Hours Eastly, Shoot Me Dead (Music)

A little weekend cheer.  “In the belly of the man of wicker…”

The stars have aligned
With you and I in kind
My heart’s in quite a bind
So it’s been for quite a time
It’s here I wither
In the belly of the man of wicker
Sell me up the river
Put your finger on the trigger

You could shoot me in the arm
You could shoot me in the leg
You could shoot me in the heart
You could shoot me in the chest
You could shoot me in the face
You could shoot me in the head
You could shoot me dead
You could tear me all apart
You could free me from the flesh
You could shoot me to the stars
You could shoot until I beg
You could turn my world dark
You could lay me down to rest
What am I to do?
You could shoot me dead

Gone beyond repair
I sought the cross I bear
The pill is bitter
In the belly of the man of wicker
Recall the safety of the cradle in the manger
Now the world is full of danger
Fate is rapping at my chamber door

You could shoot me in the arm
You could shoot me in the leg
You could shoot me in the heart
You could shoot me in the chest
You could shoot me in the place
Where you love best
You could fill me full of lead
You could give the powder spark
You could wet me up a mess
You could show me all your scars
You could shoot ‘til I confess
You could cry for what was ours
You could tell me I’m a wretch
What am I to do?
You could shoot me dead

You could tear me all apart
(Oh, oh, bullet and bone)
You could free me from the flesh
You could shoot me to the stars
You could shoot until I beg
You could turn my world dark
You could lay me down to rest
What am I to do?
You could fill me full of lead
You could give the powder spark
You could wet me up a mess
You could show me all your scars
You could shoot ‘til I confess
You could cry for what was ours
You could tell me I’m a wretch
What am I to do?
You could shoot me dead

Fate is rapping at my chamber door

Kosman on a Characteristic Strategy of Plato

Rather than siding with one or the other moment of a controversial distinction, Plato often reframes the terms of the controversy in order to reveal lines of priority and to reveal the modes of dialectical dependence and underlying kinship that explain why thinking people could have in the first place held each side of the controversy.

Thus appearance is not (as though on some false Parmenidean model) figured as unreal by Plato, but rather (as on a true Parmenidean model) thought to constitute–although posterior to being–the very condition of its human appropriation, the condition, we might say, of being’s appearance.  Similarly with rhetoric and other modalities, both ontological and cognitive, in which the hierarchical relation of prior and posterior provide a more accurate model for reading Plato’s thought than do Gnostic-like models in which appearance is figured as illusion or rhetoric as lie.  –“Nature’s Law and Second Nature:  Philoosphers on Nomos and Physis”

Wilfrid Sellars on Writing

https://absoluteirony.files.wordpress.com/2015/03/sellars-photo.jpg?w=200&h=285

Although I enjoyed teaching and could contemplate this aspect of an academic career with enthusiasm, writing was quite another story. Like most American students I had almost no experience in writing term papers until the last two years of college. Examinations I took in my stride; the constraints assimilated writing them to the debater’s task of thinking on one’s feet. With papers, there was always (until the last minute!) the opportunity for second and third thoughts about every step, and, as so often happens, the will-o’-the-wisp of the best made every choice look bad. It wasn’t until years later that I learned that no matter how clumsy, gappy, and incoherent a first draft is, it contains the essence of what one has to say; and the comfort of finding raw material on paper to be licked into shape makes writing the next draft an entirely different experience. I have known philosophers whose first draft is the final product, and an excellent one at that. But I contemplate them with the same awe as I do Mozart, who could hear completed symphonies in his head.

%d bloggers like this: