10,604. RUDIMENTS, pt. 246

RUDIMENTS, pt. 246

Making Cars

At an early age, something

like 14, Blake was apprenticed

out to learn the crafts of drawing

and engraving to master engraver

James Basire, with whom he

moved about and studied,

apparently until age 21. The

assignments often consisted

of drawing in front of church

objects, sculptures, and other

things. Blake earned his grade

and was set out on his own.

He had, at the same time,

become consumed with the

fury and power of the things

inside him. He became enamored

of both the American, and then

the French, Revolutions. I stand

apart by saying that  -  had he

emigrated at the right time, to

America  -  it would have been

legendary firebrand William

Blake of whom we read and

hear as we do of Thomas Paine

and George Washington, let
alone Aaron Burr and Alexander
Hamilton. I think that the fires of 
God  - which kept Blake bedded in 
Britain  -  shortchanged us all, and

and thwarted a real expansion

of his career too. (Now who

IS that man, to second-guess

God, and blame God for an

apparent shortcoming? And

I wonder, does this God ever

then say, 'I haven't got the

time to discuss that right

now? Or is it all one, large

expandable,cosmic moment?)...

-

The density of the prophetic books

of William Blake, I'd state, comes

from their overcompensating for his

staying in place. The bubbling over

of some of that wrath  -  which would

have been displaced by taking part

in revolutionary moves and anti-British

acts  -  resulted in the severest forms

of almost indescribable writing : self-

referencing, intensely hermetic, and

deeply wound  -  odd names and

figments everywhere. Blake claimed

to see and hear angels, everywhere,

like leaves on trees. Sitting on tables,

perched on lamps, directing him.

Speaking to him, lighting up his

pen. There were even episodes in

which William Blake credited his

dead brother Robert for some of the

work  -  dictating and perfecting,

both writings and engravings too.

Don't know what Ms. Catherine

thought of any of this, or which

voices she heard. There's a certain

strain of hard-driven zeal which

keeps anyone so possessed intent

and steady within their work.

Whatever it may be. The prevalent

zeal within the work of William Blake

is transformative and revolutionary.

To use the word 'Romantic,' about it

is weak, fey, feminine. Cheap.

-

Blake was a religious zealot. He

embodied Jesus Christ; as Christ

in turn was given the mantle, by

Blake, of the embodiment of all

of our human, creative urges.

Christ the artist, the new Creator.

Woe betide Nobodaddy  -  Blake's

name and term for the dead, decayed

God of the Old Testament he so

despised. The furious condemner,

killer, lawgiver, angry revenger,

nasty faction-monger, algebraist,

measurer, marker, and slayer.

Picking sides, in fury. Separating,

throwing away, maiming, burning,

besetting with plagues. This was

no God at all to Blake. Blake's trick

about being a zealot (no one

recognized this) was to get God

out of the way first. That old God.

Nobodaddy was Nobody, Big Daddy,

Nobody's Daddy. In one of Blake's

furious tantrums, he suddenly sneaks

in, in the midst of one of Nobodaddy's

diatribes, a simple, 'Nobodaddy farted.'

It's hilarious.

-

In such terms Blake is ALMOST

modern. He just missed all of us,

say 200-250 years off the mark.

Again, alas, timing is everything.

These days he'd probably get his

own late-night political comedy

bullshit show, and rip it to shreds.

He'd be famous. He'd be us. If we

only knew enough. by the time I

was done with William Blake I

felt as if I knew him, because I

did. I was him, for goodness sake, in

so many respects that I really did

begin saying I was him reborn for

this day and age. And then...you

know what happened? He got

dragged up into the big mistake.

That usual American mistake of

sloppiness whereby everything gets

reduced to terms of childishness.

Everything gets dumbed down to

the cutesy level of asshole kids.

Like fish, painting on an underpass.

That's how people select to live,

by such hiding out behind other

things. Unchallenging things.

Like fish that smile back.

-

If Blake had been paying some

attention instead of listening to

those fidgeting angels on the 

backs of his armchairs, he'd 

have never written 'Songs of 

Innocence and Experience.' 

They allowed the world to 

kill him, rip him up, and be 

done with him. Little 'Lamb, 

who made thee?' Tyger

Tyger, burning bright, in 

the forests of the night?' 'The

Chimney-Sweep?' These 

poems, in 'Innocence and

Experience' are not childish

in any way, but they come 

off that way, and have allowed 

every sentimental goon there 

ever was  -   from Patti Smith 

and Allen Ginsberg, to all the 

rest, to misrepresent and to

sentimentalize these mighty

messages as sweet and 

adoring children's poems 

worth a listen, written by 

a total Master of the idiom 

in a disguise you'd never 

see. That's not the way they 

were written, and it's not 

the way they should be.

-

Even in art, you can never be

effective by being sentimental.

Jesus was never sentimental.

He may have forgiven a whore

or two, but he never sentimentalized

or cuddled what they did. He told

people off. He tipped over tables.

He demanded people walk away

from parents, wives and families,

to follow him. He turned back at 

Caesar, giving him what he wanted,

as if it was useless junk. Be poor.

Give your Self away instead. One

creative firebrand. 

-

Somewhere in all that, I was able 

to find my own way too  -  between 

William Blake and Jesus, let's say,

I put old Nobodaddy to rest. That 

may sound blasphemous, but it's 

the most righteous, correct, and

religious thing I've ever done. 

You just watch.