Early this afternoon…

…I began feeling a bit under the weather.  And in a few minutes, I will settle down into my bed with my laptop and something fizzy to soothe my throat, and write the answer to Will Shakespeare’s sonnet II; which prompt, I have already posted.  I do like doing these; however, now I have two sequences that are essentially notes to myself.  I’m not sure how to characterise that.

Also: I, of late, have been thinking I should number all my sonnets.  I am not sure the numbering system I should use, however.  There are the short sequences and there should be some method for making them sequential whether or not I add to them later or not.  Still… that type of enumeration, in and of itself, might be confusing as well.  Perhaps I should just use plain sequential numbers and keep things in date order.  That, or I could use two different systems depending on what type of cataloguing I, or another reader, might like to do.

Kirkpatrick” type numbers and perhaps “Shorto” (rather than “Longo“) numbers.  This is a reference to Domenico Scarlatti, whose sonatas have three different numbering systems, mostly rather confusing, with Kirkpatrick being the most used–and which puts Scarlatti’s sonatas in sequential order by date as well as can be done.

Regarding my sonnets, these ‘K’ numbers would be chronological simply as: K1, K2, K3, &c.

The ‘S’ numbers would be Chronological as S1, S2, S3, &c; except where sequences are involved, I would then, perhaps, note the place where sonnet number one of a sequence first appears (whether it is out of order or not) and then, for example:

If S2 marks the first of a sequence, it will be numbered S2.1, and the next in the sequence would be S2.2, S2.3, &c, (all the way up to S2.154 or more if necessary!)  These would not indicate very well how many sonnets in total there might be, but the ‘K’ numbers would be for that purpose.

I might even try ‘P’ numbers also, for “Petrucci,” or whatever type of pasta the third system for classifying Scarlatti’s sonatas is named; which might group all sonnets by subject, perhaps in a similar way as the ‘S’ numbers.  Very well… I looked it up, it is, in fact, “Pestelli.” Sounds delicious, perhaps tossed with seafood and Alfredo sauce.  This is making me hungry.  “Feed a cold,” do they say, after all.

This would make the mnemonic for these three systems fairly straight forward.  If ‘K’ numbers are simple enumerators, and ‘S’ numbers are sequence based, and ‘P’ numbers are subject related; then we might say “Count, Sequence, Passion,” which would help one remember which is which:  K for count (or Kount), ‘S’ for sequence, and ‘P’ for passion (hence subject).

I suppose I could also use the unique post id that wordpress provides.  However, this, I have found does not exist on every screen wherein one might want or need it.

I could, of course, leave such enumeration to posterity, but I find myself needing and wanting such numbers now, for a variety of reasons.

Awards are a thing…

…which I eschew.  There are a number of reasons for this; however this post is not directly about these reasons.  What I find myself pondering at the moment is this:  Some awards have cash prizes associated with them.  The Nobel, I believe, has as much as a Million of some kind of dollars, pounds, roubles, yen, or pesos.  How much would have to be in the award, I wonder before my resolve would fail?  My sweetheart says, regarding me, that it would be a lot more than I think it would.

I find such things hard to visualise.  I think of the scenario wherein an armoured car falls over and $100 bills go flying all over the road.  Would I run around stuffing them in my shirt like many others would?   I always thought:  “Yes, I would.”  But at some point, I realised that I would not.  I would, however, watch the scene with morbid fascination.  I am not sure when I realised that she was right about this.  But came as a surprise when I did.

So, perhaps I should believe my wife in such matters.  Come to think of it now, we have both turned down inheritances because there were strings attached.  At the time, I thought nothing of it.  It seemed second nature to refuse such a thing.  (And trust me when I say, that both instances, we most certainly could have used the  money.  Needed it.)  We were not well off–especially not then.

I think I might falter around a million dollars.  But my wife doubts it.  Sometimes, regarding these awards, someone has no choice.  One cannot decline the nomination or the award, one can merely refuse to acknowledge the prise.   I am not at all sure what happens to the cash part of the award if one does not accept it; I am not curious enough to look it up.  In any case, a sonnet writer is not likely to earn such a prise.  And since I probably do not fit the narrative which is desired in the giving of such prises, I doubt very much if I would be a candidate for any such prise, regardless of what kind of art at whatever level of acclaim or notoriety I might earn.  Much like Mr. Borges, to which Christian Mahai refers in one of his posts.

Sonnet XVIII: (William Shakespeare)

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

Sonnet VI: Ten Thousand Treasures

Ere winter’s sweetest place distils to night,
Posterity could speak ten thousand times,
Make not forbidden, those that willing fight;
Deface thy ragged killer for its crimes!

Should one refigure life, if not some loan,
Too much the sum in use: art thou contrite?
Depart with usury and pay to own,
And let thy summer’s beauty be thy right.

Another treasure then if make thine heir,
Not e’er time’s hand made e’er thy leaving known;
And treasure done thyself, or bred, were fair,
All happier of thee than thee outshone.

What vial of Death bewitching dreams prepare?
Self-conquest warms thee, vile Death to dare!

This sonnet is part of a short, or
possibly at some point, very long
sequence; click here to read it all:

Sonnet VI: (William Shakespeare)

Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill’d:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty’s treasure, ere it be self-kill’d.

That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That’s for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;

Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?

Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair
To be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir.

Sonnet V: (William Shakespeare)

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel:

For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter and confounds him there;
Sap check’d with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o’ersnow’d and bareness every where:

Then, were not summer’s distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:

But flowers distill’d though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

Sonnet IV:

Wilt spend thou Nature’s battle unaware
And lend thy loveliness when thou agree
To legacy–or Heaven as thou dare?
This battle, free to lose;  for the degree

That this abuse could bounteous appear;
To use this matchless contest; wouldst thou care
To give thy future someone to revere?
To live, what legacy wouldst thou prepare?

Thyself, as though alone reflected are;
No epigone–when fall thyself so near–
To traffic nature’s callDeceive and scar
This battlement to leave to thy frontier!

In this way, bring thee over from afar,
And what might be thine image, to a star.

This sonnet is part of a short, or
possibly at some point, very long
sequence; click here to read it all: