Wail, waled whale or pique, peaked peak?

Vainglory or pride, it is said (but it's snide), 's an excessive display of something in order to draw in attention, the satisfaction of a job well done and its communication; feeling fine on getting feel-goods from others, including enjoyment of luxury and by linguistic extension, lust or desire or a comfortable pension, gives birth, (said always without a smile) to gluttony, gulability and ever to be guile. It may well be that virtue is the abject intolerance toward every irony.

No either-ors about it: from any perspective of matter or material, the matter is that æther IS other, unless it's your mother. Today's teaching "meaning is always provisional", coming not from nothing. Words are always optional as long as the context is fitting. Sometimes the context IS the metaphor (see "unbend, v." versus "unbending, adj." to illustrate that an ancient allegory (of a tight bow or loosed arrow, or rope setting free the sail) adds more than any present isomorph or grammatical partition to confine a pregnant whale or restrain its plump position. The blow-hole thing is an air of relaxation or uptight personality: which would you more likely choose, door 'a' or cop 'b'?

Association is a gift, like we can say "clouds bring rain" but not "clouds cause rain" without appearing naive. The most obvious causations turn out to be merely a matter of sequence, the consequence of juxtapositions taken from, in and of themselves (always a questionable proposition, like the ego of a president or king) or disregarding their material, historical or etherial contexts, like, "Is there air?!?"

With polysemy, that wide, poetic region of multiple entendre (mis-labelled "licence" – as if we need permission), and given generalised uncertainty (or the mistrust of others' truths/dogma) there can be no theoretical unification. Unification is empirically impossible without bondage or constraint, and therefore, only brings naivite or ingorance of the world beyond those imposed boundaries. This makes grand theory itself, a joke, given that no one has ever witnessed an identity, much less an identical pair of them. The analogue ('away from word', or the parodic 'in word only'), is only a posited expression of similarity, that is, a reminder. One may conclude there is no theory but fleeting eclecticism, and that is the dada of free association.

– Dream-Time, (aka 'Body Language')

Poetic License = Free Association:

In traditional poetry, meter is rythm and therefore fun (play's not beholden to necessity, law or excuse, for one). It opens a channel, throat or gutter radiating from a formerly lonely or sleeping sense or masticatory organ to a whole-body involvement which may proceed to subliminally shake like a dance, laughter or even a sob. This is the source of the err that poetry is merely emotional – poems are always more. Just like constellations, they can be useful in arriving at predicted destinations in timely fashion. Before the days of kitchen clocks, the Ave Maria was sung to properly time the boiling of an egg. It's not just gutter-talk, it's an incantation (that cause-effect's irrelevant with unranked association does not eliminate an emerging implication).

Rhyme is rythm's kin. A key like polysemia or polyphony, it's like a marriage broker who imposes no contract but simply provides introductions all around, hoping the magic or machination works and connections lead to an all out engagement. Modern poetry, foregoing rythm and meter or classical forms is more provisional. One engages the other, then moves on. If reproduction is intended, paper, pen or a more mechanical recording device is necessary in lieu of perfect memory. The limeric or slogan is short and sweet and may help generate multiple offspring in lieu of one's former partner. It is an insemination or germ like an asexual sperm. I get that providing's a gift for seeing, but I wonder how a gift like a map or tallisman (a form of rudder) or magic spell intended for going and coming be considered a sacrifice? I suppose one foregoes one spot to get to another, but was it ever a forgone conclusion?

The Trickster is champion of paradox, portraying it always possible. First princely pal of poetry, the metaphors are real, the reality of precision and functional alignment is the joke. In the hands of a regimented regime, well remember that a joke is just one man's pronouncement of "yoke". As Guy Debord reminded, when in doubt, all meaninings, intensions or entendres are correct. Subjectivity is only a matter of personal taste, proclivity, a choice and never necessarily or despotically structuralist programming. This resonates with Rasputin in regards to sinning: "try them all and not one will take you like a steady diet of heroines shot". Contrary to every imposing dictionary, the confusion of heroin and heroine makes them both more meaningful. Their isolation always precludes children, the key is the rush in the chamber. Both provide the fix, and may, heroically, save the day. It's a double edge sword, into and out of a cave like lucky Loki and Chaos, his mater: queen Mab's womb, or a tomb for that matter. "Prior to any emergence or synergy, a'fore crawling out t'other flank we, all will fall in the pit or mere ('lake')", – by the always nefarious, William Blake.

nefarious, adj
evil: utterly immoral or wicked
[Early 17th century. < Latin nefarius < nefas "sin" < ne "not" + fas "divine law"]

– from the dictionary

Literally, "illegal" in Latin, but elsewhere and before sinful pissing, nephele was just a cloud or kidney. Figuratively "nephish": like life of the kidneys, full of piss and vinegar ready to burst so consequently afterward dead-like (a cooked fish out of water, and thus, dis-elimen(a)ted or cleaned & deotherized, just like the ever ubiquitous æther).

The dictionary thus fails to illustrate the etymologically hypocritic rendering of energetic life (signified by a healthy kidney-function and the know-how of clouds which piss rain) to crime, sin and punishment, but warns us not to confuse hear and ear or rain and reign (both produced from shadows), just like to, two and too (all referencing a relation between/of one and/to another (in common) position, number and chance resonance or synchronicity):

"Do not confuse the spelling of air, ere, err, and heir, which sound similar. Air is the most common of the four words, as in the air that we breathe, an air of superiority, to air an opinion. Ere is a literary word meaning "before" (as in ere long), err is a verb meaning "make a mistake" (as in to err is human, err on the side of caution), and heir is a noun meaning "legal inheritor" (as in the heir to the throne). "

Yet how often do heirs scarcely manning chest-hairs which procure them the title: "Herr" meisters grow arrogant airs ere err interferes and they come to arrears, mis-hearing the jeers, inferring them cheers from inferiors?

Then, like to be too prodigiously wined thereby prodding officious other's whines, there is:

affair [12th century. < Anglo-Norman afere , Old French afaire < à faire "to do"]
afar [far away: at, to, or from a great distance]
after [not afore] or
afore [ Old English onforan < foran "in front, before"]
afear [ Old English afræred , past participle of afræren "frighten" < fræren "to fear"] more likely "not free"
afire [blazing or on fire or passionately interested in something or other] as asses,
æser [gods, assyrrians, residents of asgard and other dry politicians & unforbearant draughtsmen as calculators of windage bringing forth austerity or drought for the fair farm-folk and fishers]
afer [American Foundation for Equal Rights or the Romanian Railway Authority; but with wind, a færy or ferry coming in from the southeast carrying warmth, as opposed to a mere inference or it's deferral to an ass. In all other contexts, see Lips, the perequisite of positive affirmation ('ne?' in Niponese illustrating the translingual equivalence between yeah and neigh (no mere whining whinny but inflected nevertheless) juxtaposed to an utterance' end) and the blowing of hot air elsewhere, eh?]

Afer m (Afra f, Afrum n)
From Africa (the region of modern-day Tunisia)
The term is derived from a Punic term for the country in which the city of Carthage was located. It is possibly derived from an ethnonym, viz. an indigenous tribe encountered by the Phoenician colonists. Perhaps related to Punic `afar "dust", or alternatively from Berber `ifri "cave", denoting cave dwellers [or from the womb?]. Flavius Josephus derived the ethnonym from the name of Abraham's grandson, Epher. The name is perhaps related to the tribal name Ifran recorded by medieval Arab authors.

– wictionary

In 15th -19th century english spelling, 'S' = '¦', (our 'f' would be spelled 'ph', and sometimes the gutteral 'gh'), but in the phonology of the difference which makes a difference, an f is the negation of s, (the cynically cyclidean sibilant^[1] and snake-charming Cynthia), just as a line through an open circle means closed with the emphasis of finality, a coppish authority obstructing affinity: it is no mere coincidence that confideration negates consideration, the fed said, conside and confide were once, before the days of Noah Webster, siblings, in fact identical twins considerate of the humoungous differences between them. Siblings of a side are prooved different lest they could not confide their secrets, one to the other. What would be the point? Webster defeated the age of poetry and revoked its license so that the federation, in hermeneutic or rosicrucean fashion, could set on the seat of government in the perfect simulacron or dissimulation of consensual democracy arising from the Fairy Queen's monarchy. A fed by any other name also said "In the beginning was the word" and proceeded to make it so. In an earlier age, the archon merely operated the rudder, with or without directions from afar (there was that matter of plotting an arc to follow a star, among the Minoans women's work by far), well illustrating the equivalence between the tillerman and teller of tales, tall sails and no clerical accountant at all. But indubitably, only free friends fertilise fecundity, and then, anything goes.

[1] Sybiline hiss: Whether 'twixt the lips, 'tween lip and denture or palette and tongue, it's no adventure – what blows through them's the same as your own. – see Sisyphus, a prophetic curse on kings & patriarchs: what goes up must come down.

LEXICOGRAPHER, n.

A pestilent fellow who, under the pretense of recording some particular stage in the development of a language, does what he can to arrest its growth, stiffen its flexibility and mechanize its methods. For your lexicographer, having written his dictionary, comes to be considered "as one having authority," whereas his function is only to make a record, not to give a law. The natural servility of the human understanding having invested him with judicial power, surrenders its right of reason and submits itself to a chronicle as if it were a statue. Let the dictionary (for example) mark a good word as "obsolete" or "obsolescent" and few men thereafter venture to use it, whatever their need of it and however desirable its restoration to favor – whereby the process of impoverishment is accelerated and speech decays. On the contrary, recognizing the truth that language must grow by innovation if it grow at all, makes new words and uses the old in an unfamiliar sense, has no following and is tartly reminded that "it isn't in the dictionary" – although down to the time of the first lexicographer (Heaven forgive him!) no author ever had used a word that was in the dictionary. In the golden prime and high noon of English speech; when from the lips of the great Elizabethans fell words that made their own meaning and carried it in their very sound; when a Shakespeare and a Bacon were possible, and the language now rapidly perishing at one end and slowly renewed at the other was in vigorous growth and hardy preservation – sweeter than honey and stronger than a lion – the lexicographer was a person unknown, the dictionary a creation which his Creator had not created him to create.

  God said [or was it Aristotle?]:  "Let Spirit perish into Form,"
  And lexicographers arose, a swarm!
  Thought fled and left her clothing, which they took,
  And catalogued each garment in a book.
  Now, from her leafy covert when she cries:
  "Give me my clothes and I'll return," they rise
  And scan the list, and say without compassion:
  "Excuse us – they are mostly out of fashion."

– Ambrose Bierce