muse's laughter is heard.

Narcissus-X Contemplates Pleonastic Redundancies of Approximation

Wheeling round a concept's ember like moths in Plato's Cave, going to Saint Ives, and crossed the path of seven wives, kits, cats, sacks, wives: why should a boomerang return?

Again and again, resounding echoes repeat, repeat: hi! hi! As though to greet were to know. Listen to the echo. Hear the echo's voice. It is your own, returning from its travels. Again and again and again and again, til logic's luster fades and sense and sensibilities seen oddly familiar.

But what of Narcissus-X? Is Narcissus-X the moth or the ember?

Both?

Neither?

A weary, wearisome, wearied public hoards, and sleeps, and feeds, and knows not Narcissus-X. For Narcissus-X travels beyond the circles of commonalities, and yet circles the unknown ember of ideal form again and again.

Circles and circles, but never reaching the inner parts. An endless survey from every angle, never departing, never approaching: never reaching.

Narcissus-X Listens to Silence

Foolish festoons of fables and fears: doomsayers crying, followers quivering. What need has Narcissus-X of perilous projections, forecasts of despair?

Narcissus-X has seen the night, plunged into ebon depths of Cimmerian shade, wandered under an obsidian sky, discovered the grotto of velvet coal.

Solitude.

Voices stilled by distance and time, light reduced to echoing memories of dim times past. Cimmerian warriors aided the second Sargon, yet scholars deny their fame. What matter that Ithaca may have changed its name, or that Schliemann dug through the Troy he sought?

Silence.

Not quiet. Quiet soothes, lulls, brings placid calm. Silence wakes the mind as ears strain for implicit sound. Listen to the mute stones. Empires rose and fell. The wise carved faces and forms for the next to see: for art lasts. Thoughts last. Visions last. Silent as the stones, yet shouting to those who will hear.

Narcissus-X Unmasks Winter's Sparkling Shroud

Vernal equinox comes and goes, sun rises more northerly each day. Winter's pale disguise collapsing reveals dank truth and sodden leaves. No burbling rivulet may assuage the stark reality of last fall's leaves reduced to moulding slices of autumn dreams.

Narcissus-X is artist, and art must be true, be stark, be unrelenting drip-drip-drip of drenched dreams and dashed hopes. Not for Narcissus-X, the smiling multitude's adulation. Rather, Narcissus-X reveals the moldering leaves and sodden dust beneath winter's sparkling screen.

Whither Words of Narcissus-X?

Metamorphosis of ephemeral hills sends liquescent streams burbling until, swashing, they rush into linear caverns of uncertain destiny.

Narcissus-X ponders: What fate awaits words. After mind forms and fingertips press in digital reality, where do they go?

Do words wait: patient, passive, til they are read?

Do they weep in dark servers?

Or are they mere crystallized essence of Narcissus-X, flashing into metaphysical impressions on distant screens?

Narcissus-X Comprehends Manifold Tetrads

Focus of ophidian fears, Padraig's past in emerald lands evokes trifoliate visions.

Drenching mist, verdure merging into dim gray-blue haze. Did peacocks pine when sage declined? A myriad grow, til one is found: not three, but four the stem go round. Serendipity's symbol shines: tetrad, vierbein, manifold model and Pythagorean dream.

Narcissus-X dreams icy visions, sharp and fine: colors that cannot enter this narrow world. Small wonder that critics carp. Carpe diem swims with koi in strange waters.

Now see: Narcissus-X shares with the world.

Narcissus-X Reaffirms the Narcissus-X Address

Alas! Poor Prufrock: Narcissus-X knew him well. Witty, urbane, measuring out his life with credit cards. Why do women come and go, talking of Michelangelo?

Perhaps Narcissus-X should eschew the capital, or spell each word as if it were the the poet's own. ornotusecommasorperiods

It little matters that brittle patter of critics' rambling should fail the test. For none may comprehend the works of Narcissus-X but Narcissus-X. Nor could that be expected. Art for art's sake, art for expression's sake, art the work of Narcissus-X, and beyond the ken of critic and carper.

For Narcissus-X resolves that art of Narcuccus-X, by Narcussus-X, for Narcussus-X, shall not perish!