“palm desert.” van dyke parks. song cycle, warner bros., 1968.
By Palm Desert to market to buy. Tenderfoot up to date palms of the real estate. By Palm Desert springs often run dry.
I came west unto Hollywood, never-never land. Juxtaposed to B.B.D. and O. Beyond San Fernando on hillside manors on the banks of toxicity those below and those above the same.
Dreams are still born in Hollywood I don’t understand. Just suppose the youngster knows he’s had a good deal of fortune and up through the babble on the fair banks complicity, buy your leave or stay beyond the game.
Palm Desert not fade away. Palm Desert I wish I could stay. Palm Desert sages abound. So head your head to the ground round.
Meanwhile in the wild west of Hollywood age is losing hold. Inasmuch as you are touched to have withstood by the very old search for the truth within the bounds of toxicity. Left unsung so I have strung the frame.
“It was the uncircumscribed, unbearable, infinitely extended, indefinitely divisible void where she swam in orgasm, soaring into a vastness away from the heaving indignity of the posture she shared; the world of music so intensely known that nothing exists but the music; it was the world of ecstasy they all approximated by different paths, one world in which temporary residence is prohibited, as the agonies of recall attest: “Love’s dart” that wounds but does not kill; the ill complained of, but prized above every joy and earthly good; “sweet cautery”, the “stolen heart,” the “ravished understanding,” the “rape of love”: in Provencal, conoscenza. Thus Saint Teresa, quadrupedis, “dying of not being able to die”.”
— William Gaddis — from The Recognitions (via slothnorentropy)
