I didn’t make it to all the way to the Falls. Was within half a mile or so before time ran out. Someone turned out the lights on the great painting in the sky.
I still found some green and blue peace and more. I found a vision and learned how certain cameras can not handle what comes out of that great painting in the sky. One has to prepare for such things and I didn’t. Next time.
How strange that Nature does not knock, and yet does not intrude! — Emily Dickinson, letter to Mrs. J.S. Cooper, 1880
I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.
Just watched Hou Hsiao-Hsien’s wonderful film, The Flight of the Red Balloon. Set in a glowing, shadowy, geometric and abstract Paris, it stars Juliette Binoche as Suzanne, and Simon Iteanu as her son Simon. Simon’s nanny, a young film student from China, is played by Song Fang. I’m not sure who plays the red flotation device.
One of my favorite recent discoveries is the music of Vienna Teng. I love the name. She chose it. It fits. A Taiwanese-American singer/songwriter from California, Vienna has a gorgeous, angelic voice that exudes intelligent sweetness, but is never saccharine.
She has called her music “Chamber Folk”, which rings true. Influenced by Classical, Jazz, Folk and Pop, Vienna Teng sings on the edge of discovery. She flies higher, but doesn’t overreach. When she is not singing, just talking, she sounds more than down to earth. She seems relaxed about her place on the surface of this planet. But music lifts her off that surface again and again and again.
Want to point to the new poetry below by Aleksandar Novakovich and a return visit by Desi Di Nardo. Strong poets from the Balkans and Canada, respectively. Please comment on their works and let them know your impressions.
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Now, for that digression. Albeit brief. I recently heard an interesting fact on the radio. Deer like the grass on the side of the road because it is more loaded with certain kinds of nutrients they need. It’s loaded with that nutrition primarily because we mow the grass along side our roads continuously. Deer are attracted to that grass, and can’t really judge the speed of cars on the highway. . . . Read more. “New Additions and Digressions”
Blindered by heat-flashes of banality; the sacred barnyard tells us nothing except it has no room for us without our becoming at once greater and smaller.
This is what it means to have the mind of Christ; to become as a child with the heart-space of a 1000 goslings, arrow-tipped with lightning.
One of the reasons it’s hard to write good religious or spiritual verse — and I am well aware that the terms spiritual and religious are not synonyms — is that the “truths” of religion/spirituality are so public — known by millions and millions — of people that to even utter them in their publicly known form is to start from the realm of cliché and banality. . . . Read more. “Tony Jones: Deep Will Call Unto Deep”
Spurred on by a thought-provoking blog post by my good friend Tim Brownson, I thought again about what we lose when we grow up. The way we once looked at life. With fresh hope. With a ton of hope and delight. With great expectations and daily excitement. What is it, exactly, about the process of maturation that seems to take so much of that out of us? Is this chemical, biological, spiritual, or all of the above? Do we actually lose special brain cells that are informed with a sense of hope and awe and wonder? Is this an evolutionary process that even makes sense? . . . Read more. “The Children’s Idyll In All Of Us”
Was thinking again about Anna Akhmatova’s graceful, direct, hit you in the gut poetry. Was also thinking about non-poetic things like economics. I think recent events have made it very clear just how muddy the topic really is. Clear as mud and slush in the morning before rush hour starts. As is my wont at times, I took another look at an old poem of mine in a new context:
He read Akhmatova while he waited in line No bread line No line to see prisoners Starving and cold
The painting haunts. She has Polio, but she thrives. She loves the warmth, the comfort, the familial bliss of that house in Cushing, Maine, and nothing will prevent her presence there. Not the long trek. Not the pain. Not the time. The time is hers. The journey is hers. She is used to all things. Pain. Time. Effort. And the painter senses that. He inhabits her for a moment and gives all of us Christina, by way of Beth, his wife. The wife of Wyeth. Every blade of grass is there or hinted at. Every form of struggle, love of landscape, love of home. Christina lives and dies in that house. . . . Read more. “Christina’s World”