Now by this moon, before this moon shall wane I shall be dead or I shall be with you! No moral concept can outweigh the pain Past rack and wheel this absence puts me through; Faith, honour, pride, endurance, what the tongues Of tedious men will say, or what the law— For which of these do I fill up my lungs With brine and fire at every breath I draw? Time, and to spare, for patience by and by, Time to be cold and time to sleep alone; Let me no more until the hour I die Defraud my innocent senses of their own. Before this moon shall darken, say of me: She’s in her grave, or where she wants to be.
I went to a modern doctor to learn what it was was wrong. I'd lately been off my fodder, and life was no more a song. He felt of my pulse as they all do, he gazed at my outstretched tongue; He took off my coat and weskit and harked at each wheezing lung. He fed me a small glass penstalk with figures upon the side, And this was his final verdict when all of my marks he'd spied:
"Do you eat fried eggs? Then quit it. You don't? Then hurry and eat 'em, Along with some hay that was cut in May— There are no other foods to beat 'em. Do you walk? Then stop instanter— For exercise will not do For people with whom it doesn't agree— And this is the rule for you: Just quit whatever you do do And begin whatever you don't; For what you don't do may agree with you As whatever you do do don't."
Yea, thus saith the modern doctor, "Tradition be double durned! What the oldsters knew was nothing compared to the things we've learned. There's nothing in this or that thing that's certain in every case Any more than a single bonnet's becoming to every face. It's all in the diagnosis that tells us the patient's fix— The modern who knows his business is up to a host of tricks.
Do you eat roast pork? Then stop it. You don't? Then get after it quickly. For the long-eared ass gives the laugh to grass And delights in the weed that's prickly. Do you sleep with the windows open? Then batten them good and tight And swallow the same old fetid air Through all of the snoozesome night. Just quit whatever you do do And do whatever you don't; For what you don't do may agree with you As whatever you do do don't.
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Track 1
How this picture is made
What a fractal is
A fractal is a shape that keeps its pattern when you look closer. Coastlines, trees, shells, and weather do this. The large form and the small form are the same kind of thing. A poem can be drawn that way. The shape of the whole comes from the shape of the lines.
Primunia is the name for the source of that order: the pattern under the pattern, already there in a tree, a shell, and a verse.
How the boundary is drawn
The number under the picture is the poem constant. It is read from the build of the lines: their length, how uneven they are, the size of the stanzas, the share of vowels, and the way the lines end. A new word moves the number when it changes that build. The same poem always gives the same number.
Drawn on its own, that number sits in a quiet part of the plane, and most poems would look like the same soft disk. So the number is carried outward along its own direction until it meets the edge of the Mandelbrot set, where the shape turns sharp. The picture is the Julia set of that meeting place.
Each point on the canvas is folded again and again by one small rule. Points that stay near the rule form the dark interior. Points that rush away become the coloured bands. The hue comes from the poem constant, and the brightest bands turn toward gold. Change the length of a line, the stanza, or the vowel share, and both the number and the picture move.
What the branching signifies
Branching draws the poem as a tree. Each turn follows a line, and every smaller branch repeats that pattern. A longer line reaches farther. The letters at the start of a line bend the next turn. A higher share of vowels opens the branches wider.
The trunk takes its colour from the poem constant and warms toward gold at the tips. When the poem has more than one stanza, gold forks leave the trunk. Each fork is a stanza beyond the first, up to three. The tree divides where the poem divides. One stanza remains a single trunk.