acquiescentia in se ipso.
---Spinoza.
Being the person one just wants to be. Not wanting, being. Not the pleasure one derives from that harmony,or not just the pleasure, but the life itself (of which pleasure is a part). In silence. But not a resignation to the satisfaction of desires, motivations, goals we just happen to have. One notion of freedom lies that way, no doubt, and the alternative view of freedom, 'objective' or impersonal, can also be paternalistic: freedom structured or ordered by reason.
But no, being the person one wants to be.
A freedom from titles, names; to find a good that is not so tightly linked to them. On the other hand, a good that is expressed in the things you do in your life. 'The quality of our attachments is the quality of our understanding.'The loved one has many names, is nameless.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Thursday, December 29, 2011
you burn me.
---Sappho.
Classes over, the term all but come to a close, just the fag end now.A tremendous sense of relief. Students' gazes buried away in their books, the library ticking over with thought, your hands cold and dry, but the lines more prominent now. A small tree, nameless, with its dark eleven o'clock shadow. There's something both beautiful and horrifying in the thought that it will survive us, that life goes on, somehow, miraculously.
Your mind has slowed down, is less restless. Always strayed too much, unlike your starred heart. Like an old person, you look forward to soup at 4 o'clock. You have no desire to talk to anyone. Just stay in your cell and read up on community. Yes, I know! Maybe some fragments that you'll hold, not shape, in the palm of your hands.
In the morning mist you walked past dark leaves, a few holding the memory of summer and brilliant blood-red.
You were late, as always. It passed you by. This sense of lateness, your defining characteristic, reflected in your eyes, part of your inheritance.You wait, patiently,for some kind of recovery, recollection and more. The winter mind, the winter heart, conserving,holding back, for the memory of the future, the day you remember me.
]
] nor
] desire
] but all at once
] blossom
] desire
] took delight
---Sappho.
Classes over, the term all but come to a close, just the fag end now.A tremendous sense of relief. Students' gazes buried away in their books, the library ticking over with thought, your hands cold and dry, but the lines more prominent now. A small tree, nameless, with its dark eleven o'clock shadow. There's something both beautiful and horrifying in the thought that it will survive us, that life goes on, somehow, miraculously.
Your mind has slowed down, is less restless. Always strayed too much, unlike your starred heart. Like an old person, you look forward to soup at 4 o'clock. You have no desire to talk to anyone. Just stay in your cell and read up on community. Yes, I know! Maybe some fragments that you'll hold, not shape, in the palm of your hands.
In the morning mist you walked past dark leaves, a few holding the memory of summer and brilliant blood-red.
You were late, as always. It passed you by. This sense of lateness, your defining characteristic, reflected in your eyes, part of your inheritance.You wait, patiently,for some kind of recovery, recollection and more. The winter mind, the winter heart, conserving,holding back, for the memory of the future, the day you remember me.
]
] nor
] desire
] but all at once
] blossom
] desire
] took delight
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
freeing the dust
a moment, amongst moments. thinking it would open up on to something, and not collapse under its own weight, become thought again.bright and gleaming.stone blossoming into flower, dreaming of star.
The water
flashes
each time you
make it leap -
arching its glittering
back.
Each moment slowed down, frame by frame. You return to it, read it slowly, as you imagine doing (ideally) with your life. Where that (ideally) comes in was tricky. The water, the thing, on its own, isolated. The world before us. Then human agency; then the world again, the world alive, independent existence.At the centre: the ability to make something happen, to be connected to the world in that moment. I think, I am thinking. To 'I am'. The gaps covered by that arching back, like a salmon returning home, a rainbow of hope, a mirror, doubling what was one. The salmon is the stream. 'I think'. The 'I' is given, must be lovingly recognized, acknowledged.Home, your perpetual origin, was carried in your heart,all along.Water helped you remember, bring you back to the black land, where your fair hand turns, and turns again, the dark pages.
Rabbi Mendel of Kotzk asked one of the disciples of Rabbi Moshe: "What was most important to your teacher?"
To which he replied: "Whatever he happened to be doing at the moment"
The water
flashes
each time you
make it leap -
arching its glittering
back.
Each moment slowed down, frame by frame. You return to it, read it slowly, as you imagine doing (ideally) with your life. Where that (ideally) comes in was tricky. The water, the thing, on its own, isolated. The world before us. Then human agency; then the world again, the world alive, independent existence.At the centre: the ability to make something happen, to be connected to the world in that moment. I think, I am thinking. To 'I am'. The gaps covered by that arching back, like a salmon returning home, a rainbow of hope, a mirror, doubling what was one. The salmon is the stream. 'I think'. The 'I' is given, must be lovingly recognized, acknowledged.Home, your perpetual origin, was carried in your heart,all along.Water helped you remember, bring you back to the black land, where your fair hand turns, and turns again, the dark pages.
Rabbi Mendel of Kotzk asked one of the disciples of Rabbi Moshe: "What was most important to your teacher?"
To which he replied: "Whatever he happened to be doing at the moment"
I said, the summer garden I planted
bears only leaves–leaves in abundance–
but no flowers.
And then the flowers,
many colors and forms,
come forth...What magic denial
shall my life utter
to bring itself forth?
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
This is near the place I used to live. The river Roding, usually so tame and quiet, melancholy, actually flooded once.How amazing that is, when something crosses it's time-worn boundaries, makes contact with what has surrounded it for so long.
All I remember now is like a loose thread.When the Roding slows, and stones lie still in its dark waters, my heart is lost.
We humans, who have thought of commonalities in terms of things that transcend us, like religion or abstract reason, or in terms of blood and soil, have never stopped to think that living side-by-side with other people was what it was all about. If all truth was on the boundaries, then human beings are that boundary par excellence.
~~~
Chekov said: Let’s put God—and all these grand progressive ideas—to one side. Let’s begin with man; let’s be kind and attentive to the individual man—whether he’s a bishop, a peasant, an industrial magnate, a convict in the Sakhalin Islands or a waiter in a restaurant. Let’s begin with respect, compassion and love for the individual—or we’ll never get anywhere.
---V.G.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
...
Merry Christmas !!!
~~~
Lovely Christmas with friends: roast chicken (lemon and thyme); rich fruit cake, mashed potatoes; warm spiced cranberry drink (vodka optional). Good, decent, and intelligent people to talk to and yet, for all that...what is it?
A told me, matter-of-factly, in a hushed voice, amidst all the laughter: "I don't want to be here". Well, join the line, kiddo. But she'll be okay, will land on her feet. Always does.
bt, young and enthusiastic, practical head on his shoulders, always speaks his mind, and knows his mind. More importantly, points me to interesting poets and novelists. Impossible to keep up with, but that's okay.
Hasan K, tall and lanky, a bundle of bones, glasses, and communism ; the academic's academic. Could talk about China for ever, and still hold an audience.
Someone says, above the din:"critical thinking". I hear snatches of conversations around the room, Lately, I've become quite invisible. Then someone says, with great confidence, "academia is about questioning everything."
Is it, I wonder to myself.This isn't really about freedom, though you recognize how important that is. That you can question anything is not the whole of the issue; it is, rather, whether you need to, whether some things are (and should be) taken as given. Not just your reasoning abilities themselves, but all sorts of practical and moral insights. Some things are left best in the half dark.
Fudge, under the table, looking on at us with those sad eyes. Old fudge, unable (or unwilling) to participate in our conversations. Seen it all before, I guess. The most reflective dog this side of the Oxiana.
And yet, despite all that, there's a restlessness in your heart. The shadow of those who are absent moves across my face, is on my skin, twists beneath my shoulder blades. Home is where the heart is. And your heart is homeless.
At random, I flick open the book closest to my free hand, as people of faith in the past might have opened their holy book. The first words I catch are:
'We have entered the dark stretch of night just before dawn
as we have entered the dark stretch of land
before the home's come to.'
---Ken Irby.
~~~
Lovely Christmas with friends: roast chicken (lemon and thyme); rich fruit cake, mashed potatoes; warm spiced cranberry drink (vodka optional). Good, decent, and intelligent people to talk to and yet, for all that...what is it?
A told me, matter-of-factly, in a hushed voice, amidst all the laughter: "I don't want to be here". Well, join the line, kiddo. But she'll be okay, will land on her feet. Always does.
bt, young and enthusiastic, practical head on his shoulders, always speaks his mind, and knows his mind. More importantly, points me to interesting poets and novelists. Impossible to keep up with, but that's okay.
Hasan K, tall and lanky, a bundle of bones, glasses, and communism ; the academic's academic. Could talk about China for ever, and still hold an audience.
Someone says, above the din:"critical thinking". I hear snatches of conversations around the room, Lately, I've become quite invisible. Then someone says, with great confidence, "academia is about questioning everything."
Is it, I wonder to myself.This isn't really about freedom, though you recognize how important that is. That you can question anything is not the whole of the issue; it is, rather, whether you need to, whether some things are (and should be) taken as given. Not just your reasoning abilities themselves, but all sorts of practical and moral insights. Some things are left best in the half dark.
Fudge, under the table, looking on at us with those sad eyes. Old fudge, unable (or unwilling) to participate in our conversations. Seen it all before, I guess. The most reflective dog this side of the Oxiana.
And yet, despite all that, there's a restlessness in your heart. The shadow of those who are absent moves across my face, is on my skin, twists beneath my shoulder blades. Home is where the heart is. And your heart is homeless.
At random, I flick open the book closest to my free hand, as people of faith in the past might have opened their holy book. The first words I catch are:
'We have entered the dark stretch of night just before dawn
as we have entered the dark stretch of land
before the home's come to.'
---Ken Irby.
The time to speak freely is not upon us yet, only its distant shadow. Still, bound, the tongue weaves a pattern as the mind imagines a world, the heart does not know.It was on a day like this, the chill in your bones, generations of unknowingness reflected in your sad eyes. We are here for a while, then gone.
You fall. Head over heels, again. There's no fool like an old fool. So, here you are, out of step, out of sync with the times. "Walk on," or walk in. The distinctions no longer interest you, are like the haze in your heart.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
half-way
'Took my heart to the limit,
and that's where it's going to stay.'
(as pop songs go, this ain't half bad. Bob, forgive me!)
Well, Cornelius?
'Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet'
Fragments, fragments is all we have. Hold them carefully in the palm of your hand. Close your hand, flesh to flesh, like the circle of earth, when night becomes day, and opposites meet. The hollow of the hand, the locus of prayer. The deal was done. Give me back what was mine. This world in miniature, like a speck of dust in your eye. And yet, it still brings tears!
How many images go up in to the making of a human soul? Perhaps only one. The mirror broke, the ice queen relented, and now I hold pieces of her heart in my hand.
~~~
Little r has, in one hand, throughout the day, either Billy Badger or Rupert the Bear. It's strange what we become attached to, what we become used to. Even a silly face has its charms after a while. And prisoners, no doubt, reconcile themselves with the marked faces of their fellow prisoners, as if sharing a common fate could eliminate the memory of freedom.
~~~
"You must have a lantern in your hand to give light, otherwise all the materials in the world are useless, for you cannot find them, and if you could, you couldn't arrange them."
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
[
The bracketed future,
[
together, alone: [ ]
Time, the space between us [...]
Of waiting.
"Look...doings!"said little r.
Soon there will be [I am]
God [as a] witness [to] our doings.
Our words b[ro]ken, as the b-ro-ken world.
What kinship does b have?
Go, if you must, ] [
I await your return...]
~~~
we have
a Grand Master of chess
made of electronic circuits.
But above all
we have
the ability
to sort peas,
to cup water in our hands,
to seek
the right screw
under the sofa
for hours
This
gives us
wings.
---Holub.
The unclenched hand, 'solar generosity', said Larkin; the curvature of our hands, a sign of our humanity:knowing what to let go of, what to hold on to...
[
together, alone: [ ]
Time, the space between us [...]
Of waiting.
"Look...doings!"said little r.
Soon there will be [I am]
God [as a] witness [to] our doings.
Our words b[ro]ken, as the b-ro-ken world.
What kinship does b have?
Go, if you must, ] [
I await your return...]
~~~
we have
a Grand Master of chess
made of electronic circuits.
But above all
we have
the ability
to sort peas,
to cup water in our hands,
to seek
the right screw
under the sofa
for hours
This
gives us
wings.
---Holub.
The unclenched hand, 'solar generosity', said Larkin; the curvature of our hands, a sign of our humanity:knowing what to let go of, what to hold on to...
Monday, December 19, 2011
Q&a
Where are you when you think? Not here. Which is strange, for someone who's 'all there'. Yesterday, I had to stop the car at the side of the road, put on the emergency lights, and repeat to myself: where the fuck are you? How can an oriental be disoriented?
Where are you when you think of another?
When you're a student you always hear teachers trying to be sexy by saying something like: 'it's not about what you know, it's about the questions you ask'. Knowing isn't everything. Or something equally odd: 'question everything'.
7:00 a.m.
No-one about except the cleaners. The earth still slowly coming to terms with the morning light. Shall I be open today, or not; who will find love on this bench, under this tree today, and who will lose it? Black coffee, a croissant. Lecture: woefully under-prepared. Hoping to wing it. Nabs, dear Nabs' books just come in, sitting on my desk, next to the pile of articles on utilitarianism.: Ken Irby's collected poems; Anne Carson's 'Fragments of Sappho. Danke, danke.
Outside on the steps, someone has made and left two white paper boats, the size of my thumb. Really quite delightful.Both capsized.Sunk, the night before.
The questions, you found, were only there to pass the time, to hear your voice, to read your words. How superficial is that?!
to fall in love with,
as surely
as the loved one
in the photograph before me.
---Ken Irby.
What intelligence you have is quite silly, really. The light in your eyes; I'm light-headed when I think about it.The distances between people. One might as well be Algerian or Chinese.
My house: there aren't many things in it any more. Nothing to count or tally. The only people there are visitors, strangers, or cut-throat property-dealers.And yet, for all that, still it stands, empty like a human heart.
Where are you when you think of another?
When you're a student you always hear teachers trying to be sexy by saying something like: 'it's not about what you know, it's about the questions you ask'. Knowing isn't everything. Or something equally odd: 'question everything'.
7:00 a.m.
No-one about except the cleaners. The earth still slowly coming to terms with the morning light. Shall I be open today, or not; who will find love on this bench, under this tree today, and who will lose it? Black coffee, a croissant. Lecture: woefully under-prepared. Hoping to wing it. Nabs, dear Nabs' books just come in, sitting on my desk, next to the pile of articles on utilitarianism.: Ken Irby's collected poems; Anne Carson's 'Fragments of Sappho. Danke, danke.
Outside on the steps, someone has made and left two white paper boats, the size of my thumb. Really quite delightful.Both capsized.Sunk, the night before.
The questions, you found, were only there to pass the time, to hear your voice, to read your words. How superficial is that?!
to fall in love with,
as surely
as the loved one
in the photograph before me.
---Ken Irby.
What intelligence you have is quite silly, really. The light in your eyes; I'm light-headed when I think about it.The distances between people. One might as well be Algerian or Chinese.
My house: there aren't many things in it any more. Nothing to count or tally. The only people there are visitors, strangers, or cut-throat property-dealers.And yet, for all that, still it stands, empty like a human heart.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
I-level
I am I,
when I am you.
Dodge the questions, as you dodge the bullets."Droll rat," they would shoot you, if they knew.In the mean time, the time we have between us, let's dance together in a minefield.
Loyalty, fidelity...to what or who, God knows? Your own Jewish nose, so unremarkable in other ways, has picked up the scent and follows your trackless ways. What kind of religion is this, that leads you to infidelity?
Darkness crumbles. Is it day or night? The winter fires, Anna said.Remember? The late flaring of your soul. For so long, your I at an angle to the universe.I see you face to face now. You've saved the last dance, the dance of death, for me.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Golden words of wisdom from swami blacksun
Irony of ironies! Having just written an article for the papers (don't bother asking for the link: it's as crap as this blog) on the importance of trust for development ('social capital' and all that) I get a lecture from an estate agent on the importance of trust! Bizarre!
So, there I was, in this dusty little square, a little corner of the dust-bowl that is Lahore, carcasses hanging outside the butcher's, flies, the works. His office: cheap wooden paneling (like you might expect in a 1970's second-hand car dealer's office). On the wall, next to a huge grey filing cabinet, a picture of his father...Sufi something, something. A lovely railway-green table. Qur'anic verses on the wall. Fading mustard sofas, bits of the covers peeling off. Two fans, both gold plated. A huge wall clock, something one might expect in a railway station. A rich, ornate pattern of flowers on the ceiling. You almost imagined that behind some closed door they were making B-grade films. Or God knows what.
As I wait for the estate agent an old bearded man tells me, in response to my question whether X still lives around here: who knows. He may be alive, he may be dead. After all, we all have to die, we all have to go back to God.
Yeah, er..okay, uncle.
First lesson in life: never talk to anyone unless you have to.
The lecture:
Do you see this? he said, holding the flimsy contract in his hand.
"It's all meaningless". What matters is trust, whether someone's given their word. In the end of the day, this piece of paper is only as good as the character of the people behind it. I've done lots of deals with people and it's been about honour.
Lesson number 2: when someone puts their hand up to stop you from interjecting, just so they can continue on their cheap Sunday school sermon, you know they're majorly screwed in the head. Ride the tiger, grasshopper.
I could see this wasn't going to be a pleasant next 20 minutes. When Paks go on a rant the best response is to just let them have their say (hope you're taking notes, Roxana and anton!) or, if you're like little r, the 'chaabi master', just egg them on a bit!
Lesson number 3, little ones: always imagine the end of a conversation; the handshake, you getting back into the safety of your car. When the other person talks think of something pleasant like cinnamon rolls or Monica Bellucci...it helps pass the time. Now and then raise your head so as to indicate you haven't died of boredom and nod your head as you say: "Really?".
So he continues...are you telling me there's no corruption in England, America! There's more, much more! "There are people living in cardboard boxes in the Bronx chipped in his friend, the "engineer."
Of course, I'd been making the point in my article about the importance of trust. But that has to go hand in hand with contracts, a good and transparent legal system. Part of me wanted to ask him: why do you think Pakistan's so fucked up then? But if I've learnt anything over the years it's that it's best not to engage with other human beings. Especially if they're not very pretty. A harsh lesson, I know. But it's the way of the future, I tells ya! Sod all that stuff about community. Give me my money and let me go home....
On the way back: stopped over at the Last Word, as a drunk might find refuge in a pub in the mid -afternoon, sinking into oblivion. Didn't want or need anything, but at least here there was a moment of respite. Anyway, my Burnisde books haven't come in. Doesn't matter. Khair...
~~~
Pharmakon: the poison and the remedy are the same; time is the great healer, time is the wound. Your absence is real. Is reality anything else?
So, there I was, in this dusty little square, a little corner of the dust-bowl that is Lahore, carcasses hanging outside the butcher's, flies, the works. His office: cheap wooden paneling (like you might expect in a 1970's second-hand car dealer's office). On the wall, next to a huge grey filing cabinet, a picture of his father...Sufi something, something. A lovely railway-green table. Qur'anic verses on the wall. Fading mustard sofas, bits of the covers peeling off. Two fans, both gold plated. A huge wall clock, something one might expect in a railway station. A rich, ornate pattern of flowers on the ceiling. You almost imagined that behind some closed door they were making B-grade films. Or God knows what.
As I wait for the estate agent an old bearded man tells me, in response to my question whether X still lives around here: who knows. He may be alive, he may be dead. After all, we all have to die, we all have to go back to God.
Yeah, er..okay, uncle.
First lesson in life: never talk to anyone unless you have to.
The lecture:
Do you see this? he said, holding the flimsy contract in his hand.
"It's all meaningless". What matters is trust, whether someone's given their word. In the end of the day, this piece of paper is only as good as the character of the people behind it. I've done lots of deals with people and it's been about honour.
Lesson number 2: when someone puts their hand up to stop you from interjecting, just so they can continue on their cheap Sunday school sermon, you know they're majorly screwed in the head. Ride the tiger, grasshopper.
I could see this wasn't going to be a pleasant next 20 minutes. When Paks go on a rant the best response is to just let them have their say (hope you're taking notes, Roxana and anton!) or, if you're like little r, the 'chaabi master', just egg them on a bit!
Lesson number 3, little ones: always imagine the end of a conversation; the handshake, you getting back into the safety of your car. When the other person talks think of something pleasant like cinnamon rolls or Monica Bellucci...it helps pass the time. Now and then raise your head so as to indicate you haven't died of boredom and nod your head as you say: "Really?".
So he continues...are you telling me there's no corruption in England, America! There's more, much more! "There are people living in cardboard boxes in the Bronx chipped in his friend, the "engineer."
Of course, I'd been making the point in my article about the importance of trust. But that has to go hand in hand with contracts, a good and transparent legal system. Part of me wanted to ask him: why do you think Pakistan's so fucked up then? But if I've learnt anything over the years it's that it's best not to engage with other human beings. Especially if they're not very pretty. A harsh lesson, I know. But it's the way of the future, I tells ya! Sod all that stuff about community. Give me my money and let me go home....
On the way back: stopped over at the Last Word, as a drunk might find refuge in a pub in the mid -afternoon, sinking into oblivion. Didn't want or need anything, but at least here there was a moment of respite. Anyway, my Burnisde books haven't come in. Doesn't matter. Khair...
~~~
Pharmakon: the poison and the remedy are the same; time is the great healer, time is the wound. Your absence is real. Is reality anything else?
Thursday, December 15, 2011
the orient
You know, I've traveled a bit in 'the orient' (why, I even live there and might be said to be an oriental of sorts myself) but I've never seen anything like this. Missing out again, I guess!
But no, the serious point: what is this fascination and obsession with 'the east' and with women's bodies and the veil? Of course, there's a political context to it; it would be naive to assume otherwise. The 'East' as passive, half-awake, there for the taking. The east that needs to be liberated, set free from captivity ('the lustful turk' and all that).
The East as a dreamworld, a place and time of lost innocence (but also, confusedly, of uninhibited sensuousness). Gaugin, perhaps? In a world that was being narrowly defined by rationality and industrialization, wouldn't it be nice to return to the pre-reflective states and to nature?
On the other hand, isn't a lot of the criticism just reactionary? In the 'west' people suffer from alienation, a lack of protection; they face the relentless gaze, the tyranny of fashion; they miss out on family life, homeliness, security, modesty, etc., etc. the harsh world of politics and the public realm being left to the men, the hunters. And shouldn't we respect differences? Eastern (Muslim) women are not like the farangi women, are they?
Well, don't buy it for a second, not a for a second.To talk about the Enlightenment nowadays is to align oneself with all sorts of unpleasant bedfellows. Narrow views of rationality, a thin concept of 'Man', a lack of respect for difference and uniqueness; the crushing of all that reeked of tradition, superstition, emotions. Science, prose and not art or poetry. Sure, but isn't it also an attempt to see what we share with one another, what we hold in common? A respect for sameness doesn't necessarily lead to the flatlands; instead, it can be just the opposite: east, west, man, woman, rich, poor...there is only the human being.Or, to be more specific, the ability to see ourselves clearly depends on our ability to see other people clearly:to keep the right balance between people's specificity and individuality and what is common. Us & them. The '&' unites and individuates.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
winter fires
There's something primitive and satisfying about putting on the heater in the early hours of a winter morning. Is this a deep ritual from our ancient past?
Driving along the Canal yesterday, late in the afternoon; the green, opaque water slowly moving down, as if it had suddenly become more reflective, cautious, this last month. It carried with it a few twigs and dry leaves. It seemed as if no-one even recognized its existence.On the way back, a delightful scene of lots of small, ankle-high fires in the grass. The gold vivifying the green. Each fire unique and yet, somehow, mystically tied to the other.
'You realize I attach great importance to the human voice, more than to what is written, for what is written does not contain my voice'
At Canal View you notice that the woman has a very distinctive face, very tender, tinged with some sort of sadness. She folds her arms. Has strange cheekbones. There's something 'western' about her. Not her accent or even the way she carries her hair (which is always a dead give away). 'You always pick out such things,' I'm told. Yes, that's true, I always like to see gold in the straw, wonder what history a face has? God, I can't stand mirrors any more.
There's no betrayal like the human voice.
---Richard Ford.
Driving along the Canal yesterday, late in the afternoon; the green, opaque water slowly moving down, as if it had suddenly become more reflective, cautious, this last month. It carried with it a few twigs and dry leaves. It seemed as if no-one even recognized its existence.On the way back, a delightful scene of lots of small, ankle-high fires in the grass. The gold vivifying the green. Each fire unique and yet, somehow, mystically tied to the other.
'You realize I attach great importance to the human voice, more than to what is written, for what is written does not contain my voice'
At Canal View you notice that the woman has a very distinctive face, very tender, tinged with some sort of sadness. She folds her arms. Has strange cheekbones. There's something 'western' about her. Not her accent or even the way she carries her hair (which is always a dead give away). 'You always pick out such things,' I'm told. Yes, that's true, I always like to see gold in the straw, wonder what history a face has? God, I can't stand mirrors any more.
There's no betrayal like the human voice.
---Richard Ford.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
A white butterfly floated into the prison and my heart beat faster. She left, and my heart fluttered after her.
~~~
Five states of mind. None of them true. Quintessentially, you draw circles around an absence. Your heart, officially dead wood. On which a butterfly perchance came to rest.
~~~
Behind the black was the red; and behind the red the white. But behind the white there was only a heart.
~~~
The way of the future is the way to the past. If time flows then, as the Romans knew, it flows backwards towards you.
Sun and time fade; the winter light, weak and fragile, coldly reflected on the library's high windows. Books and soil become closely packed. The winter's mind conserving, not straying or wavering. All I remember is like a loose thread.When the Roding slows, and stones lie still in its dark waters, my heart is lost.
She smiled at the questions, as if to say, 'And if I answered you, would you know me then?'. A fraction of her known, as if glimpsed from afar.'She did not care for films, newspaper reportages, the radio. She wanted personal knowledge.'She was always on the inside; he always on the outside.But if you open this door, she said, make sure you don't bring in the cold with you.
~~~
Five states of mind. None of them true. Quintessentially, you draw circles around an absence. Your heart, officially dead wood. On which a butterfly perchance came to rest.
~~~
Behind the black was the red; and behind the red the white. But behind the white there was only a heart.
~~~
The way of the future is the way to the past. If time flows then, as the Romans knew, it flows backwards towards you.
Sun and time fade; the winter light, weak and fragile, coldly reflected on the library's high windows. Books and soil become closely packed. The winter's mind conserving, not straying or wavering. All I remember is like a loose thread.When the Roding slows, and stones lie still in its dark waters, my heart is lost.
She smiled at the questions, as if to say, 'And if I answered you, would you know me then?'. A fraction of her known, as if glimpsed from afar.'She did not care for films, newspaper reportages, the radio. She wanted personal knowledge.'She was always on the inside; he always on the outside.But if you open this door, she said, make sure you don't bring in the cold with you.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
fixations
Late 14c., fixacion, an alchemical word, from M.L. fixationem (nom. fixatio), noun of action from pp. stem of L. fixare, frequentative of figere "to fix" (see fix). Used in the Freudian sense since 1910.
Are there people without fixations? Is not the constant denial of fixations itself a fixation?
There are words, there are words we repeat to ourselves, to others, as if they were like us, or would like us. Everyone needs a fix 'cos everyone's broke. Spent.
A phrase, a word, your signature. What is the word or phrase that is you? For fuck's sake. Repetition and ritual. Need I say it again.
Epitaphs:
Death isn't all it's cracked up to be.
I want my money back!
~~~
Does death, then, have the final word, like a mask with its fixed expression? Something not to be repeated (or even spoken)?Perhaps then.And yet death is the fixation! 'The point of all points', the ultimate 'brokenness' that cannot be fixed. Aren't our fixations so many distractions from it, our way of extending the moment? Two ways: religion, art, abstract thought, as a way of detaching oneself from life; pure excess as a way of being absorbed in the moment, of forgetting that it will not last.
Why are you throwing this corn around?
To keep the tigers away.
But there are no tigers here.
It must be working then!
But what if you're fixated by someone? Breathlessness. Asphyxiation. Suffocation. Wonder, not finding its expression in life, turns to stone, becomes hooked to an 'object'. Does one end up killing the 'thing' one loves?
Are there people without fixations? Is not the constant denial of fixations itself a fixation?
There are words, there are words we repeat to ourselves, to others, as if they were like us, or would like us. Everyone needs a fix 'cos everyone's broke. Spent.
A phrase, a word, your signature. What is the word or phrase that is you? For fuck's sake. Repetition and ritual. Need I say it again.
Epitaphs:
Death isn't all it's cracked up to be.
I want my money back!
~~~
Does death, then, have the final word, like a mask with its fixed expression? Something not to be repeated (or even spoken)?Perhaps then.And yet death is the fixation! 'The point of all points', the ultimate 'brokenness' that cannot be fixed. Aren't our fixations so many distractions from it, our way of extending the moment? Two ways: religion, art, abstract thought, as a way of detaching oneself from life; pure excess as a way of being absorbed in the moment, of forgetting that it will not last.
Why are you throwing this corn around?
To keep the tigers away.
But there are no tigers here.
It must be working then!
But what if you're fixated by someone? Breathlessness. Asphyxiation. Suffocation. Wonder, not finding its expression in life, turns to stone, becomes hooked to an 'object'. Does one end up killing the 'thing' one loves?
Wednesday, December 07, 2011
Goodbye Lenin
100 pages in to Lesley Chamberlain's 'Philosophy Steamer'. Not half as good as the excellent 'Motherland'. But still...
What was the appeal of Communism? For the life of me, I don't get it! Of course, the notion of the 'common good', notions that were floating about in the 'silver age' and already present amongst the populists before the commies appropriated it. But you believe too much in the individual-Jesus, that makes me sound like Ayn Rand!-to be really attracted to the common anything. No, not the individual, or any other useless abstraction,just my own and the people I know.
What is fascinating, though, is this battle between the individual, the rational, on one side, and the collective notion of the good life, and the mystifications of Tradition on the other. The 'progressive' part of Communism had to destroy the old order, old ways of thinking. And of course, it only led to a new type of fanaticism. To believe in reason only is, as Berlin rightly said, an extravagance. But, but, that sort of cold, detached view does appeal to you in some way. You haven't got an ounce of mystical or religious sensibility in you at all.
'Inwardness' as a form of resistance to the materialism of capitalism and communism alike. But, on the other hand, the need to get away from 'inwardness'. Keynes: Good states of mind depend on things working. The charms (and dangers) of utilitarianism, of piecemeal social change/reform.
In the end of the day, you're too lazy to be attracted to any ideology. Even religion seems like such an effort. Austerity and worldliness require too much concentration, absorption.
The Dougal once told me about a Quaker 'gathering' she went to. People just sat on their chairs and kept quiet.Reminds you a bit of that line from 'wise blood': The church of Jesus Christ without Jesus Christ. A bit like five easy pieces, if you know what I mean. I wonder if you can bring your own sarnies, or a flask of tea?Don't even have to talk to anyone either. Now, that's my kind of religion! Though you always imagine the chairs to be too austere and uncomfortable. Some sort of Bauhaus or Ikea crap.Far better the plush ones at Border's or, even better, the British Library.
What was the appeal of Communism? For the life of me, I don't get it! Of course, the notion of the 'common good', notions that were floating about in the 'silver age' and already present amongst the populists before the commies appropriated it. But you believe too much in the individual-Jesus, that makes me sound like Ayn Rand!-to be really attracted to the common anything. No, not the individual, or any other useless abstraction,just my own and the people I know.
What is fascinating, though, is this battle between the individual, the rational, on one side, and the collective notion of the good life, and the mystifications of Tradition on the other. The 'progressive' part of Communism had to destroy the old order, old ways of thinking. And of course, it only led to a new type of fanaticism. To believe in reason only is, as Berlin rightly said, an extravagance. But, but, that sort of cold, detached view does appeal to you in some way. You haven't got an ounce of mystical or religious sensibility in you at all.
'Inwardness' as a form of resistance to the materialism of capitalism and communism alike. But, on the other hand, the need to get away from 'inwardness'. Keynes: Good states of mind depend on things working. The charms (and dangers) of utilitarianism, of piecemeal social change/reform.
In the end of the day, you're too lazy to be attracted to any ideology. Even religion seems like such an effort. Austerity and worldliness require too much concentration, absorption.
The Dougal once told me about a Quaker 'gathering' she went to. People just sat on their chairs and kept quiet.Reminds you a bit of that line from 'wise blood': The church of Jesus Christ without Jesus Christ. A bit like five easy pieces, if you know what I mean. I wonder if you can bring your own sarnies, or a flask of tea?Don't even have to talk to anyone either. Now, that's my kind of religion! Though you always imagine the chairs to be too austere and uncomfortable. Some sort of Bauhaus or Ikea crap.Far better the plush ones at Border's or, even better, the British Library.
Tuesday, December 06, 2011
all these things you are
Singularity. Black hole. The first star. Fish in time's dark waters; Tree, Daphne. Crow in dense foliage, dreaming of star. A mind, wandering. The fierceness of the day like your heart. A stray dog, Pythagoras's friend. Royalty without title. The red blush of innocence. A song of experience.Mirror, object, reflection. Cornelius, all these things you were...
Monday, December 05, 2011
the inner fake
I don't know what my best side is, honest, but from here, all that 'inwardness' does look awfully fake.
'I’m having trouble deciding whether I understand the world better now that I’m in my seventies than I did when I was younger, or whether I’m becoming more and more clueless every day. The truth is somewhere in between, I suspect, but that doesn’t make me rest any easier at night. Like others growing old, I had expected that after everything I had lived through and learned in my life, I would attain a state of Olympian calm and would regard the news of the day with amusement, like a clip from a bad old movie I had seen far too many times. It hasn’t happened to me yet.'
---Charles Simic, NYRB.
What have you learnt over the years? Nothing. But all those books ? Even less than nothing.Well, at least they helped kill some time. The Ph.D. , for Pete's sake? What a joke that was...and how easily you complied!The oddest thing is how people without an 'education' think that people with an 'education' are clever.
Cleverness was never what it was about. Would you give up your books, then, for a different life? Yes (except for the books with pictures. I like those).
But what else could you do ? (don't worry, this is just me talking to myself). I mean, you're even more useless in 'real' life than you are in the fake, academic one! Touché, old friend (er..remind me not to talk to you again!).
Would it have mattered if you'd been a good academic, though? Probably not. Then I'd be even more brain dead.And your use of the past tense is very sly, if you don't mind me saying. What if you'd actually read a book, you know, like from start to finish? If it ain't good enough for Samuel Johnson, it ain't...(note to former self: a fragment to shore up the ruins).
Can you be serious for a moment?
Yes, okay, for a moment.
Do you have to be East European to realize the absurdity of life? No, only to realize the absurdity of words like 'East European'.
Is there a streak of madness in your family? Well, now you mention it, old dougal...but no, it's what's saved us all these years. How do you work that out? Everyone has to work it out for themselves.
'I’m having trouble deciding whether I understand the world better now that I’m in my seventies than I did when I was younger, or whether I’m becoming more and more clueless every day. The truth is somewhere in between, I suspect, but that doesn’t make me rest any easier at night. Like others growing old, I had expected that after everything I had lived through and learned in my life, I would attain a state of Olympian calm and would regard the news of the day with amusement, like a clip from a bad old movie I had seen far too many times. It hasn’t happened to me yet.'
---Charles Simic, NYRB.
What have you learnt over the years? Nothing. But all those books ? Even less than nothing.Well, at least they helped kill some time. The Ph.D. , for Pete's sake? What a joke that was...and how easily you complied!The oddest thing is how people without an 'education' think that people with an 'education' are clever.
Cleverness was never what it was about. Would you give up your books, then, for a different life? Yes (except for the books with pictures. I like those).
But what else could you do ? (don't worry, this is just me talking to myself). I mean, you're even more useless in 'real' life than you are in the fake, academic one! Touché, old friend (er..remind me not to talk to you again!).
Would it have mattered if you'd been a good academic, though? Probably not. Then I'd be even more brain dead.And your use of the past tense is very sly, if you don't mind me saying. What if you'd actually read a book, you know, like from start to finish? If it ain't good enough for Samuel Johnson, it ain't...(note to former self: a fragment to shore up the ruins).
Can you be serious for a moment?
Yes, okay, for a moment.
Do you have to be East European to realize the absurdity of life? No, only to realize the absurdity of words like 'East European'.
Is there a streak of madness in your family? Well, now you mention it, old dougal...but no, it's what's saved us all these years. How do you work that out? Everyone has to work it out for themselves.
Sunday, December 04, 2011
Friday, December 02, 2011
the periodic table
"Distilling is beautiful. First of all, because it is a slow, philosophic, and silent occupation, which keeps you busy but gives you time to think of other things, somewhat like riding a bike. Then, because it involves a metamorphosis from liquid to vapour (invisible), and from this once again to liquid; but in this double journey, up and down, purity is attained, an ambiguous and fascinating condition … And finally, when you set about distilling, you acquire the consciousness of repeating a ritual consecrated by the centuries."
Was thinking about this and have to admit that the word purity does grate. Who, in this day and age, can accept the idea of perfection or an unblemished soul?
In today's Observer there was a piece on a biography of Kurt Vonnegut. These lines struck you:
'The book paints a picture of a man who was often distant from his children, cruel to a long-suffering first wife, caught in an unpleasant second marriage and spent much of his later years depressed and angry.'
This reminded you of a comment made by the great Shirley Williams about her ex-husband, the philosopher Bernard Williams. Something along the lines: might have been a good philosopher, but was a terrible husband.
Recently, similar sentiments expressed about Christa Wolf and, before that, about Isaiah Berlin (by Edward Said).
The Gauguin problem:
Can goodness be one-sided? One could be a good painter, a good musician, even a good philosopher (in some technical sense, I suppose) but does that count, how does it count, in the assessment of a person as a good person? A good life means what, exactly?
Well, of course, it's unfair to set the bar so impossibly high that no-one ever clears it. Secondly, it's unreasonable to expect, given the way human nature is, the mixture of elements that goes up to make a personality, that someone will be good in lots of different ways. You might even say, screw the morals, as long as he or she is creative in their field, that's what counts. By talking about 'the good' in ethical terms aren't you really just opening the door to fundamentalism and authoritarianism, to people who want to impose their idea of how goods should be ordered?
Thirdly, you don't know the context in which people make choices, only see things from afar. Someone stabs his wife, but he was traumatised by his childhood experiences;someone thinks nothing of the Palestinian people's aspirations but then you've got to understand where they're coming from; and if someone supports a dictatorship or a colonial power you have no idea why they did that (for their mother's sake?). Maybe there wasn't much of a choice anyway, maybe goodness is sometimes only about choosing the lesser of two evils.
I think there's a lot to be said for that. Of course. But just to be a contrarian..I'm sure you could find some 'goodness' in all sorts of horrible people. If Hitler had been a good painter, then what? If a suicide bomber is kind to his own family does that in some way absolve him or her of what they've done?
Most of the times the waters are muddied; but sometimes there has to be an idea of clarity, doesn't there?
Was thinking about this and have to admit that the word purity does grate. Who, in this day and age, can accept the idea of perfection or an unblemished soul?
In today's Observer there was a piece on a biography of Kurt Vonnegut. These lines struck you:
'The book paints a picture of a man who was often distant from his children, cruel to a long-suffering first wife, caught in an unpleasant second marriage and spent much of his later years depressed and angry.'
This reminded you of a comment made by the great Shirley Williams about her ex-husband, the philosopher Bernard Williams. Something along the lines: might have been a good philosopher, but was a terrible husband.
Recently, similar sentiments expressed about Christa Wolf and, before that, about Isaiah Berlin (by Edward Said).
The Gauguin problem:
Can goodness be one-sided? One could be a good painter, a good musician, even a good philosopher (in some technical sense, I suppose) but does that count, how does it count, in the assessment of a person as a good person? A good life means what, exactly?
Well, of course, it's unfair to set the bar so impossibly high that no-one ever clears it. Secondly, it's unreasonable to expect, given the way human nature is, the mixture of elements that goes up to make a personality, that someone will be good in lots of different ways. You might even say, screw the morals, as long as he or she is creative in their field, that's what counts. By talking about 'the good' in ethical terms aren't you really just opening the door to fundamentalism and authoritarianism, to people who want to impose their idea of how goods should be ordered?
Thirdly, you don't know the context in which people make choices, only see things from afar. Someone stabs his wife, but he was traumatised by his childhood experiences;someone thinks nothing of the Palestinian people's aspirations but then you've got to understand where they're coming from; and if someone supports a dictatorship or a colonial power you have no idea why they did that (for their mother's sake?). Maybe there wasn't much of a choice anyway, maybe goodness is sometimes only about choosing the lesser of two evils.
I think there's a lot to be said for that. Of course. But just to be a contrarian..I'm sure you could find some 'goodness' in all sorts of horrible people. If Hitler had been a good painter, then what? If a suicide bomber is kind to his own family does that in some way absolve him or her of what they've done?
Most of the times the waters are muddied; but sometimes there has to be an idea of clarity, doesn't there?
Thursday, December 01, 2011
on the 1001 th day and night
When you've run out of things to say to one another, the words turning as cold as the blank wall at 3 a.m. on a winter night. You count the hours to go but you can't read the time, there isn't enough light.Dreamer,dream me now.When you think back because that's the only way you can think...
The old music, that survives in forgotten, sleepy small towns. The song, the singer, reaching a kind of fame-if you want to call it that-for a few days, one summer. A kind of perfection, that knows its own end. Now that lost music is in your eyes.
Your jumpers have holes in them around the shoulders; there are toothpaste marks, rubbed off but the smudge still visible, on the front. Your jeans are torn on the inner side. Yes, the inner side, never your best. Your shoes have never been polished and their colour has faded from neglect and indifference. You comb your hair with your fingers, not bothered to look for your cheap plastic comb.
Why, what's up with you? Anyone would think you've fallen in love...or out of love. This is how you live when you have a cold heart.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
