Running After My Hat

Ridiculous pursuits, matters solemn and less so

On a Ship to the Outer Solar System

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[Image: “At the Hinge of Daylight (Carmel-by-the-Sea, California),” by John E. Simpson. (Shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)]

I’m going to start this Friday post, uncharacteristically, with a quotation from a source other than whiskey river — and not remotely a source I’d usually cite. (Fear not; the river‘s turn is coming.) It’s this:

The World Is Too Much With Us

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. —Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

(William Wordsworth [source])

In the face of so much wrongness in mid-2022 — I won’t bore you (or raise your blood pressure) with a catalog of specifics — who doesn’t sometimes dream, like ol’ Bill, of frolicking with the gods of antiquity? especially if the alternative is (as it seems to be) more bad news from every quarter?

Now let’s consider this, from whiskey river:

Obviously there is some risk in making affection the pivot of an argument about economy. The charge will be made that affection is an emotion, merely “subjective,” and therefore that all affections are more or less equal: people may have affection for their children and their automobiles, their neighbors and their weapons. But the risk, I think, is only that affection is personal. If it is not personal, it is nothing; we don’t, at least, have to worry about governmental or corporate affection. And one of the endeavors of human cultures, from the beginning, has been to qualify and direct the influence of emotion. The word “affection” and the terms of value that cluster around it—love, care, sympathy, mercy, forbearance, respect, reverence—have histories and meanings that raise the issue of worth. We should, as our culture has warned us over and over again, give our affection to things that are true, just, and beautiful. When we give affection to things that are destructive, we are wrong.

(Wendell Berry [source])

…and this, not from whiskey river (and a pretty fair distance from William Wordsworth, for that matter):

I spent most of my [young] life angry, a chip on my shoulder, afraid. At some moment I simply changed my mind. I decided to be happy more or less, no matter the circumstance. Whatever I have to work with, and that’s not a lot really, I tell myself: imagine you are on a ship to the outer solar system—every single experience on this earth would be welcome, good or bad. Be on that ship, for one day this will all be over. Treasure it all. Be a joyful noise.

(Rickie Lee Jones [source])

Wordsworth wasn’t wrong to feel angry and frustrated with current events. (Haha, right: like I’m sure his ghost looks down upon my approval and sighs with relief.)

But really, at any given time in recorded history, you can find many, many smart, good people who believed that the world had gone to sh!t in their lifetimes. What’s hard for anyone to bear in mind is that those lifetimes (let alone the sh!t years) are mere blips in the universe’s — or the planet’s, or their neighborhood’s — history. Over centuries and millennia, the quality of “things” smooths out. And if anything, things — the arc of human history — tend to get better over long spans of time.

The difference for our age, I think, is climate change. I don’t know that I’ll live to see how it all plays out, but I mean, come on: we collectively as well as individually simply will not live forever. And all the angry storms, floods, droughts, fires, widespread extinctions of other species — all that, I believe, is pretty much just the world expressing its distaste for us. We’ve pushed it to the limits of its patience: we are too much with the world. I doubt that we’ll “win” in the contest of wills, nature vs. humanity.

But even if my fear is right, or even if everyone else’s — that war, indecent human politics, rampant capitalism, racism, transphobia, etc., are going to destroy us or ours — is right, well… it doesn’t matter. In the meantime, we can live our lives as we maybe should have been living them all along: just paying attention to what and who are in front of us at the time. We can have happiness. We just have to choose it.

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Sorting Out the Truly Mysterious from the Merely Anomalous

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[Image: “Deep Puzzle,” by John E. Simpson. (Shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)]

This week, whiskey river offered me one quotation which especially intrigued me — sending me on an extended read of the source material:

Can you explain why it is that there are, at last count, sixteen schools of psychotherapy with sixteen theories of the personality and its disorders and that patients treated in one school seem to do as well or as badly as patients treated in any other—while there is only one generally accepted theory of the cause and cure of pneumococcal pneumonia and only one generally accepted theory of the orbits of the planets and the gravitational attraction of our galaxy and the galaxy M31 in Andromeda? (Hint: If you answer that the human psyche is more complicated than the pneumococcus and the human white-cell response or the galaxies or Einstein’s general theory of relativity, keep in mind that the burden of proof is on you. Or if you answer that the study of the human psyche is in its infancy, remember then this infancy has lasted 2,500 years and, unlike physics, we don’t seem to know much more about the psyche than Plato did.)

(Walker Percy [source])

That Percy quotation, as it happens, follows a brief discussion of the mystery of astrology — the mystery that, and why, astrology is so easily attended to, by so many, on a daily basis. Before and after it all, in the original source, I found these passages (among others):

Imagine that you are reading a book about the Cosmos. You find it so interesting that you go out and buy a telescope. One fine clear moonless night you set up your telescope and focus on the brightest star in the sky. It is a planet, not a star, with a reddish spot and several moons. Excited, you look up the planets in your book about the Cosmos. You read a description of the planets. You read a sentence about a large yellowish planet with a red spot and several moons. You recognize both the description and the picture. Clearly, you have been looking at Jupiter.

You have no difficulty at all in saying that it is Jupiter, not Mars or Saturn, even though the object you are looking at is something you have never seen before and is hundreds of millions of miles distant.

…

You have seen yourself a thousand times in the mirror, face to face. No sight is more familiar. Yet why is it that the first time you see yourself in a clothier’s triple mirror—from the side, so to speak—it comes as a shock? Or the first time you saw yourself in a home movie: were you embarrassed? What about the first time you heard your recorded voice—did you recognize it? Clearly, you should, since you’ve been hearing it all your life.

Why is it that, when you are shown a group photograph in which you are present, you always (and probably covertly) seek yourself out? To see what you look like? Don’t you know what you look like?

Has this ever happened to you? You are walking along a street of stores. There are other people walking. You catch a glimpse in a store window of a reflection of a person. For a second or so you do not recognize the person. He, she, seems a total stranger. Then you realize it is your own reflection. Then in a kind of transformation, the reflection does in fact become your familiar self.

One of the peculiar ironies of being a human self in the Cosmos: A stranger approaching you in the street will in a second’s glance see you whole, size you up, place you in a way in which you cannot and never will, even though you have spent a lifetime with yourself, live in the Century of the Self, and therefore ought to know yourself best of all.

The question is: Why is it that in your entire lifetime you will never be able to size yourself up as you can size up somebody else—or size up Saturn—in a ten-second look?

Why is it that the look of another person looking at you is different from everything else in the Cosmos? That is to say, looking at lions or tigers or Saturn or the Ring Nebula or at an owl or at another person from the side is one thing, but finding yourself looking into the eyes of another person looking at you is something else. And why is it that one can look at a lion or a planet or an owl or at someone’s finger as long as one pleases, but looking into the eyes of another person is, if prolonged past a second, a perilous affair?

(Walker Percy [source: ibid.])

Finally, from among some other things I read this week which addressed the inherent weirdness of being human:

It’s OK to be in this body… it seems to me the basic experience of being human is pleasant. One’s body is basically happy to be here. Of course, there can be all kinds of difficulties, illness, and injury and all other kinds of things that get in the way of that. As I get older, and certainly through the year of having COVID, I’ve plenty of pretty strong and ongoing unpleasantness going on in bodily life. And yet still, it’s sort of like one’s soul is happy to be alive. We were made to be alive, at least for a decade or few. Underneath our neuroses and all our pushing and pulling, most deeply, we’re glad to be here. Connecting to that—in fact, just the retreat I gave last week, the first day or two of the instructions, I talked about pleasure more than I might usually, just connecting to the pleasure of relaxation, the pleasure of the fact that you’re able to breathe. People really remarked on it, during the retreat, how much of a resource it was. Whatever else is going on, you can actually, as you settle down to meditation before your legs start to hurt and everything else, just to find some way you can connect with a sense that it’s good to be here, some sense you’re glad to be here, some way in which your belly is glad to relax or your your breath is pleasurable to come in and out. It’s a really helpful resource, especially as people end up making meditation into this kind of chore or this thing they’re supposed to do that’s good for them rather than this moment, I get to sit down in myself.

(Martin Aylward [source])

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Potpourri: June 17-18 (2022 Edition)

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[Image: “Almost All Elephant,” by John E. Simpson. (Shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)]

Technically, it’s still the evening of June 17 — a day early for my annual June 18th post, and (because it’s a Friday) technically requiring of me a whiskey river Friday post. On the other hand, because (a) I will on June 18 be driving from Carmel-by-the-Sea, California, to Yosemite National Park, and (b) I give myself blanket permission every June 18 to blog about whatever I want… well, you, dear reader, get this mishmash.

So let’s give whiskey river the floor, and see where our anonymous friend leads us. Like, here:

To be is to have mortal shape, mortal conditions, to struggle, to evolve. Paradise is, like the dream of the Buddhists, a Nirvana where there is no more personality and hence no conflict. It is the expression of man’s wish to triumph over reality, over becoming. The artist’s dream of the impossible, the miraculous, is simply the resultant of his inability to adapt himself to reality. He creates, therefore, a reality of his own—in the poem—a reality which is suitable to him, a reality in which he can live out his unconscious desires, wishes, dreams. The poem is the dream made flesh, in a two-fold sense: as work of art, and as life, which is a work of art. When man becomes fully conscious of his powers, his role, his destiny, he is an artist and he ceases his struggle with reality.

(Henry Miller [source])

…and here:

The Elephant in The Room

The room is
almost all
elephant.
Almost none
of it isn’t.
Pretty much
solid elephant.
So there’s no
room to talk
about it.

(Kay Ryan [source])

Kay Ryan’s poem is one of numerous poems, by numerous poets, in a collection regarding (as the title says) “Resistance, Rebellion, Life.” Like the other poems in the book, “The Elephant in the Room” is manifestly political in nature. But it also says something to me, on the occasion of turning one more than my allotted three score and ten — specifically, it says something to me in the context of Henry Miller’s quotation above:

I’ve thought a lot, in the last year, about the fact that my verbal self — at least, the storytelling facet of that self — seems to have moved somewhere offshore, out of reach. It’s absconded, gone…

Part of me imagines that bringing my “big book” to fruition still lies ahead. When I started to tell that story of four old guys — retirees — and a nephew (and niece-in-law) of one of them, thirty years ago, what the hell did I know about old guys’ minds, motivations, disappointments, fears? (Haha — I barely knew anything about my own.) So maybe, I tell myself, maybe now at last I’ll be able to bring that story fully into the light, with some firsthand knowledge of those characters’ inner lives…

But then there’s another, less sanguine voice in my head. I know that I don’t have another three decades to continue to mess around with it all. I’m not even sure it’s worth messing around with, y’know?

And, well, let’s face it: as long as The Missus and I remain rootless, as a practical matter there’s just no way I’ll ever be able to sit down, day after day, to do the spadework required even of a story in which I had 100% confidence.

It’s a hell of a thing, I’ll tell you.

On yet another hand, I’ve got my photography to keep me humming along on at least a couple of cylinders in the meantime. While we’re at Yosemite, I’ll be taking a half-day course called “In the Footsteps of Ansel Adams” (whose exquisite black-and-white photographs engraved that National Park in the national imagination). I don’t think I’d find fulfillment in recreating or replicating Adams’s work (as though such a goal would be possible), but I’m looking forward to entering into something like a mystical, posthumous conversation with him — kind of like the Reddit “Ask Me Anything” dialogues, which illuminate unknown or forgotten aspects of a pop-culture figure’s life and work for the benefit of anyone paying attention.

It won’t be the same thing as storytelling, I know — it won’t be a narrative which results. But maybe, just maybe, it’ll help me say something enduring.

We’ll see (as we generally do, heh).

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Talking Ourselves into Disaster

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[Image: “Twisting on the Rim,” by John E. Simpson. (Shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)]

Thanks to the vagaries of our travel schedule this week, today’s post may seem — seem (?) — sketchy and amorphous. But that’s only because I lack the time to fill in the gaps; I’m sure you, whoever you are, can supply the necessary spackling yourself — especially if you’ve seen how this works over the years, especially recently! So let’s lay it out there — first, from whiskey river (italicized lines):

Little Epiphanies

The difference between what’s required
and what’s desired is the difference

between the chocolate and the cake,
the car and the new car smell, the nightie

and the night. There’s so much I want
to twist round my fingers, to stroke

and stir, sketch and stretch, but so much
I should sweep and scrub, strip

and sterilize. But I’d rather wring dirt
from my pores, turn it to ink instead,

rather scurry to my driveway to study
the moon’s abrupt phrases than kneel

with bucket and mop to banish shadows
that have sprung up on my kitchen

floor, darkening my soles as if I were
anointed, a kind of low-rent henna

for the lazy and uninhibited.
I should keep the unmentionables

unmentioned, nudity prohibited,
purses to a minimum, but I thrive

on clutter—my gaudy bras and bags
of yarn, my malfunctioning pens,

last chance reams of slightly damaged
paper. The difference between what’s whole

and what’s held, what’s withheld
or revealed, what’s real and what’s

revelation—that’s what I seek,
rest of my life spent in search

of little epiphanies, tiny sparks surging
out of the brain during the clumsiest speech.

(Allison Joseph [source])

…and then a couple of bits not from whiskey river:

…a record-high gap has opened up between Americans’ personal attitudes and their evaluations of the country. In early 2022, Gallup found that Americans’ satisfaction with “the way things are going in personal life” neared a 40-year high, even as their satisfaction with “the way things are going in the U.S.” neared a 40-year low. On top of the old and global tendency to assume most people are doing worse than they say they are is a growing American tendency to be catastrophically gloomy about the direction of this country, even as we’re resiliently sunny about our own household’s future.

…Sure, voters like to hate things at the national and abstract levels, which seems to open the door for bold change. But because most Americans say they’re personally fine, they might resist too much experimentation. This creates a confusing voting bloc, which is constantly angry about the state of things, but also fundamentally conservative about any change that overturns their “rather happy” life and “at least okay” finances.

I have a final theory of what’s going on here. With greater access to news on social media and the internet, Americans are more deluged than they used to be by depressing stories. (And the news cycle really can be pretty depressing!) This is leading to a kind of perma-gloom about the state of the world, even as we maintain a certain resilience about the things that we have the most control over. Beyond the diverse array of daily challenges that Americans face, many of us seem to be suffering from something related to the German concept of weltschmerz, or world-sadness. It’s mediaschmerz—a sadness about the news cycle and news media, which is distinct from the experience of our everyday life. I’m not entirely sure if I think this is good or bad. It simply is. Individual hope and national despair are not contradictions. For now, they form the double helix of the American spirit.

(Derek Thompson [source])

…and:

Lilies

I have been thinking
about living
like the lilies
that blow in the fields.

They rise and fall
in the wedge of the wind,
and have no shelter
from the tongues of the cattle,

and have no closets or cupboards,
and have no legs.
Still I would like to be
as wonderful

as that old idea.
But if I were a lily
I think I would wait all day
for the green face

of the hummingbird
to touch me.
What I mean is,
could I forget myself

even in those feathery fields?
When van Gogh
preached to the poor
of course he wanted to save someone—

most of all himself.
He wasn’t a lily,
and wandering through the fields
only gave him more ideas

it would take his life to solve.
I think I will always be lonely
in this world, where the cattle
graze like a black and white river,

where the ravishing lilies
melt, without protest, on their tongues—
where the hummingbird, whenever there is a fuss,
just rises and floats away.

(Mary Oliver [source])

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Now, and Then, and Every Catastrophic Now and Then in Between…

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[Image: “Tree as River of Time,” by John E. Simpson. (Shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)]

I don’t know much about self-identified “poet, teacher, and storyteller” Mark Nepo — not more than I gathered on a quick run through Wikipedia and his Web site a few minutes ago. So I can’t say, y’know, that I can recommend much let alone everything he’s written. But a week ago, whiskey river offered up a one-paragraph sample; in the event, I didn’t see it until two days ago: the day of the horrific school shooting in Uvalde, Texas. The sample, and the prescient coincidence of its whiskey river posting vis-a-vis the headlines and developing story, quite shook me. So I sought out the entire piece from which the whiskey river excerpt came. You can read it here (originally published in the magazine in 2013, re-run at the site in 2016).

For now, though, here is the paragraph cited by the river, and the equally striking one which precedes it:

Each of us must make our peace with suffering and especially unnecessary suffering, which doesn’t mean our resignation to a violent world. For the fully engaged heart is the antibody for the infection of violence. As our heart breaks with compassion, it strengthens itself and all of humanity. Can I prove this? No. Am I certain of it? Yes. We are still here. Immediately, someone says, “Barely.” But we are still here: more alive than dead, more vulnerable than callous, more kind than cruel — though we each carry the lot of it.

That we go numb along the way is to be expected. Even the bravest among us, who give their lives to care for others, go numb with fatigue, when the heart can take in no more, when we need time to digest all we meet. Overloaded and overwhelmed, we start to pull back from the world, so we can internalize what the world keeps giving us. Perhaps the noblest private act is the unheralded effort to return: to open our hearts once they’ve closed, to open our souls once they’ve shied away, to soften our minds once they’ve been hardened by the storms of our day.

(Mark Nepo [source])

(Aside: as I said, I myself know little about Mark Nepo. But this isn’t his first appearance at RAMH, all of them on Fridays, unsurprisingly. Maybe I should dive a little deeper.)

The day before the shooting, whiskey river added the following, which feels like something of a postscript to Nepo’s piece:

Do not dwell in the mistakes of the past. Do not lose yourself in the castles of the future and do not give your authenticity away to experts, gurus, government commissions, bosses, wives, mates — take back your mind and your body and begin to engage with the fact that you are alive, you are going to die, nobody knows what being alive is and nobody knows what dying is. You’re involved in a mysterious engagement where every living moment presents you with mystery, opportunity, and wonder. There is no mundane dimension, really. If you have the eyes to see it, it’s all transcendental.

(Terence McKenna [source, apparently])

When the news is so appalling that it seems everyone is talking about it — especially online — what else, really, can be said? I don’t feel equipped to inspire people to action, one way or the other. I have no “power” — not even readership, really. It’s fun to fantasize myself in the role of a latter-day knight-errant, roaming the Internet and rallying people — Americans — to a cause…

But there are so many causes to rally them to.

One thing I’ve noticed — from my position on the left of the spectrum — is that we become outraged over causes in seriatim, one at a time. We’re outrage generalists: we freak out about guns, and then there’s a climate disaster on one coast or another, and then there’s a heinous law passed in State A (and copycat laws in States B, C, D, and E), and then… Personally, I think we suffer from then-exhaustion. It never stops. And when it seems momentarily to have backed off, for relief we turn to the media (news and social) for fresh, if less consequential, subjects of outrage: celebrity scandals, foreign wars, music and other artistic works which are, in truth, no worse than not my taste, of course the egos of the super-rich and -famous.

I wish it were possible for us to organize ourselves along more specialized lines, without trying to fix it ALL. It can’t ALL be fixed at once, and it can’t ALL be fixed by parceling out our outrage, pointlessly, in bursts which last only as long as the current news cycle. But if we could just group ourselves, y’know? Cluster, with others of like mind, around the one cause we feel most motivated to act on and competent to contribute to, actively and not passively. Sure, there would be drift, if for no other reason than to prevent burnout on the ramparts. But a little drift out and back would be healthy, renewing our own spirits and reigniting our own passions (as well as those of the new, temporary group)…

Wish-fulfillment, no doubt. But ask the bees and the ants, ask— oh, hell, I don’t know; ask the members of any other damned social species except humans. They’ll tell you. Just look at them. They don’t all work on solving every single problem facing the group. They don’t work in series, either. (Picturing the discussion: “Okay gang, now let’s all run over here and tackle this mess!” “But what about the mess we’re already tackling? It’s still a mess—” “Don’t worry! We’ll get back to it!” Etc. Ridiculous.) They work in parallel. The drones do this. The workers do that. The hunters do one thing, and the nurturers the other.

Could we?

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A Figure, Seen from the Back, Forever Approaching

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[Image: “Mind Your Head,” by John E. Simpson. (Shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)]

We will be leaving Las Vegas on June 1 — headed first for the Grand Canyon, and then for a Grand Tour of California: Joshua Tree, and then over to San Diego and on up the coast to see the redwoods in the north. (We’ll do a little jog east for Yosemite and Tahoe, somewhere in the middle.) Neither of us has spent much time in the state before — no time at all since we’ve been together (pushing 30 years now)… so we’re looking forward to making its acquaintance, even for just the month we’re there. I wonder if we’ll recognize each of the sights we’ve always imagined, separately and as one?

Of course, with less than two weeks left before we hit the road again, this time for 100% unknown territory, I approached whiskey river this week not with trepidation, but with a certain, well, mindset — my mind’s eye turned to horizons never before seen. And found:

Imaginary Paintings

1. How I Would Paint the Future

A strip of horizon and a figure,
seen from the back, forever approaching.

2. How I Would Paint Happiness

Something sudden, a windfall,
a meteor shower. No—
a flowering tree releasing
all its blossoms at once,
and the one standing beneath it
unexpectedly robed in bloom,
transformed into a stranger
too beautiful to touch.

3. How I Would Paint Death

White on white or black on black.
No ground, no figure. An immense canvas,
which I will never finish.

4. How I Would Paint Love

I would not paint love.

5. How I Would Paint the Leap of Faith

A black cat jumping up three feet
to reach a three-inch shelf.

Smooth, and deceptively small
so that it can be swallowed
like something we take for a cold.
An elongated capsule,
an elegant cylinder,
sweet and glossy,
that pleases the tongue
and goes down easy,
never mind
the poison inside.

6. How I Would Paint the Big Lie

7. How I Would Paint Nostalgia

An old-fashioned painting, a genre piece.
People in bright and dark clothing.
A radiant bride in white
standing above a waterfall,
watching the water rush
away, away, away.

(Lisel Mueller [source])

Closer to home, such as it is, I spent the last week forcing myself to read a book by an author with whom I was completely unfamiliar. Now, I am typically a generous reader — inclined to give every author the benefit of even many doubts. This particular author — let’s call them X — has apparently had a very successful career so far: numerous novels, a Pushcart Prize for short stories, many loyal readers. The book I read was the first of a new series with an intriguing premise: a young true-crime reporter, a woman at that, in 1880s New York City. All of which hinted at the prospect of a quick, light read, very much what I was looking for after Richard Powers’s The Overstory…

Obviously I’m being a little coy about not identifying X or even X’s book. That I caught up with it, took it by the shoulders and turned it around — only to wince at what I’d committed to — well, yes, I was very, very disappointed. But disappointment isn’t an objective perception; it has more to do with the expectations brought to an experience than it has to do with the experience itself, and to this extent it reveals a flaw between one’s own ears — not necessarily (in this case) a flaw between an author’s.

All that level-headedness and high-minded professionalism aside, I can’t resist wrapping up this post something as follows:

Imaginary Paintings (cont’d)

8. How I Would Paint X’s Book

Gray corseted prose,
draping shirt-cardboard figures.
Statements of the obvious
cribbed from Wikipedia
and offered to the reader
in colored-cellophane drapery,
as though transparent giftwrap
could transfigure misshapen contents.
A finish line staggered across,
breathlessly, panting for refreshment.

(JES)

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Finding the End in the Middle

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[Image: “Lemme Out!,” by Alan Levine. Found it on Flickr, of course; there, the photographer explains that he released the wasp unharmed after taking the photo — and pleads, jokingly, for a bit of karmic payback for his good deed. But in the context of this week’s post, I couldn’t help thinking of the wasp’s own experience of karma, before and after release…]

Let’s talk about karma — that mysterious force of revenge or redemption, that Thing Out There which either comes back to bite us or secures our place among the angels (depending on the sort of life we’ve led). Curse or comfort: you pick (because if you don’t, it will happily pick for you!).

I’ve always been suspicious of karma, at least as the term is casually and most often used; if it were actually “true” then the universe must suddenly — instantly — have become much more automated than I’d ever imagined it could be — a condition which seemed at odds with the chaotic jumble of non-cause-and-unlikely-effect I could see just by looking around at a given moment.

(Not of course that I was worried about karma — that dire consequences might lurk around the corner for me, or, for that matter, that fame and fortune lurk there. I haven’t led anywhere near a blameless life, the gods (and far too many humans!) know, but I haven’t been a horrible person, either. I just figure what happens, happens.)

But karma turns out to be a useful concept if you stop thinking about it as a scorekeeping — an accounting — tool. Suppose you imagine the ideal-to-you you, using whatever yardstick you’d like. How would you set out to make that happen? I mean, I don’t know anything about “you” out there, but I bet just going through this mental exercise will move you in the direction of what you’ve imagined. That turns karma not into a force imposed on you from the outside, but into a force sprung from you yourself…

A couple of readings this week along these lines. First, per usual, here’s one from whiskey river (italicized lines) a few days ago:

A Color of the Sky

Windy today and I feel less than brilliant,
driving over the hills from work.
There are the dark parts on the road
when you pass through clumps of wood
and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean,
but that doesn’t make the road an allegory.

I should call Marie and apologize
for being so boring at dinner last night,
but can I really promise not to be that way again?
And anyway, I’d rather watch the trees, tossing
in what certainly looks like sexual arousal.

Otherwise it’s spring, and everything looks frail;
the sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leaves
are full of infant chlorophyll,
the very tint of inexperience.

Last summer’s song is making a comeback on the radio,
and on the highway overpass,
the only metaphysical vandal in America has written
MEMORY LOVES TIME
in big black spraypaint letters,

which makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back.

Last night I dreamed of X again.
She’s like a stain on my subconscious sheets.
Years ago she penetrated me
but though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed,
I never got her out,
but now I’m glad.

What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle.
What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel.
What I thought was an injustice
turned out to be a color of the sky.

Outside the youth center, between the liquor store
and the police station,
a little dogwood tree is losing its mind;

overflowing with blossomfoam,
like a sudsy mug of beer;
like a bride ripping off her clothes,

dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds,

so Nature’s wastefulness seems quietly obscene.
It’s been doing that all week:
making beauty,
and throwing it away,
and making more.

(Tony Hoagland [source])

…and then, not from whiskey river but from a newsletter I subscribe to (an issue in my inbox this week):

Many often mistake karma for the notion of a fixed destiny. It is more like an accumulation of tendencies that can lock us into particular behavior patterns, which themselves result in further accumulations of tendencies of a similar nature. So, it is easy to become imprisoned by our karma and to think that the cause always lies elsewhere—with other people and conditions beyond our control, never within ourselves. But it is not necessary to be a prisoner of old karma. It is always possible to change your karma. You can make new karma. But there is only one time that you ever have to do it. Can you guess when that might be?

[…]

The very act of stopping, of nurturing moments of non-doing, of simply watching, puts you on an entirely different footing vis-à-vis the future. How? Because it is only by being fully in this moment that any future moment might be one of greater understanding, clarity, and kindness, one less dominated by fear or hurt and more by dignity and acceptance. Only what happens now happens later. If there is no mindfulness or equanimity or compassion now, in the only time we ever have to contact it and nourish ourselves, how likely is it that it will magically appear later, under stress or duress?

(Jon Kabat-Zinn [source])

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RAMH@14.005479: In Search of Stasis

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[Image: Cover of Off Flew the Hat, a 2017 children’s book by Nili Ariely about — apparently — the pleasures of writing a blog over the course of many years. Says the description at that Amazon page, it’s about “about the wonders of discovery and friendship.” But even absent the latter — fresh friendships and shared discoveries — there’s always the thrill of a new discovery for oneself…]

In a typical week, whiskey river offers me at least one solid tie-in to something I’ve been thinking about. This week, a bonus: it floated two selections my way appropriate to the post’s theme. First:

The Mountain

My students look at me expectantly.
I explain to them that the life of art is a life
of endless labor. Their expressions
hardly change; they need to know
a little more about endless labor.
So I tell them the story of Sisyphus,
how he was doomed to push
a rock up a mountain, knowing nothing
would come of this effort
but that he would repeat it
indefinitely. I tell them
there is joy in this, in the artist’s life,
that one eludes
judgment, and as I speak
I am secretly pushing a rock myself,
slyly pushing it up the steep
face of a mountain.
Why do I lie
to these children? They aren’t listening,
they aren’t deceived, their fingers
tapping at the wooden desks—
So I retract
the myth; I tell them it occurs
in hell, and that the artist lies
because he is obsessed with attainment,
that he perceives the summit
as that place where he will live forever,
a place about to be
transformed by his burden: with every breath,
I am standing at the top of the mountain.
Both my hands are free. And the rock has added
height to the mountain.

(Louise Glück [source])

… and then there’s this:

Rising in Perilous Hope

What can I hold in my hands this morning
that will not flow through my fingers?
What words can I say that will catch
in your mind like burrs, chiggers that burrow?
If my touch could heal, I would lay my hands
on your bent head and bellow prayers.
If my words could change the weather
or the government or the way the world
twists and guts us, fast or slow,
what could I do but what I do now?
I fit words together and say them;
it is a given like the color of my eyes.
I hope it makes a small difference, as
I hope the drought will break and the morning
come rising out of the ocean wearing
a cloak of clean sweet mist and swirling terns.

(Marge Piercy [source])

Aside from the fact of, well, duh, Friday, today’s post has one other raison d’être, as I hinted a week ago: today is the 14th anniversary (plus a couple days, hence the nerd-jokey post title) of my first post at Running After My Hat.

Some statistics, since then:

  • 1,667 posts, or about 119 posts a year (1,805 total, counting those I haven’t actually published for one reason or another)
  • 104 pages (120 total)
  • 7,176 comments (2,645 of which have been mine; plus 12 “in moderation”)

…and some thoughts about those statistics:

119 posts a year — two to three every week — sounds weirdly inflated even to me. But that’s only because I, and almost certainly you, have gotten used to the Fridays-only tempo around here. There was a time (he said, propping up his feet on a cracker barrel and lifting a harmonica to his lips to maximize the nostalgic moment) when I was determined to write a post every single day — and for a brief while actually did so. What happened? Just the usual: the world moves on, and we move on with it… especially online, when today’s Hot Tech (e.g., blogging) becomes tomorrow’s Quaint Handicraft. Maybe we need an Etsy just for blogs.

The “pages” count is probably about right, although I’ve never tried to verify it. A page is WordPress’s version of an undated diary entry. The top menu here shows you, apart from the “Home” link, links to four such pages:

The fact that you can see only four there points out a distinguishing feature of pages vs. posts: the former can be “found” pretty much only if the blogger has chosen to link to them. The pages themselves may lead you to other pages and/or to actual posts — you can see examples of both by clicking on that About Running After My Hat link at the top of the blog.

So what about the other 116 “pages”? What’s on them?

Some are private — scratchpad-type things, notes to myself (especially about the blog) and so on; you can’t find them by searching the Web, say. Some are password-protected, meaning I’ve shared them with other parties for particular reason(s) — you might be able to find links/references to one in a Web search, but without the proper password you couldn’t actually read the contents. (A good example: a series of pages I used while participating in an online writer’s workshop about six years ago — taking apart and reassembling a novel in which I’ve invested a lot of time and energy. Other workshop participants could read those pages because I’d shared the password with them.) Back in 2012, I wrote The Propagational Library, a science-fiction novella (sort of) by posting one chapter a week, in “real time” (meaning, the chapters as posted were first drafts, posted the day I wrote them) — and indexed them all, with some general commentary, on a single “table of contents” sort of page.

The rest? I’m not sure how to characterize them… You’ll just have to find them the same way I did a moment ago: by poking around to see where the hyperlinks lead you. (The links to actual posts here look like this: https://johnesimpson.com/blog/[yyyy]/[mm]/[title, in compact form] — if a link directs you to a RAMH resource which has no [yyyy] or [mm] component, you can bet it’s a page and not a post; the posts are always dated.)

Anyway, about today’s post’s title: yes, I’m getting a bit restless. But it’s a peculiar sort of restlessness — I’m wanting to, well, be parked somewhere for a while — somewhere I can think of as “home,” physically, really, geographically. (We’ve been parked with The Stepson since mid-December, but that’s only a borrowed, temporary resting spot, good only until we hit the road again in a few weeks; I’m restless, that is, to really come to rest.)

In a bloggish sense, though, I’m equally restless. I can’t recapture the “feel” of blogging in the early 2000s, when loose groups of a few dozen people who didn’t even know one another in real life would chance to gather (not in so many words) and “listen to” one another, round-robin style, and then to “talk” for a little while about the monologue they’d just read. These days, the choices seem to be:

  • Quick one- or two-paragraph (if that) pronouncements of one kind or another, which may or may not draw anyone else into a conversation;
  • “influencer”-focused long-form writings, via the likes of Substack, Medium, etc., in which Big Names craft professional essays upon which their audiences may comment but not really in the form of conversation (it’s like the sotto-voce muttering during a theatrical intermission); and
  • maybe — maybe — podcasts, to which I will never adapt because, y’know, hearing (and also because these are really just audio versions of the long-form Substack/Medium essays, with the additional option of including more than one “influencer” at a time, in conversation).

But I don’t despair. I think I can find value in writing regularly again, even if no one ever reads it — just because, by posting it in the open, I’ve exposed myself to the danger opportunity mere chance that someone might drop in…

In the meantime, I thank you — whoever you are, however (in)frequent a visitor you might be — for visiting Running After My Hat. I appreciate knowing you might be out there!

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There’ll Be New Dreams, Maybe Better Dreams and Plenty…

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[Image: “Outliers (Hiding in the Crowd),” by John E. Simpson. (Shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)]

The Missus and I have been more or less parked here in Las Vegas since mid-December. It’s been nice — at least from our perspective, haha — to share some extended time with The Stepson, and our stereotypically-Vegas activities (casinos, shows, fine dining) have been practically nonexistent… so it’s been good to just, y’know, depressurize after the fits-and-starts dash across the country that took up our last four or five months of 2021. Now it’s April, solidly into springtime, and a certain restlessness is setting in: time to hit the road again, aimed — however indirectly — back at the East Coast.

But first, well, it’s April. We have a clutch of medical/dental appointments lined up next week — just regular checkups — back in the last place we called home, in North Florida. So we’ll fly back for that, and while we’re in the state we’ll also spend a couple weeks with family and friends before heading back here.

But, ahem, as I was saying: It’s April. And whiskey river has taken the opportunity to remind me of the month’s mixed signals:

April

How the light is sad.
How it will not leave us alone.
How we are tugged up staircases
by the way it angles across landings.
Or just our faces—tipped
to the clear, depleted sky.
How because of sunset, the imagination
headquarters in the west.

Spring in the north: all that
tawny grass and gravel and nothing
green to sop up the excessive honesty.

Outside our windows,
something like youth or promises.
How the wind blows right through them,
blossoming. Fleet.

(Jan Zwicky [source])

Whenever and wherever we finally settle down, sometime in a few months (“few” even more loosely defined than usual), the two of us agree that a chief motivator for us will be the priority to the household of a dog. It’s been four-and-a-half years since The Pooch died, and we just can’t stand being dogless anymore.

Happily, then, and happily along several dimensions, as I sought to come up with something to complement — and perhaps answer — Jan Zwicky’s poem, I came across this:

April

The optimists among us
taking heart because it is spring
skip along
attending their meetings
signing their e-mail petitions
marching with their satiric signs
singing their we shall overcome songs
posting their pungent twitters and blogs
believing in a better world
for no good reason
I envy them
said the old woman

The seasons go round they
go round and around
said the tulip
dancing among her friends
in their brown bed in the sun
in the April breeze
under a maple canopy
that was also dancing
only with greater motions
casting greater shadows
and the grass
hardly stirring

What a concerto
of good stinks said the dog
trotting along Riverside Drive
in the early spring afternoon
sniffing this way and that
how gratifying the cellos of the river
the tubas of the traffic
the trombones
of the leafing elms with the legato
of my rivals’ piss at their feet
and the leftover meat and grease
singing along in all the wastebaskets

(Alicia Ostriker [source])

…and then again, this:

April Is a Dog’s Dream

april is a dog’s dream
the soft grass is growing
the sweet breeze is blowing
the air all full of singing feels just right
so no excuses now
we’re going to the park
to chase and charge and chew
and I will make you see
what spring is all about

(Marilyn Singer [source])

Woof!, eh?

______________

Note: This week’s whiskey river Fridays post comes to you courtesy of, well, Thursday: Friday is our day to fly back to Florida (translation: chaos). As for the next couple of weeks, well, let’s just take them as they come. (For one thing, Running After My Hat turns 14 the middle of next week…) Thanks in any case, and as ever, for visiting RAMH!

Note 2: By the way, this post’s title alludes — as I believe Alicia Ostriker’s “April” may allude — to Joni Mitchell’s “The Circle Game.”

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Watching Yourself Stumble Through a Crowded Labyrinth

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Dragon*con 2010

[Image: “Dragon*con 2010,” by Ethan Trewhitt. (This is just a static frame from a video a little over a minute in length; you can click on the image to see the video itself, over on Flickr. In any case, of course, I use it here under a Creative Commons license.) Says the caption, in part: “The Marriott lobby, crowded with the costumed and uncostumed, brims with disorder as people move in every direction at once. I think that it would be fascinating to track each individual person in this video and view their course as they navigate the maze and simultaneously create it by simply existing.” Implicit in the caption: that Trewitt himself added to the tumult… by simply existing. Heh.]

The French philosopher Henri Bergson has had a rather muddled, on-again/off-again reputation over the decades since he lived and died (1941). Philosophical controversy, of course, does not at all resemble pop-culture controversy — no one, to my knowledge, has accused him of scandalous personal behavior. But jeez, philosophers can sure fight zealously among themselves; this seems especially so when their philosophies depend, as Bergson’s apparently did, on deep understanding of other fields, particularly science and mathematics.

Anyway, I’ve never read a complete work of his, only excerpts quoted by others. It no doubt reflects my own lack of intellectual rigor that such excerpts have struck me as completely reasonable. Take, for example, the following from a recent whiskey river post:

Fortunately, some are born with spiritual immune systems that sooner or later give rejection to the illusory worldview grafted upon them from birth through social conditioning. They begin sensing that something is amiss, and start looking for answers. Inner knowledge and anomalous outer experiences show them a side of reality others are oblivious to, and so begins their journey of awakening.

Each step of the journey is made by following the heart instead of following the crowd and by choosing knowledge over the veils of ignorance.

(Henri Bergson [source])

I read through that essay (from 2015, and not by Bergson himself) at the link provided by whiskey river. Therein I found a nice metaphor — certainly for contemporary “civilized” life:

Picture yourself in a giant labyrinth. Billions of other people are also in the labyrinth, but it is so large and wild that you only see a minuscule fraction of them. At the end of the labyrinth is a nebulous It, a prize with no concrete existence, that means something slightly different to each of the maze’s travelers. You sometimes worry as you wander through the maze if you’ll ever reach It, or if there even is an It. You see some people running through the maze, knocking others over in the process, thirsty to finally discover It. Some people aren’t even moving at all, just hanging out, sitting against one of the tall hedges within the maze.

You can choose to judge the people who are unlike you in how they approach the maze’s challenge. Or, you can talk to them, show them respect and try to learn something from them as you work your way through the maze. You may find yourself in a standstill at times, or in a sprint.

What must be remembered over all else is that you’re in a maze. You’re part of the game, and it’s not just your game — it’s everyone’s.

(Charlie Ambler [source])

Sometime back in the 1980s, I worked as a computer programmer for a giant international telecommunications firm. Because our management was enlightened, we occasionally had chances to attend presentations and seminars outside our specific area of expertise, especially if they were clearly business-oriented somehow. One of these I remember was a small group session, led by guy who’d developed his own desk-calendar system of logging upcoming appointments, noting their results, and annotating those results in some structured way. (This was just at the very dawn of the personal-computer era, so it was all done via paper, held in a special leather-covered binder for which — naturally — he would be happy to supply the custom pages to support the whole system.)

I don’t think any of us present followed his system for more than a month. But the guy was an entertaining, self-deprecatory speaker, and it was hard not to like him. I never forgot one of his points:

He was talking about rush-hour traffic jams, especially in the summer. You’d be sitting there fuming, sometimes glancing nervously at the dashboard temperature gauge, and you might spend 10-15-20 minutes at a time without moving more than a few feet. Eventually your frustration would boil over and you’d start to project outwards. You’d glance around to the side, in your rear-view mirror, and you’d think: Look at all these idiots. All this traffic. Where are all these idiots going at the same time? What do they think they’re doing? Why are they in my way, and why the hell aren’t they moving?!?

And then, they guy said, sometimes if you were lucky, it would suddenly hit you: You’re out there too — the guy laughed at this point, as he pointed at each of us in the small room — you’re the traffic!

I always loved that story.

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