Frank Corcoran

Robert Spaemann´s ” GOTTESBEWEIS” – surely he´s the fastest gun in town since 2006 ? Linguistic logic ( – a lazy tautology here , cold blogger ? ) . Observe the rabbit in the hat, sleight of hand :

1. Alle Tatsachenwahrheiten sind ewige Wahrheiten.

2. Jede Gegenwart ist die Vergangenheit einer künftigen Gegenwart.

3. Der ontologische Status dieser ewigen Wahrheiten besteht weder in einer Wirking, noch im Erinnertwerden, sondern im Gewußtwerden.
Es ist somit einem absoluten Bewußtsein, also Gott, gegenwärtig.

Voila! Try denying 1. I can´t. But ” ewig” seems to be claiming more than “Wahrheiten” – a, ahem, tautology ? A whiff of unearned grandeur? I´ll try denying 2. Humph! – again, it won´t budge. But is it more than a teasing out of
“Gegenwart “´s meaning ? Or of the way we invented the future – simple or “exactum” while swinging from the banana-trees, eh? Ahem, no, nein. Now where did Spaemann get Nr. 3. then ? It´s apparent magisteriality ? His Big Clout? He got it out of his black hat, an enormously beautiful whopper of an assumption…. it may well be true if what he wants to prove is true is actually, well, true. Otherwise, not true – because he has smuggled “Gewußtwerden” in by the heels. And therefore also his Nr. 4 : ” es ist somit”…. is not a “somit” but a real quick pistol-draw. ( – And, of course, “Es ist somit… ” IS true IF what our good Prof. Spaemann is hoping to establish IS the case…. )
But is it the case ? Humph. – It may; or then again it may not be , quite independent of his virtuose Gottesbeweis.
Word-trickery? Logic gone awry? Academia´s endemic acrobacy?

The snow will be back. It seems happy to announce nothing, nobody, except
1. the world is ( composed ) of mush, 2. behind ( all ) colour is white-gray, 3. ( all ) music is reducible to this wind whine.
Culture = seeing these our Three Truths, yet going on, head bent ( not bowed ) as we plod around the castled moat. Art puts up a good fight. Is this not something ? The pre-Christmas clenched fist ? It is. Yes. Celebrate this holy time. Behind good cheer we cheer ourselves on, that it ? Yope. Wintry words about nothing, no. Important.
Say it out! Sing up, little man !

Benozzo Gozzoli I came upon not, I´ll be snow-bound, by any mere accident – he painted his wings of his Umbran archangels, of his Umbran annunciated Jewish young girl, his brushed ( also finger-tips? ) Monte Falco parthenogenesis,
certainly. He painted lift off. He did brush with another world, announced the advent of what ? The Advent of WHAT ? He brushed off his brush-strokes each evening, opened the Monte Falco miracle-factory each sunny morning. New day, new angel´s wing. How ?

Are there some among us who cannot draw together these Benozzo Gozzoli e-threads ?
Well, we had male parthenogenesis ( rare enough , admit it, in the Queen´s County ). Go easy on the next gold stitch. ( The Great Scream is being propelled down , not up the chimney vortex) Gozzoli´s golden error can happen. Weave into our sewing passacaglia eleven tones, hypothumotics! ladies, come all to the potty !
Then, I remember it well, we stitched in nothing. God is no thing . Capitals is better. No, our little embroidery job´s not quite finished : weave in the one big auntie, damned good concertina-player – she was unravelled unfairly, out of the Big Design. Short is our needle, your tea-break. Certainly I googled you , Painter Ben . ” O filii et filiae, now the cancer raceth up my Renaissance stiff shoulder”…. I, Benozzo, courted painter of chiefly angels´wings, all sizes, am to get an Umbran welcome; I do bequeath to this, still my world also, my coloured swirls and slashes and oil wisps and half finished Monte Falco angelic rainbows and ye´ll have great fun with. Try to cap that. ” O filii. Now they race through the stiff shoulder. He´d painted the archbishop, the cancerous concertina with the three final chords. Listen: it´s C Minor, B Flat, E Flat. There now, easy, lay down dat brush.

It is / was , silly, at 9.30 Dec. 15. 2011.

Irish Television TG Ceathair Frank Corcoran, as Irish composer ( ” Cumadóir ´Eireannach ” ) .

Nov. 15 2011 . 21.30 Irish Time

Irish Television ( TG CEATHAIR ) :

Portrait Frank Corcoran

Recently become himself an archangel, Gozzoli Ben couldn´t email away my tears: ” Caro Corcorano, which black ? Why terror? The vortex? For my and her early death? For good ? For painterly talent? For your tones not quite reaching over our top, amico mio? We are all gone. Si. Into a world of light. Encore. Si, mister. I had it not easy – I remember well my first amateurish goose-quill attempt, the Annunciation Angel Gabriel falling over on his Umbran nose. It took time and tenseless spaghetti and reams of renunciation. I painted over the top. Across the top. Painted quills and wings into eternity.”
Normally a normal sort o´chap, I staunched my tears. As I will now. A shroud is calling. D Major, cheap, frilly-normal, cheerful.

Get this: she DID flutter as in one of your artistic Umbran-Tuscan excursions into The Other Side Of The Black Hole. Nightie singed, how paint great heat? We shall ALL be purified and burned and fly slowly on Benozzo Gozzoli half-wing through the purgatorial vortex in order to separate ourselves in an orderly fashion. From our dross. See “wing merchant”, ” artist on the wing”.
I was very weak now. Theologically toneless. Tuneless. It´s not every night you email a Renaissance Goose-wing Painter. But I did:
” Dear Benozzo ( may I call you Ben? No? ), a dying friend just emailed good me with : But she was disturbed long before your time; you see that, don´t you ? What chain of which suffering? ” – So how did you, Gozz, paint which causality? Who did what ? Your new pal, Phranck”.
Umbran silence from Beyant.

The Boston Phoenix Nov. 11 2005.

The hit of Boston Musica Viva ” Boston Celtics” ( Scottish, British, Irish and Welsh )…. In “MAD SWEENEY” , which was getting its American premiere, Irish composer, Frank Corcoran´s wild-man recitation from Seamus Heaney´s English rendering of the medieval Irish tale about the mad warrior king and knotty sound world reminded me of Peter Maxwell Davies´s 1969 ” Eight Songs for a Mad King”. ( This was “One Song for a Mad King” ) All the playing , under Richard Pittman, was spectacular.

Get back quick behind that microphone ( or there´ll be virtual violence ! ) ! On a green light, go! Ours not to choose: a green-yellow scream is different – fill cheek, go for the all out, a molten red scream, bawling screech, howl, roar, low again, anything really to get us going. On a green, I´ll say it once, twice; no breath across the microphone…. When the time comes, come it will, inject real suffering. So let´s take ten again, please, How now, brown howl ! Column of air, erupts like a studio Stromboli. Take two again. Have a quick listen: short approach curve, apogee, centre crammed with vocal temperature Galileo´s Inquisition boyos ´d envy. Feral grunt, rut sounding, surgical knife´s clean amputatory. Different from David´s harp preludes. Cathedral of pain inside her screech, quartering horses getting good hay for breakfast ( pressed to death in 1587 ). Be not wanting, micro. Inflect her yell too. A dollop of transcendence. Green light.