Happy New Year
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
If Pablo Neruda and Yannis Ritsos had a child it would be Fernando Pessoa
TOBACCO KIOSK
by Fernando Pessoa
I am nothing
I shall always be nothing
I cannot wish to be anything.
Aside from that, I have within me all the dreams of the world.
I have dreamed more than Napoleon did.
I have held against the hypothetical heart more humanities than Christ.
I have secretly created philosophies no Kant has ever written.
But I am, and perhaps always should be, the one from the attic
Although I don't live in it;
I shall always be someone not born for this;
I shall always be the one who just had qualities;
I shall always be the one who has waited for a gate to open next a wall without a door
And sang the song of the infinite in a poultry-yard,
And heard God's voice in a blocked-up well.
Believe in myself? No, not in me and not in nothing.
May Nature be dissolved on my feverish head
Her sun, her rain, the wind that ruffles my hair,
And the rest, let it come if it must, it doesn't matter.
Hearts in thrall to the stars,
We have conquered the whole world before leaving our beds.
But we were awakened and it was opaque,
We rose and he was strange to us
We left the house and it was the whole world,
And also the Solar System, the Milky Way and the Indefinite...
Musical essence of my useless verses,
If only I could face you as something I had created
Instead of always facing the Tobacco Kiosk across the street,
Forcing underfoot the consciousness of existing,
Like a carpet a drunkard stumbles on
Or a straw mat stolen by gypsies and worth nothing.
by Fernando Pessoa
I am nothing
I shall always be nothing
I cannot wish to be anything.
Aside from that, I have within me all the dreams of the world.
Windows of my room,
The room of one of the world's millions nobody knows about
(And if they knew about me, what would they know?)
Open onto the mystery of a street continually crossed by people,
To a street inaccessible to any thought,
Real, impossibly real, certain, unknowingly certain,
With the mystery of things beneath the stones and beings,
With death making the walls damp and men's hair white,
With the Destiny driving the wagon of everything down the road of nothing.
The room of one of the world's millions nobody knows about
(And if they knew about me, what would they know?)
Open onto the mystery of a street continually crossed by people,
To a street inaccessible to any thought,
Real, impossibly real, certain, unknowingly certain,
With the mystery of things beneath the stones and beings,
With death making the walls damp and men's hair white,
With the Destiny driving the wagon of everything down the road of nothing.
Today I am defeated, as if I knew the truth.
Today I am clear-minded, as if I were about to die
And had no more kinship with things
Than a goodbye, this building and this side of the street becoming
A long row of train carriages, and a whistle departing
From inside my head,
And a jolt of my nerves and a creak of bones as we go.
Today I am clear-minded, as if I were about to die
And had no more kinship with things
Than a goodbye, this building and this side of the street becoming
A long row of train carriages, and a whistle departing
From inside my head,
And a jolt of my nerves and a creak of bones as we go.
Today I am bewildered, as one who wondered and discovered and forgot.
Today I am divided between the loyalty I owe
To the outward reality of the Tobacco Kiosk of the other side of the street
And to the inward real feeling that everything is but a dream.
I have missed everything.
And since I had no aims, maybe everything was indeed nothing.
What I was taught,
I go down from the window at the back of the house.
I went to the countryside with grand plans,
But all I found in it was grass and trees,
And when there were people, they were just like other people
I step back from the window and sit in a chair. What should I think about now?
Today I am divided between the loyalty I owe
To the outward reality of the Tobacco Kiosk of the other side of the street
And to the inward real feeling that everything is but a dream.
I have missed everything.
And since I had no aims, maybe everything was indeed nothing.
What I was taught,
I go down from the window at the back of the house.
I went to the countryside with grand plans,
But all I found in it was grass and trees,
And when there were people, they were just like other people
I step back from the window and sit in a chair. What should I think about now?
......
I have dreamed more than Napoleon did.
I have held against the hypothetical heart more humanities than Christ.
I have secretly created philosophies no Kant has ever written.
But I am, and perhaps always should be, the one from the attic
Although I don't live in it;
I shall always be someone not born for this;
I shall always be the one who just had qualities;
I shall always be the one who has waited for a gate to open next a wall without a door
And sang the song of the infinite in a poultry-yard,
And heard God's voice in a blocked-up well.
Believe in myself? No, not in me and not in nothing.
May Nature be dissolved on my feverish head
Her sun, her rain, the wind that ruffles my hair,
And the rest, let it come if it must, it doesn't matter.
Hearts in thrall to the stars,
We have conquered the whole world before leaving our beds.
But we were awakened and it was opaque,
We rose and he was strange to us
We left the house and it was the whole world,
And also the Solar System, the Milky Way and the Indefinite...
(Eat your chocolates, little one!
Eat chocolates!
Know there are no metaphysics in the world but chocolates.
Know that all the faiths don't teach more than confectionery.
Eat, dirty one, eat!
If only I could eat chocolates with the same veracity you do!
But I think, and when I lift the silver paper of a leaf of tin-foil
I let everything fall to the ground, as I have done to my life.)
Eat chocolates!
Know there are no metaphysics in the world but chocolates.
Know that all the faiths don't teach more than confectionery.
Eat, dirty one, eat!
If only I could eat chocolates with the same veracity you do!
But I think, and when I lift the silver paper of a leaf of tin-foil
I let everything fall to the ground, as I have done to my life.)
....
Musical essence of my useless verses,
If only I could face you as something I had created
Instead of always facing the Tobacco Kiosk across the street,
Forcing underfoot the consciousness of existing,
Like a carpet a drunkard stumbles on
Or a straw mat stolen by gypsies and worth nothing.
But the Tobacco Kiosk owner has come to the door and is standing there.
I look at him with the discomfort of an half-turned head
And the discomfort of an half-grasping soul.
He shall die and I shall die.
He shall leave his signboard and I shall leave my poems.
His sign will die, and so will my poems.
And soon the street where the sign is, will die too,
And so will the language in which my poems are written.
And so will the whirling planet where all of this happened.
On other satellites of other systems something like people
Will go on making something like poems and living under things like signboards,
Always one thing facing the other,
Always one thing as useless as the other,
Always the impossible as stupid as reality,
Always the mystery of the bottom as powerful as the mysterious dream of the top.
Always this or always some other thing, or neither one nor the other.
I look at him with the discomfort of an half-turned head
And the discomfort of an half-grasping soul.
He shall die and I shall die.
He shall leave his signboard and I shall leave my poems.
His sign will die, and so will my poems.
And soon the street where the sign is, will die too,
And so will the language in which my poems are written.
And so will the whirling planet where all of this happened.
On other satellites of other systems something like people
Will go on making something like poems and living under things like signboards,
Always one thing facing the other,
Always one thing as useless as the other,
Always the impossible as stupid as reality,
Always the mystery of the bottom as powerful as the mysterious dream of the top.
Always this or always some other thing, or neither one nor the other.
But a man has entered the Tobacco Shop (to buy tobacco?),
And plausible reality suddenly hits me.
I half rouse myself, energetic, convinced, human,
And I will try to write these verses in which I say the opposite.
And plausible reality suddenly hits me.
I half rouse myself, energetic, convinced, human,
And I will try to write these verses in which I say the opposite.
I light a cigarette as I think about writing them,
And in that cigarette I savour liberation from all thoughts.
I follow the smoke as if it were my personal itinerary
And enjoy, in a sensitive and capable moment
The liberation of all the speculations
With the conscience that metaphysics is a consequence of not feeling well.
And in that cigarette I savour liberation from all thoughts.
I follow the smoke as if it were my personal itinerary
And enjoy, in a sensitive and capable moment
The liberation of all the speculations
With the conscience that metaphysics is a consequence of not feeling well.
Afterwards I throw myself on the chair
And continue smoking.
As long as Destiny allows, I will keep smoking.
And continue smoking.
As long as Destiny allows, I will keep smoking.
(If I married my washwoman's daughter
Maybe I should be happy.)
Upon that, I rise. And I go to the window.
Maybe I should be happy.)
Upon that, I rise. And I go to the window.
The man has come out of the Tobacco Kiosk (putting change in his trousers?).
Ah, I know him: he is Esteves without metaphysics.
(The Tobacco Kiosk owner has come to the door.)
As if by a divine instinct, Esteves turned around and saw me.
He waved hello, I greet him "Hello there, Esteves!", and the universe
Reconstructed itself for me, without ideal or hope, and the owner of the Tobacco Kiosk smiled.
Ah, I know him: he is Esteves without metaphysics.
(The Tobacco Kiosk owner has come to the door.)
As if by a divine instinct, Esteves turned around and saw me.
He waved hello, I greet him "Hello there, Esteves!", and the universe
Reconstructed itself for me, without ideal or hope, and the owner of the Tobacco Kiosk smiled.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Kirk Cameron And Bananas
I guess he passed on his explanation for God's masterpiece, the pineapple. See if that fits in your hand and mouth, dude. The above is considered "the atheist's nightmare," for reasons beyond me. Besides, with a trace of irony, there's something monkey-like going on here. Apparently there were brain-damaging drugs on the set of Growing Pains.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
A Blessing—by James Wright
I love this poem because, it seems to me, that Wright withheld the surrealist currents that roiled underneath his classicism, until the very last line. Not to mentioned the tenderness, yet inescapable loneliness of the moment in that field.
A Blessing
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
A Blessing
Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Sky Disk of Debra Interpretion
OK, so a 3,700 year old ultra sophisticated clock/computer was discovered in Germany by archeologists sending shock waves through the scientific community.
"We have been dramatically underestimating the prehistoric peoples," said Harald Meller, chief archaeologist of Saxony-Anhalt, where the disc was found.
I'm always dumbfounded that we continue to be dumbfounded by the sophistication of early human intelligence. But I dare you to show me any aspect of our core psychology as having evolved into any sort of higher, more compassionate or insightful plain.
"The functioning of this clock was probably known to a very small group of people," Meller said.
Like maybe three people who knew when leap year—the intercalary month— was going to happen? I guess those three were out planting seeds before anyone else and considered magi. "Quick Omo, hide the plate!”
It is beautiful though, all 13" inches of it. Gold-leaf appliqués, the sun, the moon, the stars (they are thought to be the Pleiades as they appeared 3,600 years ago), the mind-blowing linking of solar and lunar calendars and the oldest star chart on record—all from the Bronze Age where we thought the only game into town was Hammer the Point and Throw the Rock in the Air and Run.
"We have been dramatically underestimating the prehistoric peoples," said Harald Meller, chief archaeologist of Saxony-Anhalt, where the disc was found.
I'm always dumbfounded that we continue to be dumbfounded by the sophistication of early human intelligence. But I dare you to show me any aspect of our core psychology as having evolved into any sort of higher, more compassionate or insightful plain.
"The functioning of this clock was probably known to a very small group of people," Meller said.
Like maybe three people who knew when leap year—the intercalary month— was going to happen? I guess those three were out planting seeds before anyone else and considered magi. "Quick Omo, hide the plate!”
It is beautiful though, all 13" inches of it. Gold-leaf appliqués, the sun, the moon, the stars (they are thought to be the Pleiades as they appeared 3,600 years ago), the mind-blowing linking of solar and lunar calendars and the oldest star chart on record—all from the Bronze Age where we thought the only game into town was Hammer the Point and Throw the Rock in the Air and Run.
“According to astronomer Wolfhard Schlosser of the Rurh University at Bochum, the Bronze Age sky gazers already knew what the Babylonians would describe only a thousand years later.
"Whether this was a local discovery, or whether the knowledge came from afar, is still not clear," Schlosser said.
O oh. How far is "afar?"
Interestingly enough, archeologists believe that the use and understanding of the sky disk was lost over time and that eventually it became a cult object, which would be like someone 400 years from now praying over an Apple laptop I guess. Perhaps there were Bronze Age Teabaggers bitching about a good thing (manipulated by crop insurers methinks) and destroying its value for everyone. I can hear them now chanting slogans at the three astronomers (but spelling the slogans wrong in their heads)—"Lucky Guessers, Lucky Guessers!!!”
After that I guess we entered the era known as the Chaotic Planting Age....again.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Asphodel, That Greeny Flower
My heart rouses
thinking to bring you news
of something
that concerns you
and concerns many men. Look at
what passes for the new.
You will not find it there but in
despised poems.
It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.
~from Asphodel, That Greeny Flower
by William Carlos Williams
thinking to bring you news
of something
that concerns you
and concerns many men. Look at
what passes for the new.
You will not find it there but in
despised poems.
It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.
~from Asphodel, That Greeny Flower
by William Carlos Williams
The Afghani Girl
When photographer Steve McCurry snapped this photograph of 12-year old Sharbat Gula for National Geographic in 1985 I doubt he realized it would brand our consciences worldwide.McCurry found the girl in a refugee camp in Pakistan after she had trekked with her siblings and grandmother over the hazardous mountains between Afghanistan and Pakistan—her parents had been killed during a Soviet helicopter gunship attack in the early 80s. Beauty, innocence, pathos, the suffering of refugees, all the elements of our crimes against ourselves were reduced to a single frame of Kodachrome color slide film.To this day, and especially this day on this planet, her gaze goes unanswered as we continue yet another meaningless war in countries whose valleys are named things like "The End of Empires.”
It took 17 years for the world to discover Sharbat's name. It's taken 8 years in Afghanistan in our so-called war against Al-Qaeda and the masterminds of 9/11 and the Taliban to assist in the deaths of tens of thousands of Afghani civilians by international military forces and insurgents. How many tens of thousands?
Her green eyes stare out at us. And to you Mr. President.
Steve McCurry continues to capture startling images:
http://www.stevemccurry.com
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Lucky Luciano's Library
From the Library of Congress to a pauper’s few books set by a rumpled bed, for me a library (lib(e)r: books), becomes itself if there are more than one book, although theologians might find fault with my arithmetic and consider anything beyond the Bible (papyrus—Býblos, a Phoenician port where papyrus was prepared and exported) as insignificant. Two books would be a library. Three books would be a librārius.
I’ve always found yard-sale libraries to be interesting: those musty cardboard boxes of books jettisoned by family members of a deceased reader or tables of stacked, spine-cracked Louis L’Amour paperbacks next to faded tomes about electrical engineering or celestial navigation. I never find anything to buy—I’m still looking for that first edition of Leaves of Grass—but I do get a glimpse into the mind and imagination of a stranger’s life and I catalogue that as a kind of vicarious experience which might appear somewhere in a future poem.
One of the oddest libraries I’ve discovered was read by Gregory Corso, the American Beat poet. That library existed at the Clinton Correctional Maximum Security Prison in New York, where Corso had been confined for the heinous crime of breaking into a classroom one winter night to stay warm. At Clinton he was given Lucky Luciano’s vacated cell, complete with Luciano’s donated library and a special light installed for the Mafia don to allow after-lights reading.
I do not know what books were in Luciano’s library (certainly there were Greek and Roman classics) but when Corso was released back into New York, Allen Ginsburg—after reading one of the young poet’s poems—recognized his brilliance.
When I read Corso’s earliest work again, his classical templates from the 50s Vestal Lady collection, I end up thanking Lucky Luciano for his reading tastes.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Mr. Morse's Pain Machine
I'm always interested in the relationship between art, invention and suffering. (I'll leave "joy," Robinson Jeffer's "whim in the air" for later when I'm actually feeling it).
I don't know if a case could be made for Nikola Tesla—he shot his brother's pony with a peashooter causing the horse to throw and kill his beloved brother, a loss that would haunt him for the rest of his life—but certainly a link could be made for Samuel Morse, inventor of the telegraph.
Before Morse became the father of modern communications he was an accomplished artist who studied under the likes of Benjamin West. In 1839,while he was painting a portrait of the Marquis La Fayette for the city of New York, he received news that his beloved wife Lucretia had died. By the time he returned home the funeral had been held and his loss was compounded.
Perhaps he was not directly driven to invent a faster communication system than the galloping letter at that very moment, but when he overheard some scientists deliberating on the speed of electricity through metal wires and theories about electromagnetic behavior, he connected the psychic and inventive dots.Within five years his telegraph system was launched through a line connecting Washington, DC and Baltimore. No longer would people have to wait days or weeks for bad or good news. I believe he longed to have had it available during his wife's lifetime.
"What God Hath Wrought."
Message transmitted to inaugurate the first U.S. telegraph line (24 May 1844). The biblical text, from Numbers, 23:23, was selected by Annie Ellsworth, daughter of the Commissioner of Patents. Annie Ellsworth was the first person to announce to Morse that his project had been accepted and would be underwritten by the U.S. Government. In return for the good news he asked her to choose a message to send during its christening. The phrase was repeated back to Morse by the telegrapher in Baltimore.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
366 Blue Plastic Balls
December 1, 1969 marked the date of the first draft lottery held since 1942. This drawing determined the order of induction for men born between January 1, 1944 and December 31, 1950. A large glass container held 366 blue plastic balls containing every possible birth date and affecting men between 18 and 26 years old.The first capsule was drawn by Congressman Alexander Pirnie (R-NY) of the House Armed Services Committee.
We sat in a fraternity room at Washington College in Chestertown, Maryland staring at the television. I drank 4 bottles of Ripple and decided I should actually buy the books for the semester. Someone mentioned Canada. The Byrds were playing in the background. I knew more about Emily Dickenson than the world and how it worked.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Aporia
The genus of butterflies of which the Black-veined White (Aporia crataegi) is part. Aporia is also a Greek term for a philosophical puzzle, a seemingly impossible impasse in an inquiry (ἀπορία: impasse; lack of resources; puzzlement; embarrassment). Apparantly the lepidopterist was perplexed by the argument between the symmetry of black and white in this butterfly.
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