Sky-Blessed

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[Image: ‘Untitled, Hateruma-jima, Okinawa, 1971,’ by Shomei Tomatsu]

From whiskey river:

How to Grow Clouds

It takes a lot of work: it is necessary to weed very carefully, to toss out muck and small stones by hand, to kneel on the earth, bend over, dig about in the soil, water profusely, collect caterpillars, exterminate aphids, loosen the ground and serve the earth; when your back hurts from all this and you straighten up and look at the sky, you will have the prettiest clouds.

(Karel Capek, translated by Andrew Malcovsky)

…and:

Postscript

And some time make the time to drive out west
into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
in September or October, when the wind
and the light are working off each other
so that the ocean on one side is wild
with foam and glitter, and inland among stones
the surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
by the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,
their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
their fully grown headstrong-looking heads
tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you’ll park and capture it
more thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
a hurry through which known and strange things pass
as big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
and catch the heart off guard and blow it open.

(Seamus Heaney, from The Spirit Level [source])

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Get to Know What Real Is

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From whiskey river (italicized portion):

People don’t realize how much they are in the grip of ideas. We live among ideas much more than we live in nature... I think a person finally emerges from all this nonsense when he becomes aware that his life has a much larger meaning he has been ignoring — a transcendent meaning. And that his life is, at its most serious, some kind of religious enterprise, not one that has to do with the hurly-burly of existence.

(Saul Bellow, from Conversations with Saul Bellow [source])

…and:

I
Don’t trace out your profile —
forget your side view —
all that is outer stuff.

II
Look for your other half
who walks always next to you
and tends to be who you aren’t.

(Antonio Machado, Moral Proverbs and Folk Songs)

…and (paired with the Bellow quote above):

That it doesn’t strike us at all when we look around us, move about in space, feel our own bodies, shows how natural these things are to us. We do not notice that we see space perspectively or that our visual field is in some sense blurred towards the edges. It doesn’t strike us and never can strike us because it is the way we perceive. We never give it a thought and it’s impossible we should, since there is nothing that contrasts with the form of our world. What I wanted to say is it’s strange that those who ascribe reality only to things and not to our ideas move about so unquestioningly in the world as idea and never long to escape from it.

(Ludwig Wittgenstein)

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The Object of My Affectation

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[Alfalfa, of the Our Gang comedies, sings of his love for sweet little round-faced, soft-focus Darla. And yes, I know: the song title doesn’t have that extra syllable in it. :)]

Whom, exactly, do you try to impress?

Note that I’m not asking about classes or groups of people. Most of us would like to be regarded favorably by our families and friends, our co-workers, the critics and audiences, and maybe even — ha ha — total strangers on the bus and in, ahem, Genuine Joe’s coffee shop (little in-joke there). And I know we’re not all “on” all the time, even the most determined poseurs among us: everyone has moments of utter un-self-consciousness, when our guard is down, we’re at our easiest and most natural, and we’re not actively evaluating what someone might think of us.

No, I’m just wondering, well…

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Monday Bounce

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I’m pretty sure I posted a link to this on Facebook and/or Twitter a couple months ago, when I first encountered it. For some reason it’s found its way back into my head today, and has been positively ringing there for the last several hours. When a song will simply not leave me alone, my solution is to just, well, listen to it. It goes away immediately. So, as much for my own sake as for yours…

Here’s “Don’t Worry, I’m Yours” — DJ Dain’s ingenious mashup of Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” and Jason Mraz’s “I’m Yours.” (The ukulele accompaniment, as I understand it, actually makes this a three-way mashup: it came from a recording called “Wonderful World,” by the late Hawaiian musician Israel Kamakawiwo’ole.)

Lyrics to both songs are below, displayed side by side so you can (if you’re clever and, unlike me, somehow able not to get lost in the catchiness!) follow along with the interleaved audio.

Don’t Worry, Be Happy
(by Bobby McFerrin)

Here is a little song I wrote
You might want to sing it note for note
Don’t worry be happy
In every life we have some trouble
When you worry you make it double
Don’t worry, be happy

Ain’t got no place to lay your head
Somebody came and took your bed
Don’t worry, be happy
The landlord say your rent is late
He may have to litigate
Don’t worry, be happy
Look at me I am happy
Don’t worry, be happy

Here I give you my phone number
When you worry call me
I make you happy
Don’t worry, be happy

Ain’t got no cash, ain’t got no style
Ain’t got no girl to make you smile
But don’t worry be happy
Cause when you worry
Your face will frown
And that will bring everybody down
So don’t worry, be happy (now)

There is this little song I wrote
I hope you learn it note for note
Like good little children
Don’t worry, be happy
Listen to what I say

In your life expect some trouble
But when you worry
You make it double
Don’t worry, be happy
Don’t worry don’t do it, be happy

Put a smile on your face
Don’t bring everybody down like this
Don’t worry, it will soon past
Whatever it is
Don’t worry, be happy

I’m Yours
(by Jason Mraz)

Well you done done me
and you bet I felt it
I tried to be chill
but you’re so hot that I melted
I fell right through the cracks
Now I’m trying to get back
Before the cool done run out
I’ll be giving it my bestest
And nothing’s going to stop me
but divine intervention
I reckon it’s again my turn
to win some or learn some
I won’t hesitate no more, no more
It cannot wait, I’m yours

Well open up your mind and see like me
Open up your plans and damn you’re free
Look into your heart
and you’ll find love love love love
Listen to the music of the moment
baby sing with me
I love peace for melody
And It’s our God-forsaken right
to be loved love loved love loved

So I won’t hesitate no more, no more
It cannot wait I’m sure
There’s no need to complicate
Our time is short
This is our fate, I’m yours

Scooch on over closer dear
And I will nibble your ear

I’ve been spending way too long
checking my tongue in the mirror
And bending over backwards
just to try to see it clearer
But my breath fogged up the glass
And so I drew a new face and laughed
I guess what I’m be saying is
there ain’t no better reason
To rid yourself of vanity
and just go with the seasons
It’s what we aim to do
Our name is our virtue

But I won’t hesitate no more, no more
It cannot wait I’m sure

Well open up your mind and see like me
Open up your plans and damn you’re free
Look into your heart
and you’ll find that the sky is yours
Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t
There’s no need to complicate
Cause our time is short
This oh this this is our fate, I’m yours!
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Surprised by What You Want

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[Video above: “Rio,” by Hey Marseilles. Lyrics at the foot of this post.]

From whiskey river:

I feel as though I stand at the foot of an infinitely high staircase, down which some exuberant spirit is flinging tennis ball after tennis ball, eternally, and the one thing I want in the world is a tennis ball.

(Annie Dillard [source])

…and:

Born Thirty Years Ago

Thirty years ago I was born into the world.
A thousand, ten thousand miles I’ve roamed,
By rivers where the green grass grows thick,
beyond the border where the red sands fly.
I brewed potions in a vain search for life everlasting,
I read books, I sang songs of history,
and today I’ve come home to Cold Mountain
to pillow my head on the stream and wash my ears.

(Han-shan, Cold Mountain [source])

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The Steam Drill Only Made Nine (Lord, Lord)

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When my siblings and I were kids, at some point Mom and Dad bought us a huge collection of LPs of music of all sorts — a passive music-appreciation course, of sorts, for kids in a small town. The entire set arrived in a cardboard box which none of us (but Dad) could lift. Each album was enclosed in its own slim box, with its own little brochure full of lyrics and other notes. (One album came with an additional surprise: the one about orchestral music included a small, slender conductor’s wand.)

I sometimes wonder whatever became of that set. Some of the albums got broken, for sure, but it’s hard to believe they all did. Maybe they ended up in the homes of my adult sisters and/or brother, or maybe — less likely, but you never know — maybe they’re taking up space down in Mom’s basement.

On the other hand, I don’t wonder what happened to the music itself. It — much of it — remains stuck in my head.

Among the hoariest of complaints by an older generation (any older generation) about the younger are those about “the music nowadays.” I try to keep an open mind, myself; I’ve heard too much wonderful music by people decades younger than I am to do otherwise. But I do worry from time to time about the looooong golden thread of folk music… and the prospect that it may be in jeopardy.

Well, no, that’s not quite right. Not the music per se. Let’s say I worry about the future of the stories which the music tells, and the language in which those stories are told.

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Think You Know What’s Coming?

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From whiskey river:

If you knew what was going to happen, if you knew everything that was going to happen next — if you knew in advance the consequences of your own actions — you’d be doomed. You’d be as ruined as God. You’d be a stone. You’d never eat or drink or laugh or get out of bed in the morning. You’d never love anyone, ever again. You’d never dare to.

(Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin [source])

…and, from the whiskey river archives (the commonplace book):

How Much Happens in a Day

In the course of a day we shall meet one another.

But, in one day, things spring to life —
they sell grapes in the street,
tomatoes change their skin,
the young girl you wanted
never came back to the office.

They changed the postman suddenly.
The letters now are not the same.
A few golden leaves and it’s different;
this tree is now well off.

Who would have said that the earth
with its ancient skin would change so much?
It has more volcanoes than yesterday,
the sky has brand-new clouds,
the rivers are flowing differently.
Besides, so much has come into being!
I have inaugurated hundreds
of highways and buildings,
delicate, clean bridges
like ships or violins.

And so, when I greet you
and kiss your flowering mouth,
our kisses are other kisses,
our mouths are other mouths.

Joy, my love, joy in all things,
in what falls and what flourishes.

Joy in today and yesterday,
the day before and tomorrow.

Joy in bread and stone,
joy in fire and rain.

In what changes, is born, grows,
consumes itself, and becomes a kiss again.

Joy in the air we have,
and in what we have of earth.

When our life dries up,
only the roots remain to us,
and the wind is cold like hate.

Then let us change our skin,
our nails, our blood, our gazing;
and you kiss me and I go out
to sell light on the roads.

Joy in the night and the day,
and the four stations of the soul.

(Pablo Neruda; translation by Alastair Reid [source])

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Musical Interlude: Chin Up

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The week’s been one of needing (re)encouragement — always a popular subject with writers, who can never get (or imagine they can’t get) enough of it — and of finding new reasons why maybe we don’t need as much encouragement as we thought. Coincidentally, in the last 24 hours I’ve tripped across a couple of songs that seem to fit the mood.

The first is by Mary Gauthier, from her recent album The Foundling. The album was recorded in Toronto, produced by Michael Timmins of the Cowboy Junkies (with characteristically smoky backing vocals by sister and bandmate Margo Timmins). Gautier says of the songs on the album:

[They] tell the story of a kid abandoned at birth who spent a year in an orphanage and was adopted, who ran way from the adopted home and ended up in show business, who searched for birth parents late in life and found one and was rejected, and who came through the other side of all of this still believing in love.

Here’s “Sideshow,” the opening track (lyrics below).

Lyrics:

Sideshow
(Mary Gauthier)

People stare and then they walk away
But there’s always a few who’ll stay
From the state I watch ’em close their eyes
Like a little kid trying to hide
Like they’re somewhere ain’t supposed to be
Watching something they ain’t supposed to see
Giving in to the undertow
In the dark at the sideshow

I’m the singer at the sideshow
It’s a place that orphans go
Far away from the bright lights
Hard to find on a dark night
Another truly troubled troubadour
Writing songs to even up the score
A tune for every single body flow
And I sing ’em at the sideshow

Who likes to think about their pain
Most people would avoid the rain
A sunny song will help you make it through
But constant whistling is hard to do
Too many songs about happiness
Leave me sad, lonely, and depressed
A million miles from the radio
You can find me at the side show

I make my living at the sideshow
It’s a place that orphans go
Far away from the bright lights
Hard to find on a dark night
Another truly troubled troubadour
Writing songs to even up the score
A tune for every single body blow
And I sing ’em at the side show

I make a living at the sideshow
It’s a place that the wounded go
Far away from the Bright lights
Hard to find on a dark night
You can find us
Another truly troubled troubadour
At the sideshow
Writing songs to even up the score
Yea, me
A tune for every single body blow
And the buffalo
And I sing ’em at the sideshow
You can find us
Back in the corner where the sad songs flow
At the sideshow

I’ve actually had the second song on my playlist for a few years; it’s just been a while since I last heard it. It comes from Eric Bibb, as recorded on the multi-artist album Mali to Memphis which traces the route of the blues across an ocean and from one continent to another.

Here’s “Don’t Ever Let Nobody Drag Your Spirit Down” (lyrics below).

Lyrics:

Don’t Ever Let Nobody Drag Your Spirit Down
(Eric Bibb)

You might slip
You might slide
You might tumble and fall by the road side
Don’t you ever let nobody
Drag your spirit down
Remember you’re walkin’ up to heaven
Don’t let nobody turn you round

Walk with the rich
Walk with the poor
Learn from everybody that’s what life is for
Don’t you ever let nobody
Drag your spirit down
Remember you’re walkin’ up to heaven
Don’t let nobody turn you round

Some say yes
Some say no
Some wait and see which way the wind blow
Don’t you ever let nobody
Drag your spirit down
Well we’re walkin’ up to heaven
Don’t let nobody turn you round

Well I might say things
Sound strange to you
And I might preach the gospel I believe it’s true
I won’t let nobody
Drag my spirit down
Yes I’m walkin’ up to heaven
Won’t let nobody turn me round

You might slip
You might slide
You might tumble and fall by the road side
Don’t you ever let nobody
Drag your spirit down
Remember you’re walkin’ up to heaven
Don’t let nobody turn you round

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Hits and Misses

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Complicated here, during the last week. Not bad, just… complicated. Thought I’d sort of summarize a couple of points of potential interest, but first, a question for regular visitors:

Have you had problems accessing RAMH recently? One of your number has reported getting repeated “the connection was reset by the server” errors. It’s prevented her from even seeing the site, apparently. (I got the information via a Facebook message.) I haven’t been able to reproduce it from any of various locations, using various browsers and operating systems. But I wanted to check before proceeding to see if anything like that has cropped up for the rest of you. (Of course — ha! — if it has, then you won’t be able to read this post.)

Okay, now onto “real” matters…

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You Spoke from Midnight

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From whiskey river:

Moonrise

And who has seen the moon, who has not seen
Her rise from out the chamber of the deep,
Flushed and grand and naked, as from the chamber
Of finished bridegroom, seen her rise and throw
Confession of delight upon the wave,
Littering the waves with her own superscription
Of bliss, till all her lambent beauty shakes towards us
Spread out and known at last, and we are sure
That beauty is a thing beyond the grave,
That perfect, bright experience never falls
To nothingness, and time will dim the moon
Sooner than our full consummation here
In this odd life will tarnish or pass away.

(D. H. Lawrence [source])

…and, from whiskey river‘s archives (the commonplace book):

Our existence is finite. The self that we have created through so many years of effort and suffering will die. And sustained though we may be by the idea, the hope, the certainty that some portion of us will eternally endure, we also must acknowledge that this “I” who breathes and loves and works and knows itself will be forever and ever and ever… obliterated.

So, whether or not we live with images of continuity — of immortality — we also will have to live with a sense of transience, aware that no matter how passionately we love whatever we love, we don’t have the power to make either it, or us, stay.

(Judith Viorst, Necessary Losses [source])

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