A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning

This is perhaps the first poem we read in my Junior Lit class,
and
one to which my arching mental tangents oft return
(appropriately so)
(and for a multitude of reasons)
.



A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning
by John Donne

As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls, to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"The breath goes now," and some say, "No:"

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears;
Men reckon what it did, and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers' love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.

But we by a love so much refin'd,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if the' other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end, where I begun.

Tango is good for me

It all boils down to a single moment when you know exactly where you are in the universe,
and it's terrifying


These were the instructor's words as I walked into the already assembled Tango class.

Tango is close
You can hear them with your skin

Tango is about presence
Don't lose yourself in the crowd

and focus
Be completely aware of your partner


For someone who has always tried to stand on her own two feet, tried not to get in the way of others, tried to carry her own weight, tried not to impose herself,
it takes some getting used to.

Tango is playing a game of distance,
of pushing back
resistance
culminating in a most definitely shared motion. slide

It seemed to me like a walking game of team tai chi.

It most certainly takes two.
And this is what I want to learn:
how to take two separate, present, individual energies
and compose their distinct forces into an experience,
an achievement
unattainable by one alone.


It seems that this requires
sharing weight
imposing oneself
taking another's space (ask first)
and trusting that such actions will be received and returned.

It's a balance of both self and other that I cannot yet manage except in extremes.

I'm decent as an individual. Or as a nothing.
As part of a team?
I have a lot to learn.

Time Travel

Last night/This morning,

We gathered for lunar eclipse and tea
(having considered that yelling and beating drums to scare off the beast devouring the moon would be inconsiderate of others' desires to sleep).



However,
when I woke up again,





Traveling back to the present was remarkably easy,
although perhaps I should've taken time to walk around and feel anachronistic first.

Once in the CoOp, Always in the CoOp

It was so good to hear the words I'd used
to verify community
spoken back to me in invitation

May I live in Interesting Times

One man's curse is another man's blessing I suppose.

Or,
perhaps it's just that once I see a future,
there doesn't seem to be any other possible way.

Conversation Topic

from Watership Down by Richard Adams

There were no more speeches. Rabbits have their own conventions and formalities, but these are few and short by human standards. If Hazel had been a human being he would have been expected to introduce his companions one by one and no doubt each would have been taken in charge as a guest by one of their hosts. In the great burrow, however, things happened differently. The rabbits mingled naturally. They did not talk for talking's sake, in the artificial manner that human beings - and sometimes even their dogs and cats - do. But this did not mean that they were not communicating; merely that they were not communicating by talking.

All over the burrow, both the newcomers and those who were at home were accustoming themselves to each other in their own way and their own time; getting to know what the strangers smelled like, how they moved, how they breathed, how they scratched, the feel of their rhythms and pulses. These were the topics and subjects of discussion, carried on without the need of speech.

To a greater extent than a human in a similar gathering, each rabbit, as he pursued his own fragment, was sensitive to the trend of the whole. After a time, all knew that the concourse was not going to turn sour or break up in a fight. Just as a battle begins in a state of equilibrium between the two sides, which gradually alters one way or the other until it is clear that the balance has tilted so far that the issue can no longer be in doubt - so this gathering of rabbits in the dark, beginning with hesitant approaches, silences, pauses, movements, crouchings side by side and all manner of tentative appraisals, slowly moved, like a hemisphere of the world into summer, to a warmer, brighter region of mutual liking and approval, until all felt sure that they had nothing to fear.

Once Upon a Number

from the Dedication of Once Upon a Number: The Hidden Mathematical Logic of Stories by John Allen Paulos,

To that most astute philosopher, David Hume, who wrote, "I cannot but consider myself as a kind of resident or ambassador from the dominions of learning to those of conversation, and shall think it my constant duty to promote a good correspondence betwixt these two states, which have so great a dependence on each other."

Solo

Solamente quiero uno vida, por favor.

Más están demasiadas muchas - necesito a doblarlas junta.
No puedo continuar recoger los empiezos nuevos como esto- me tirarán a pedazos.

Uno está bastante, gracias.

In Perfect Silence

(Not long after discovering a watch reading 8/20 20:20)

We crept beneath our low-hung tarp
(well-trained, were we, to set camp amid rain)
to discover not rain -
but stars salting the dark blue breath of sky above us.

My first time backpacking,
and I understand now that the name is misleading. Before, I did not know why someone would want to walk outdoors with a backpack through varying terrain (the backpack seems to be the point of the name), except as some personal challenge.

Not only varying terrain, but weather as well,
and we certainly received more than our share of rain in a Northwest August landscape. At night, beneath the kitchen tarp, we huddled near constantly boiling water, continuously distributing recently warmed calories amongst each other to keep our fingers functioning properly. In the evenings, I wished for darkness so that I might crawl into a soon-to-be-warmed sleeping bag, leave the cold blowing wet outside, and lose the cold with my consciousness. In the mornings, I wished for light so that I might have an excuse to get up and stay up, rather than roll over to subconsciously stiffen my other side.

But the last day,
we picked ourselves up and hiked a slow, but steady 10 miles over the pass between the Three Sisters. The edges of the land were swallowed up in cloud. I could only passing-glance seek out the route we'd come by, because the wind and rain would not permit a longer gaze. We crossed the pass, sometimes over snow. I gathered a snowball to carry to the other side. Blue clouds amid a white sky began to show as we reached our campsite for that last evening. Hastily, we set up camp. By habit, we huddled under the tarp boiling water and serving food. By and by we engaged in rather astonishing depth of discussion.

If you could look one person in the eyes and tell them, 'I love you,' who would it be?

Finally, we remembered that it was not raining, that we might look outside, and even up.

There waiting, were the stars.




And this, I think, is backpacking:
The means for bringing such a group of people to such a place and in such a fashion,
that together we might spread our sleeping mats like a colony of caterpillars in a forest of black bristling pine, and looking up, appreciate our view of a clear be-starréd night, as seen beyond the ribcage of the earth.

The Biking

I nearly escaped tonight

Biking between the dorms and the apartments, I realized
I had lights,
a couple dollars in my pocket,
there are fruit trees and
it's warm tonight -
I don't even need a sleeping bag...

I could get pretty far

instead, I took a very long route home

but,..
we'll see how long my sense of responsibility holds out.

The Waking

by Theodore Roethke

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

Pseudo-Persephone

Yesterday, 8/6:

"It's like, a chocolate pomegranate thing," he said, intently applying teeth to the still some-frozen cold dome of chocolate.

plastic wrap lining a small bowl,
microwave-tempered chocolate shell filled with
freshly-picked blackberries (and more chocolate for structure),
set in shape by time and a freezing,
chocolate leaves and berries added at the end

I watched
the chocolate hull of the cake hemisphere gradually give way under white enameled pressure, revealing an interior of many cold juicy beads.

I built him a cake that won't leave anyone stranded in Hades

Ratatouille

(this post actually written several days after the indicated date)


Following this recipe, I produced an acceptable ratatouille.

Well, the ratatouille didn't give me any crazy childhood memories, as in, it didn't evoke any.

But I think it created one.

Now it will mean sunflowers bowing out of a pitcher
a table packed tight with dishes
in honor of a friend
who has not disappeared.

It will mean love and blackberries, french bread, olive oil, and rosemary,
a full table
so full
and admired by bowing sunflowers



I saw a field of yellow light in 5 nodding stalks.
How did you pick the whole field?
Thankyou.


Good food, Good friends, Good God...

Monks in the Garden

this is not from The Alchemist

I heard a story once about how

One day, as a monk tended to his garden in the monastery, two of his students approached with a question. They'd been discussing something and wanted to know what he would say about it. He paused and looked up from his spade.

"Master," they asked, "If you knew that you had only fifteen minutes left to live, what would you do?"

"This,"
he replied,
and went back to his gardening.

Drops of Oil in a Spoon

continued... from The Alchemist

"But before I go, I want to tell you a little story.

"A certain shopkeeper sent his son to learn about the secret of happiness from the wisest man in the world. The lad wandered through the desert for forty days, and finally came upon a beautiful castle, high atop a mountain. It was there that the wise man lived.

"Rather than finding a saintly man, though, our hero, on entering the main room of the castle, saw a hive of activity: tradesmen came and went, people were conversing in the corners, a small orchestra was playing soft music, and there was a table covered with platters of the most delicious food in that part of the world. The wise man conversed with everyone, and the boy had to wait for two hours before it was his turn to be given the man's attention.

"The wise man listened attentively to the boy's explanation of why he had come, but told him that he didn't have time just then to explain the secret of happiness. He suggested that the boy look around the palace and return in two hours.

"Meanwhile, I want to ask you to do something,' said the wise man, handing the boy a teaspoon that held two drops of oil. 'As you wander around, carry this spoon with you without allowing the oil to spill.'

"The boy began climbing and descending the many stairways of the palace, keeping his eyes fixed on the spoon. After two hours, he returned to the room where the wise man was.

"'Well,' asked the wise man, 'did you see the Persian tapestries that are hanging in my dining hall? Did you see the garden that it took the master gardener ten years to create? Did you notice the beautiful parchments in my library?'

"The boy was embarassed, and confessed that he had observed nothing. His only concern had been not to spill the oil that the wise man had entrusted to him.

"Then go back and observe the marvels of my world,' said the wise man. 'You cannot trust a man if you don't know his house.'

"Relieved, the boy picked up the spoon and returned to his exploration of the palace, this time observing all of the works of art on the ceilings and walls. He saw the gardens, the mountains all around him, the beauty of the flowers, and the taste with which everything had been selected. Upon returning to the wise man, he related in detail everything he had seen.

"'But where are the drops of oil I entrusted to you?' asked the wise man.

"Looking down at the spoon he held, the boy saw that the oil was gone.

"'Well, there is only one piece of advice I can give you.' said the wisest of wise men. 'The secret of happiness is to see all the marvels of the world, and never to forget the drops of oil in the spoon'."

The shepherd said nothing. He had understood the story the old king had told him. A shepherd may like to travel, but he should never forget about his sheep.

PROLOGUE to The Alchemist

Translated by Clifford E. Landers

The Alchemist picked up a book that someone in the caravan had brought. Leaving through the pages, he found a story about Narcissus.

The alchemist knew the legend of Narcissus, a youth who knelt daily beside a lake to contemplate his own beauty. He was so fascinated by himself that, one morning, he fell into the lake and drowned. At the spot where he fell, a flower was born, which was called the narcissus.

But this was not how the author of the book ended the story.

He said that when Narcissus died, the goddesses of the forest appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water, transformed into a lake of salty tears.

"Why do you weep?" the goddesses asked.

"I weep for Narcissus," the lake replied.

"Ah, it is no surprise that you weep for Narcissus," they said, "for though we always pursued him in the forest, you alone could contemplate his beauty close at hand."

"But... was Narcissus beautiful?" the lake asked.

"Who better than you to know that?" the goddesses said in wonder. "After all, it was by your banks that he knelt each day to contemplate himself!"

The lake was silent for some time. Finally, it said:

" weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected."

"What a lovely story," the alchemist thought.