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from Lubinetski’s 1667 treatise Theatrum Cometicum (Du-uh)
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Being in exile gives a girl away-time. Today I'm no saint, but an angel in space. The Third Planet is angel-free and don't we know it. Oh my hair gets frizzy in morning mist. See, motion could be stasis captured by art, still motion, my kind of motion, motion with a mug of steaming coffee - a steaming mug. When coffee's in cool-down, add ice cubes for a thick swirl of gold melting, a transit of Venus toward your heart. Those "stupid Cartesians" believe their threadbare existence proves their threadbare existence. If we are only what we are, we might as well throw ourselves onto the tracks. Whooo Whooo! The end, and if so, make it on the Q. Everything Spinoza conjectured teed off the burghers. Liberal Holland? There's no accounting except by Price Waterhouse, which must be Dutch, look at the name. I am in solidarity with his adeptness with annoying, not a thing to be changed, as innate as the heart in his breast. Sure he could have stopped writing and conversing, but theories and awarenesses like his are visitations. They emanate. All the fuel burned over quelling emotion. One quietude is enough. I wish I were brilliant.
a
to wit:
Hence certain theologians, perhaps the authors of the rumour, took occasion to complain of me before the prince and the magistrates; moreover, the stupid Cartesians, being suspected of favouring me, endeavoured to remove the aspersion by abusing everywhere my opinions and writings, a course which they still pursue. [from a letter Spinoza wrote to Oldenberg {who saw the rings of Saturn}]
[Sarah Sarai, June 6, 2013] [written because she sat in a chair and read D's
Meditations, long ago] [written because Spinoza understood emotion] [written because Descartes didn't, that's a problem handed down] [written because it's becoming a pleasure]
