NOTES: Frye's "Great Code"/Genesis of Pneu

The anger of Yahweh once again blazed out against the Israelites and he incited David against them. "Go," he said, "take a census of Israel and Judah." -- 2 Samuel 24:1

Satan rose against Israel and incited David to take a census of the Israelites. -- 1 Chronicles 21:1

Frye's example of a "tension" between a more metaphorical construct of an earlier age and the more metonymic thinker of a later age wherein the tension is resolved, on the one hand, Yahweh's anger when David is compelled to take a census and Satan's, by a "moralizing and rationalizing approach" to this contradiction in which both Yahweh and Satan compel David and by means of "continuous prose""intermediate sentences" resolve the inconsistency.

John 3:8: "The wind bloweth where it listeth...so is everyone that is born of the Spirit" is a metonymic translation of the Greek where wind and Spirit are used to translate the two occurrences of pneuma in the Greek.
"The wind blows where it likes...that's what everyone is like who is born of the wind" is a purely metaphorical translation.

"The self is some head you can't go around, back, nor in front of" (Larry Eigner).

Eigner's wheelchair: "[...] metal sides and footboards with folding-up fabric seat, one of the first such wheelchairs to be manufactured [...]"

"Biology walks around with all of us everyday."

"Writing first and foremost was to be understood, had to be clear, while then I figured immediacy and force take priority, too bad but you can't be both or all three too often,

"A sorcerer was the Ojibwa ideal strong man, defining and holding at bay the terrible forces of existence, manito and human. His skills were inseparable from his alarming personality, seen in the manifestations described as jealous, greedy, bullying, and extremely ambitious. [...]
"The shaman's evil powers were conceptualized as a Frankenstein devil that returned to its 'owner', the sorcerer, upon completing an assignment and so wreaked evil in the sorcerer's family by the noxiousness of its presence (Landes, 59).
"Hole-in-the-Sky, [...] was always advised to eschew evil: 'My father said I could learn if I wished but that I should never use it, for then it would never bother me. He meant, if I never sent evil medicine out, it would never become active, and return to trouble the house. So he never taught me to compound a prescription--he just handed me one ready-made and said what it was for. [...] Of course, he gave me a great deal, enough to last years. Maybe my father didn't really know any more, because his father may not have told him how the medicine was made, putting off telling him until finally he died.... No one should know bad medicine, it should be off the earth. People die off fast enough anyway'" (Landes, 60).

"The Ojibwa horror of love medicine suggested to me a horror like that they attached to the tongue-abduction. Both were sneak assaults on human will. Love medicine was considered the ugliest sorcery and the explanation of rape; romantic sex was prized, seen as a 'hunt' and a game, by men especially. There were several love-medicine prescriptions, transferred with or without cost, depending on the relations of the parties. [...] Like any sorcery, including the herbal, love formulas were revealed anciently in visions and were subsequently transmitted verbally.
"In old and contemporary tales, the victim falls into a hypnotic relationship with the sorcerer, showing abnormal or overwhelming lust. The victim, male or female, trails the medicine-wielder or 'owner' and makes shocking sexual displays and demands in public. Women, reportedly, would throw their skirts over their heads, exposing themselves (though white communities told similar tales of some of their women), regardless of age. An afflicted man attacked the woman sorcerer sexually at any opportunity, pursuing her constantly. Those who [sorcerers] conquered thus were defeated in the end, however. For the victim underwent complete decay, informants said. If the sorcerer then deserted, it appeared that the victim could never be cured. [...] (Ojibwa Religion, Landes)."

Hectoring vectors

Pneu's body (a.k.a. Plummer's) acted as a magnet for the mosquitoes, his body odor attracting the vectors, the air resonating with his odor under the moustiquaire. The mosquito's surgical sucking tube is like the proboscis of a tapir or the trunk of an elephant, though it is not prehensile. In fact, Pneu was living in On-the-back-of-an-elephant, as the town was called by the locals. He had begun to occupy the town against his will and in full compliance with his velleities. The townspeople were merely indifferent. He was just another francais even though he was not French. He wagered all, didn't hedge his bets, had put them on being there, not having been before in such a place of contradictions, not really a polis, not really a suburb, not really countryside, not even jungle but with elements of all of them. So the mosquito was not merely a flying syringe that drew blood, it was a heat seeking missile, though his body's temperature was probably less than the surrounding air.
Il pleut des cordes. That is the rain in Africa, always applauding and reverberating through the flummoxed air. It took Pneu's breath away. It cools suddenly and you are mired in the red mud, yellow dirt from desert dryness turned to some old southern back road in the US down which old Crawford limps along. A drumming and a rapid report of a machine gun when it hit the corrugated, galvanized iron roof of Pneu's villa. The ropes of rain like miniature Bernini columns alive and moving, falling down in communion with the earth gone awry, sounding like Elvin Jones or Sunny Murray playing drums multiplied tenfold. It was a relief for Pneu, a relief from the oppressive humidity.
Sometimes the clouds were pregnant with rain for a few days before they burst without warning.
Moussa, Pneu's boy, kept the yard free of vegetation, as a mosquito likes to lurk under leaves during the day before she becomes active at night, attacking with the surgical precision of a drone, her long proboscioid mouth injecting into the dermis of her victim her saliva that contains the malaria parasite after sucking blood like nectar. Pneu did not want to get acquainted with her, the female of the particular species that carries the fever inducing plasmodia, called by the French, le palu. So he religiously took the prophylactic prescribed by the nurse in the form of a pill. He took it weekly like Holy Communion. That was his first line of defense. His second was the moustiquaire, the mosquito net, above his bed, sort of like a defective condom, the fine mesh that let the air in.  

...with his machine gun delivery that became mesmerizing to Pneu's ear, the aural turpitude in which the words were vested, a dripping, black fetid mass. They were always straddling the fence, whatever the fence was. G. Scott Key's lying was in earnest. He was positively asserting his lies, his baldfaced lies. Balderdash. The crux of the matter was the underlying purple garbed, blood suffused, empurpled penis he had sheathed in his pants. To stick it in like a tic-tac-to game always won by playing the corners, the words imbibed by Pneu's ears that became empurpled, too.
G. Scott Key, the successor of F. Scott Key, was how he referred to himself.
Good
Boys
Don't
Fool
Around.
All
Cows
Eat
Grass. He even had a business card. It had a small rainbow on it. The ensign of his business, a kind of logo. The Low Ghost. He was an interpreter of Indians, Native Americans, to white folk, the Long Knives, after he stripped the veneer of the Yankee from them, and the bright colors of Hanta Yo were revealed for what they were, the bright colors of psychedelia, the Peter Max colors of the summer of love. This is Pneu's history, the time called the Sixties in the U.S., a time as fateful as the Sixties a hundred years previous, the time of the success of the failure of the Civil War. The time of the failure of the success of the Civil War, however you look at it.

The word had always come to his mind, Pneu's mind, as a breath and sometimes a breeze, an invisible wave that was sine or cosine in his geometry book. He had always conceived in his mind an image of Molly's hair, the roots at the part on her scalp that were dark and the subtle shades of brown and then the hue of orange rendered by the reflection of light on her peroxided mane. This was titillating to Pneu, stimulating to the cockles of his balls, his eggs where the sperm cells were incubated, awaiting the ejaculation into the air, that flight to freedom from the confinement of his scrotal sack, Sad Sack balls with a halo of hair. Molly's glowing mane, the Ur-ejaculation. Pneu, sitting at his desk in seventh grade behind Molly, gazing at her orange hair with dark brown roots. Then, to revel in the image of it in his mind at home on his stomach in bed at night, awaiting the slow, gradual, inevitable erection.
Sad Sack Pneu when he tried to stick his member into the tight cunt of Nancy, the Chinese girl Ricky made available to the gang of beavers who were Pneu's friends, sharing her like a prebend, a little plot of pussy to be stamped and perforated. No, it wouldn't go in, the ejaculation was an ululation through an embrasure in the wall, hitting the window of Pneu's attic room. The sperm whistled through the air, expended, without hitting the ball spot. The moral turpitude of the act, yet there was so much pleasure in it that was the cosine of its sine wave, the friction of the palm of his hand against his bongara. Howsoever it happened, weighed heavily on his conscience, it had little to be desired in the designs it had to encapsulate the quandary of his soul, which was to be rectified before the authorities. Matson Smith even confessed it jocularly, how many times he masturbated, when confessions were heard in the high school gym. He thought it was a joke, the act of contrition an ejaculation itself to God, the sperm giving up its spirit to the denizens of the air, who may be demons for all Pneu knew, uselessly chucked in the toilet bowl or bathroom sink. Jesus was conceived by the Holy Spirit. The endeavor to conceive of the thing itself, the orange glowing follicles of Molly's mane, the idea of it! How could there be any credibility, or objectivity, in the matter of the televisual thing? To masturbate to it? Conceived by the Holy Ghost, give up the ghost. Later the Church changed it to the Holy Spirit. The body is not the soul, is merely a prebend for the lucky winner in the lottery of souls waiting to attach themselves like postage stamps, to come into the world as immigrants or aliens. A premium on souls because too many bodies. All that sperm wasted.
Prevarication or asseveration? Which was it? Pneu knew enough not to know the difference. It was the same to him whether Scott Key lied or continued to lie. There was no one instance of a lie, it was a continual, reassuring lie, like a constant in a mathematical equation. A running lie, a series of lies, as if asserting the same thing over and over again, whether going to the right on the number line, or going to the left of zero on the number line. Geometry was all about uniformity, and Scott's lies were uniformly a saying of yes over and over again, asserting their falsity or truth value, there was no difference, whether positive or negative, it was all the same to Pneu's bent ear.