[Image: “Please Do Not Obstruct (Ludlow, UK),” by John E. Simpson (shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH).]
From whiskey river (italicized lines):
Ode to the Present
This
present moment,
smooth
as a wooden slab,
this
immaculate hour,
this day
pure
as a new cup
from the past—
no spider web
exists—
with our fingers,
we caress
the present; we cut it
according to our magnitude
we guide
the unfolding of its blossoms.
It is living,
alive—
it contains
nothing
from the unrepairable past,
from the lost past,
it is our
infant,
growing at
this very moment, adorned with
sand, eating from
our hands.
Grab it.
Don’t let it slip away.
Don’t lose it in dreams
or words.
Clutch it.
Tie it,
and order it
to obey you.
Make it a road,
a bell,
a machine,
a kiss, a book,
a caress.
Take a saw to its delicious
wooden
perfume.
And make a chair;
braid its
back;
test it.
Or then, build
a staircase! Yes, a
staircase.
Climb
into
the present,
step
by step,
press your feet
onto the resinous wood
of this moment,
going up,
going up,
not very high,
just so
you repair
the leaky roof.
Don’t go all the way to heaven.
Reach
for apples,
not the clouds.
Let them
fluff through the sky,
skimming passage,
into the past. You
are
your present,
your own apple.
Pick it from
your tree.
Raise it
in your hand.
It’s gleaming,
rich with stars.
Claim it.
Take a luxurious bite
out of the present,
and whistle along the road
of your destiny.
(Pablo Neruda [source])
…and:
Time is not a line but a dimension, like the dimensions of space. If you can bend space you can bend time also, and if you knew enough and could move faster than light you could travel backwards in time and exist in two places at once.
It was my brother Stephen who told me that, when he wore his raveling maroon sweater to study in and spent a lot of time standing on his head so that the blood would run down into his brain and nourish it. I didn’t understand what he meant, but maybe he didn’t explain it very well. He was already moving away from the imprecision of words.
But I began then to think of time as having a shape, something you could see, like a series of liquid transparencies, one laid on top of another. You don’t look back along time but down through it, like water. Sometimes this comes to the surface, sometimes that, sometimes nothing. Nothing goes away.
(Margaret Atwood [source])
Not from whiskey river:
Arlene and Esme
In our house we live with Arlene. My little sister has a plan.
She has what they call a beginner’s mind. She sees everything
from an un-given-up perspective. I’m frightened; I know
Arlene better than anyone; she knows me better. Esme says
if I’m scared we can’t win. But I am scared. Arlene drags me
over to the window where the black mould has made
a map of Australia. Australia gives me trouble breathing,
it’s so far away. Arlene points it out and I get the feeling
in my chest, my whole life in there twisted up like a snake.
It could bite me or her. She puts a hand on my breastbone.
You’re not strong. I want to tell her we can look after ourselves.
I want to tell her I’m in charge now, but I can still see the dark
blur at the edges. I don’t sleep anymore, my head is full
of this insomniac light. I lie awake watching over my sisters
and I listen to them breathe. Esme whispers that I should
wake her if I need to. I say I will, but I never do. Even when
I sleep I dream I can’t sleep and I’m standing there looking
down at them, the night pouring from my hands. Esme has
a future in mind. She’s always laughing. She gets up early
and makes buttermilk pancakes using normal milk soured
with lemon juice. She tries things out. Arlene tells us
to stay away from sharp things or we’ll cut ourselves. Esme
does what she likes. She grates apple for a new recipe and
cuts her knuckle and laughs. I don’t know if I can live my life.
I don’t know if I can look after someone as unafraid as Esme.
I don’t know how to change what I do, the way someone
eating soup will, out of habit, bite down. Esme laughs; she’s
serving up apple pancakes with banana and maple syrup
and she says, You are a whole person. A row of mornings fan out.
And the pancakes are sweet and slightly gummy with a salt edge.
(Emily Berry [source])
…and:
We are the driving ones
We are the driving ones.
Ah, but the step of time:
think of it as a dream
in what forever remains.All that is hurrying
soon will be over with;
only what lasts can bring
us to the truth.Young men, don’t put your trust
into the trials of flight,
into the hot and quick.All things already rest:
darkness and morning light,
flower and book.
(Rainer Maria Rilke [source])
…and:
On April 14, 1977, at dawn, I saw a cloud in the west from an island in the Pacific Northwest. The cloud looked like a fish fillet. Recently, hundreds of volunteers searched the world’s skies, but they could not find the cloud again.
(Annie Dillard [source])
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