Dogs, Lions, and Fish (Oh My!)

From whiskey river:

When you run after your thoughts, you are like a dog chasing a stick: every time a stick is thrown, you run after it. Instead, be like a lion who, rather than chasing after the stick, turns to face the thrower. One only throws a stick at a lion once.

(Milarepa)

Not from whiskey river:

The End Of March
For John Malcolm Brinnin and Bill Read: Duxbury

It was cold and windy, scarcely the day
to take a walk on that long beach
Everything was withdrawn as far as possible,
indrawn: the tide far out, the ocean shrunken,
seabirds in ones or twos.
The rackety, icy, offshore wind
numbed our faces on one side;
disrupted the formation
of a lone flight of Canada geese;
and blew back the low, inaudible rollers
in upright, steely mist.

The sky was darker than the water
—it was the color of mutton-fat jade.
Along the wet sand, in rubber boots, we followed
a track of big dog-prints (so big
they were more like lion-prints). Then we came on
lengths and lengths, endless, of wet white string,
looping up to the tide-line, down to the water,
over and over. Finally, they did end:
a thick white snarl, man-size, awash,
rising on every wave, a sodden ghost,
falling back, sodden, giving up the ghost…
A kite string?–But no kite.

I wanted to get as far as my proto-dream-house,
my crypto-dream-house, that crooked box
set up on pilings, shingled green,
a sort of artichoke of a house, but greener
(boiled with bicarbonate of soda?),
protected from spring tides by a palisade
of–are they railroad ties?
(Many things about this place are dubious.)
I’d like to retire there and do nothing,
or nothing much, forever, in two bare rooms:
look through binoculars, read boring books,
old, long, long books, and write down useless notes,
talk to myself, and, foggy days,
watch the droplets slipping, heavy with light.
At night, a grog a l’américaine.
I’d blaze it with a kitchen match
and lovely diaphanous blue flame
would waver, doubled in the window.
There must be a stove; there is a chimney,
askew, but braced with wires,
and electricity, possibly
–at least, at the back another wire
limply leashes the whole affair
to something off behind the dunes.
A light to read by–perfect! But–impossible.
And that day the wind was much too cold
even to get that far,
and of course the house was boarded up.

On the way back our faces froze on the other side.
The sun came out for just a minute.
For just a minute, set in their bezels of sand,
the drab, damp, scattered stones
were multi-colored,
and all those high enough threw out long shadows,
individual shadows, then pulled them in again.
They could have been teasing the lion sun,
except that now he was behind them
–a sun who’d walked the beach the last low tide,
making those big, majestic paw-prints,
who perhaps had batted a kite out of the sky to play with.

(Elizabeth Bishop [source (pages 15-16)])

…and:

If I Were a Dog

I would trot down this road sniffing
on one side and then the other
peeing a little here and there
wherever I felt the urge
having a good time what the hell
saving some because it’s a long road

but since I’m not a dog
I walk straight down the road
trying to get home before dark

if I were a dog and I had a master
who beat me I would run away
and go hungry and sniff around
until I found a master who loved me
I could tell by his smell and I
would lick his face so he knew

or maybe it would be a woman
I would protect her we could go
everywhere together even down this
dark road and I wouldn’t run from side
to side sniffing I would always be protecting her and I would stop
to pee only once in awhile

sometimes in the afternoon we could
go to the park and she would throw
a stick I would bring it back to her
each time I put the stick at her feet
I would say this is my heart
and she would say I will make it fly
but you must bring it back to me
I would always bring it back to her
and to no other if I were a dog

(Richard Shelton [source])

…returning to whiskey river (sharing a theme with the story of the fishes cited in last Friday’s post here at RAMH):

The moment we decide to stop and look at what is going on (like a swimmer suddenly changing course to swim upstream instead of downstream), we find ourselves battered by powerful currents we had never even suspected — precisely because until that moment we were largely living at their command.

(Stephen Batchelor, The Awakening of the West [source])

Finally, as long as we’re back in the water: Francis Albert Sinatra tackles Antonio Carlos Jobim’s “Wave.” Says allmusic about the song:

The words certainly stay true to Jobim’s themes, reflecting his Zen-like appreciation for nature, human nature, and the basic essence of life.

As usual with this little audio-player widget, click the Play button to start playing; volume control (not visible until playing begins) is the little set of parallel vertical bars on the left. Those “Zen-like” lyrics appear below.

Lyrics:

Wave
(words and music by Antonio Carlos Jobim;
performance by Frank Sinatra)

So close your eyes
For that’s a lovely way to be
Aware of things your heart alone was meant to see
The fundamental loneliness goes whenever two can dream a dream together

You can’t deny don’t try to fight the rising sea
Don’t fight the moon, the stars above and don’t fight me
The fundamental loneliness goes whenever two can dream a dream together

When I saw you first the time was half-past three
When your eyes met mine it was eternity

By now we know the wave is on its way to be
Just catch the wave don’t be afraid of loving me
The fundamental loneliness goes whenever two can dream a dream together

[instrumental break]

When I saw you first the time was half-past three
When your eyes met mine it was eternity

By now we know the wave is on its way to be
Just catch that wave don’t be afraid of loving me
The fundamental loneliness goes whenever two can dream a dream together

(For what it’s worth, Wikipedia says that in this recording, Sinatra “sung his lowest note, a low E♭.”)