May 1st, 2009


Happy Lutin's Birthday!

...Er, and Beltane.

Specially for lutin, here is a sonnet + a bit of head-explodiness for cognitive linguists. Because it's a copy of a sonnet I wrote, but it is not the sonnet I wrote. This confuses matters enough that I wasn't going to share it -- but given that this seems to glance off fictive interaction stuff, in that the space the written words (the form) are taken to be in determines the nature of the (semantic) beast, it seemed appropriate for the lutin-elf.

If I write a sonnet in the sand,
unedited, just scribbled part by part,
created by the rhythm of my hand,
then shall we wonder if it may be art?
What gives it sense to justify the form
When every line is written for the rhyme?
Will meaning come emergent when the storm
described this way is but the storm of time?
And if true art lives on, then this is not
If art is great -- again, my words are small
A work of moments etched upon a spot
that, in some hours, will not be here at all.

Like mortals, then, my mortal work abides
for moments, to be lost beneath the tides.


Also, I seem to have seen the sun up. Hi, Sun. Very seasonal of you.
Good night.