Everyone writes their own Republic. Plato outlawed poets. He had a point. “Beauty” may be “truth.” But if you’ve ever known any, you might be hard put to locate the reality principle or the pragmatism averred by philosophers like John Dewey, in their Ars Poetica. Poetry is a neurological disorder, a compensation for something which is missing. Groucho Marx famously said, “I don't want to belong to any club that would accept me as one of its members." But maybe your ideal world would be one in which clubs themselves were proscribed. Imagine if those stuffy exclusive golf and country clubs were totally outlawed, with the manicured lawns run over by the beggars out of Bunuel’s Viridiana! Fuck even the ones that cater to the enlightened liberal elite, like the Century Association. The biggest mistake that anybody can make is to feel they’re somebody—so said NOBODY. Remember, “I am not Noman, but Odysseus.” Ok, what's it your after? A level playing field? A Nirvana where there’s no privilege? A euphoria of total leveling equanimity? Not!
read "Ultimate Rejection!" by Francis Levy, The East Hampton Star
and watch the animation of Erotomania
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