Running After My Hat

Ridiculous pursuits, matters solemn and less so

On the Road to What Lies Within, by Way of What Lies Without

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[Image: “Eclipse Crescents,” by Jon D. Anderson. (Found it on Flickr, and use it here under a Creative Commons license — thank you!) The photo was taken during an eclipse, obviously; the photographer had the camera pointed at the ground, in a filbert orchard — where he caught all the little pinhole-camera-style images of sunlight created by the leaves overhead. My favorite thing about this photo, though, is the scattered greens of fallen leaves and blades of grass: beautiful reality superimposed on the monotone dreamlike nominal subject, as though to remind you where you are.]

On our Roadtrip 2021 mini-adventure, I’ve probably taken thousands of photographs just with my “real” camera (i.e., not counting the — hundreds? thousands? — taken with my phone’s camera). I haven’t done any kind of statistical analysis, but I bet well over 95% of them will never see the light of day, so to speak: “public” exposure here on RAMH, or over on Instagram or (rarely) Facebook. I doubt that I myself will ever go back to look at the unused ones.

About a month ago, the absurdity finally hit me: by far, most of the photos I was setting aside or discarding depicted subjects already publicly available — generally, depicted them better. Consider, for instance, the hundreds I’d taken while touring the interiors of a couple of the Gilded-Age mansions of Newport, Rhode Island. Oh, I’d shot a handful which turned out satisfactorily as photographs, and I’d kept and “promoted” them, so to speak. The rest, though? Why did I take these half-dozen shots of a grand entry hall in The Breakers — you know, the same entry hall depicted in all the postcards and coffee-table books in the gift shop, or even at The Breakers Web site? (Especially considering that flash photography of the interiors is forbidden to the public, but professionals engaged by the governing body may use soft but artificial lighting under controlled circumstances.)

Dumb, dumb, dumb.

So I’ve worked at no longer photographing subjects easily available, in better form, from other sources. Which begs the question: why take photos otherwise? (Note the similarity of this question to the one, “Why write?,” which has obsessed me in the past. For instance, scroll down on this page to the section headed “Background, for Interested Parties.”)

With such thoughts in mind, earlier this week I read the following, on whiskey river of course:

To restore you and myself, I return to my state of garden and shade, cool reality, I hardly exist and if I do exist it’s with delicate care. Surrounding the shade is a teeming, sweaty heat. I’m alive. But I feel I’ve not yet reached my limits, bordering on what? Without limits, the adventure of a dangerous freedom. But I take the risk, I live taking it. I’m full of acacias swaying yellow, and I, who have barely begun my journey, begin it with a sense of tragedy, guessed what lost ocean my life steps will take me to. And crazily I latch onto the corners of myself, my hallucinations suffocate me with their beauty. I am before, I am almost, I am never.

(Clarice Lispector [source])

And a day later, not on whiskey river, I read this:

Song of Ryokan: III
(excerpt)

True, all the seasons have moonlit nights,
But here’s the best night to see the moon.
The hills never so aloft, the streams never so clear,
In the infinite blue of autumn sky flies a disk of light,
Neither light nor gloom is graced with a life of its own.
The moon and the earth are one, and myself one with them.
The boundless sky above, and autumn chill on my skin,
I stroll about low hills, leaning upon my priceless cane.
Quiet night has held firm the flitting dust of the world.
The bright moon alone pours streams of rays all about me.
I mind it not if another like-minded is also admiring it,
Or if the moon deigns to look on others as well as on me.
Each year as autumn comes, the moon will shine as before,
And the world will watch it, will face it, till eternity.
Sermons at Mount Ryozen, lectures in the Vale of Sokei,
Were teachings so precious, the audience needed the moon.
My meditation under the moon lasts till the ripest night.
The stream has hushed its cry, dew lies thick everywhere.
Who, among the moon-viewers tonight, will have the prize?
Who will reflect the purest moon in the lake of his mind?

(Ryokan, translated by Noboyuki Yuasa [source])

I’m still working my way through the answer(s) to the “Why photograph (or write) at all?” questions. But I sense the presence, in these two passages, of something verging on understanding.

In a State of Grace, Where We Can Find It

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[Image: “The Missus in the Temple of Athena (Nashville Parthenon; November, 2021),” by John E. Simpson. (Shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.) I’ll let my anonymous friend from over the way do the verbal honors solo today; nodding in agreement, I’ll just, well… just point, so to speak.]

From whiskey river:

In a state of grace, one sometimes perceives the deep beauty, hitherto unattainable, of another person. And everything acquires a kind of halo which is not imaginary: it comes from the splendor of the almost mathematical light emanating from people and things. One starts to feel that everything in existence — whether people or things — breathes and exhales the subtle light of energy. The world’s truth is impalpable.

(Clarice Lispector [source])

“Food Is Very Important”

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[Image: “Bark Studies #1,” by John E. Simpson. What is the single most significant feature of the tree depicted in this image? Of everything you see here, what — which crevice, which ridge, which color tone, white or black or gray or sepia tint, which individual pixel — what “counts” as the single most important? Now pretend that what you see here is not just this image, nor even the entire tree itself, but the whole world. Now ask yourself those same questions. Whatever your answer, does your answer hold a lesson within it? If so, is that lesson more important than any other… or than any single pixel in the image?]

Certainly as The Missus and I live out in the world at large, we come across one thing or another which we consider important: noteworthy, appalling, annoying, beautiful, and so on. And we know, at some level, that “importance” isn’t either-or or black-and-white — it’s not the flipside of, say, utter irrelevance. It’s just a point in a continuum, in a context: the context of the moment…

But anyhow, in thinking about that the other day, I came across the following Zen story:

It was the summer of 1971. I was living at Tassajara Zen Mountain Center—the first Zen monastery in America. Its founder and resident teacher was Shunryu Suzuki, the Zen master who had come from Japan to America to teach meditation to Americans, mostly young. One of those young Americans was Robert, well known among us as a nonstop talker and a fervent proselytizer of brown rice as the perfect spiritual food.

One afternoon I came across Suzuki Roshi and Robert in the courtyard, and Robert was, as usual, talking animatedly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Suzuki Roshi, that brown rice is the perfect Zen food? Isn’t it the perfect balance between yin and yang?” The brown rice diet was trendy in those heady counterculture days, and we served it every day in Tassajara’s meditation hall. Suzuki Roshi was unusually accepting of our counterculture ideas, and rarely criticized us. In those days, brown rice was rarely eaten in Japan. White rice was the norm. For all I knew, Suzuki Roshi was eating brown rice for the first time at Tassajara.

“Don’t you think brown rice helps us attain enlightenment?” Robert was saying.

Suzuki Roshi listened to Robert talk on for some time without saying anything. Finally, when Robert paused for breath, Suzuki Roshi said quietly, “Food is very important.”

(Lewis Richmond [source])

I laughed to myself. And then I flipped over to a section in whiskey river’s commonplace book, where the anonymous blogger records some of their favorite (and no, not necessarily the “most important”) quotations and clips among the ones they’ve posted. Like this one:

The process of practice is to see through, not to eliminate, anything to which we are attached. We could have great financial wealth and be unattached to it, or we might have nothing and be very attached to having nothing. Usually, if we have seen through the nature of attachment, we will tend to have fewer possessions, but not necessarily. Most practice gets caught in this area of fiddling with our environment or our minds. “My mind should be quiet.” Our mind doesn’t matter; what matters is nonattachment to the activities of the mind. And our emotions are harmless unless they dominate us (that is, if we are attached to them) – then they create disharmony for everyone. The first problem in practice is to see that we are attached. As we do consistent, patient zazen we begin to know that we are nothing but attachments: they rule our lives.

But we never lose an attachment by saying it has to go. Only as we gain awareness of its true nature does it quietly and imperceptibly wither away; like a sandcastle with waves rolling over, it just smooths out and finally—where is it? What was it?

(Charlotte Joko Beck [source])

“Huh,” I thought. Maybe the whole concept of interestingness masked an unhealthy attachment — a “this, not that” attachment not unlike Robert the monk’s fixation on one type of rice vs. another. And then I kept reading:

First Step

Beginnings
are sometimes foggy.
The path is not always clear.
The end of one begets another.

To begin, put one foot
in front of the other.
Your foot knows where to land,
the one that moves forward first.
Forget about the best foot.

Just put it out there.
Stop traffic if you have to.
Go home if that is where it leads you.
Go back to work
if that is where your foot falls.

You don’t have to
go anywhere
Just rest.
After you step,
take another.
Forget about the weather.
Step
Step again.

(Robin Heerens Lysne [source])

The first step: important, yes. Yet no more important than the step after, which in turn is neither more nor less important than the one preceding or the one following, and ultimately, no step more important than any other…

Our 2021 odyssey, such as it is, will include (I think) another five stops after we fly back to our car at the end of our current two-week break here in Florida. This will put us in Las Vegas in mid-December, as we’ve been hoping… None of those intervening stops were on our bucket list of “must-see” places — they’re just on a more or less straight line west from our car’s current location to Vegas. We expect each stop will, yes, differ from the others. But I’m going to resist assigning them relative importance (ha).

Seeking (Sometimes Finding) the Distance You Need

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(Long-time visitors here will no doubt notice the, um, un-Fridayness of this week’s “whiskey river Friday” post. Chalk it up to the vagaries of life, and all that implies.)

[Video: from 2016, aerial views of night traffic in Los Angeles, on what was apparently the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving Day in the US. Most such “city at night” videos anymore are brief; they’re filmed by drones, and lean heavily on time-lapse and stop-motion effects rather than just showing the movement of lights in real time. They rattle my nerves — hence, this. (P.S. I had to turning the sound off; the video has a very distracting voiceover, which may or may not be in English. Youtube seemed to think it was Dutch.)]

Over the past week, I read a strange novel, both concrete-solid and ethereal, from Nobel Prize winner Kazuo Ishiguro: The Buried Giant. The story, which includes many elements of common legends, takes place in Dark Ages Britain. King Arthur died some uncertain time ago; there are knights, and a dragon, Angles and Saxons, stone fortresses and entire “villages” dug into hillsides. The point of view shifts among several main characters, including a (now elderly) Sir Gawain and a (likewise elderly) couple making their way from one village to another — all on their own quests. Mostly I just read the story, without highlighting passages much at all, but I did single out this brief excerpt towards the end of the book:

Some of you will have fine monuments by which the living may remember the evil done to you. Some of you will have only crude wooden crosses or painted rocks, while yet others of you must remain hidden in the shadows of history. You are in any case part of an ancient procession…

(Kazuo Ishiguro [source])

I liked the idea of monuments being erected not to the conventional “heroes” of so many stories — generals and politicians and 19th-century industrialists — but to the heroes’ victims. (And I have to say, I regard that as a mark of progress in recent decades.) With age, of course, one eventually wonders what it must “be like” to be remembered or forgotten after one’s passing, when one no longer has any sense of memory of one’s own. People talk casually of wishing to be cremated, their ashes scattered as seems appropriate; then I turn to sites like Ancestry, for example, and see how much — more often, how little — of all those people’s lives remains. It’s almost as if, with or without monuments, with or without cremation, their ashes have been blown into a far country inaccessible to us…

A few weeks ago, The Missus and I were driving down an interstate highway, from Columbus, Ohio, to Louisville, Kentucky. All the mapping tools we’d checked estimated the trip duration to be between three and four hours — in other words, typical of our drives from one overnight destination to another.

But other things “happened.” For one, although we knew there’d be a chance of rain along the way, a truly ferocious version of “rain” developed at just about the halfway point. (It would continue until after we arrived in Louisville.) Then it turned out that the highway’s bridge over the Ohio River, in Cincinnati, was completely closed in both directions, requiring a crossing via another bridge — traffic, accordingly, was completely snarled. And finally, a few moments after our car’s GPS detoured us off the interstate into downtown Cincinnati, the GPS completely died: the screen went blank… at which we also discovered that both of our phones had no Internet connectivity…

Some time later, after we’d finally made it across the Ohio River, the rain was still pouring down. And we got none of the hoped-for relief from crossing into (haha) “rural Kentucky”… because there was soooo much traffic, and it was still raining hard, and it was so freaking dark.

But it was fascinating, nonetheless, to sort of step back intellectually from the whole thing to regard what we could see of the world: in both directions on the interstate, three and sometimes four lanes of solid light (red one way, white the other), winding sinuously around that quite hilly portion of northern Kentucky. It looked, in fact, like the video above: a shining, unending river, rain-streaked and slow, at every interchange and every minute losing a dozen or so photons and picking up a dozen or so new ones. All of us on the highway were inarguably, well, doing something… each of us certainly unique in our preoccupations, our reasons for being there, our level of anxiety or tranquility, our anger at or our happiness with or our utter unawareness of one another… but it was still doing the same thing when viewed from that chilly dispassionate vantage. It was remarkable.

So then here came whiskey river, with this tidbit:

No matter what the universe has in store, it cannot take away from the fact that you were born. You’ll have some joy and some pain, and all the other experiences that make up what it’s like to be a tiny part of a grand cosmos. No matter what happens next, you were here. And even when any record of our individual lives is lost to the ages, that won’t detract from the fact that we were. We lived. We were part of the enormity. All the great and terrible parts of being alive, the shocking sublime beauty and heartbreak, the monotony, the interior thoughts, the shared pain and pleasure. It really happened. All of it. On this little world that orbits a yellow star out in the great vastness. And that alone is cause for celebration.

(Sasha Sagan [source])

I don’t know how sincerely and fully I accept the “cause for celebration.” The closer you zoom into any given human scene, the more likely it becomes that you’ll find something really appalling — and it’s hard, if not impossible, not to zoom down to that level; our minds seem made for observation of the near: the micro rather than the macro. The son of a bitch who just cut me off!, right? not The beautiful point of light that just brought all the other points to a sudden standstill. But yeah: if chance or intention gives you the opportunity to regard things from a distance, it really is remarkable, magical even — and maybe worth celebrating.

How to Set Aside the Unwanted: Foreground the Diversions

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[Photograph, more or less untitled, by John E. Simpson. (Shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.) These yellow rubberized mats are visible at many street corners and elsewhere on curbs around the United States, and make curbs less of an obstacle for, e.g., users of wheelchairs. Those little nubs or bumps protruding from the surface? They’re called truncated domes. That term, as well as the color (see below), suggests that the photo’s title should incorporate the words “aureolin,” or perhaps “gamboge,” and “truncation”… and, maybe the concept of, uh, domeness.]

I’ve been trying, with mixed success, to cultivate a frame of mind with which to face my diminishing allotment of years with something like equanimity. The phrase I keep returning to: “No regrets; no resentments.” I have to fight the urge to sample both of those bitter fruits of earlier years, and suspect I’m not alone (although many people seem to linger in the produce aisle over one or the other, squeezing them, sniffing them, and putting them back — over and over). One of the most useful tools for distracting me from these temptations is indulging in my curiosity. As whiskey river offered a few days ago:

I have a friend who speaks of knowledge as an island in a sea of mystery… We dredge up soil from the bed of mystery and build ourselves room to grow. And still the mystery surrounds us. It laps at our shores. It permeates the land. Scratch the surface of knowledge and mystery bubbles up like a spring.

(Chet Raymo [source])

Having caught this at one of the river‘s posts, I glanced at the next day’s, too — to whit:

The day, with all its pain ahead, is yours.
The ceaseless creasing of the morning sea,
the fluttering gamboge cedar leaves allegro,
the rods of the yawning branches trolling the breeze,
the rusted meadows, the wind-whitened grass,
the coos of the stone-colored ground doves on the road,
the echo of benediction on a house—
its rooms of pain, its verandah of remorse
when joy lanced through its open-hearted doors
like a hummingbird out to the garden and pool
in which the sky has fallen. These are all yours,
and pain has made them brighter as absence does
after a death, as the light heals the grass.
And the twig-brown lizard scuttles up its branch
like fingers on the struts of a guitar.

(Derek Walcott [source])

What the hell, I wondered, was “gamboge”? It looked like a typo. It wasn’t italicized — so, all things being equal, I guessed it to be a legitimate English-language word…

And so it is. Gamboge, Wikipedia tells me, is the name of a pigment — “partially transparent deep saffron to mustard yellow… It is the traditional colour used to dye Buddhist monks’ robes.” (The same source, on the word’s etymology: “[it] derives from Gambogia, the Latin word for Cambodia.” Color (haha) me skeptical, but I have a hard time imagining the Romans knew enough of that land to give it a name.) The hue (also called “cobalt yellow”) is popular among artists in either oil or watercolor paints. The problem with the substance traditionally used to produce this color is that it’s not particularly durable; it fades over time. (It’s also somewhat toxic.) So in more recent decades, artists instead turned to an artificial substitute, with a more melodious name: aureolin. Alas, it too is far from perfect — a “defective” paint.

…which led me to a whole string of books by the artist and author named Hilary Page, at whose site I encountered that defective-paint assertion — and further jargon like “PY175, a lemon Benzimidazolone,” and so on. See for example this “web update” of a page in one of her books, including the image shown at right. (Caption: “I had boards of these paint samples in every sunny window in my house to test each paint for lightfastness.”)

And having encountered Ms. Page’s particular expertise, I inadvertently found myself reading about the precursor of Lego building blocks. Some of these are of course a sort of golden color… and — at least in their Lego form, especially the so-called baseplates — also rather suggestive of truncated domes:

Funny how that all works out, eh?

Not really funny, but also worthy of comment: any regrets and resentments I might’ve been harboring when I woke up today are, well, gone.

Reminders to Believe in Always Moving Forward

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[Image: a panel from Linda Ciccarello‘s interactive digital story called “Everything Makes a Noise When It Reveals Itself.” As you move your mouse over the screen at that site — or your fingertip, if using a mouse-less, touch-sensitive device — something like the light of a flashlight appears to reveal each succeeding bit of the story (if “story” even comes close to describing the thing revealed).]

Over the past week, the anonymous curator of thought- and soul-provoking quotations who blogs as whiskey river seems to have been preoccupied (as one can be, at the end of October) with matters of mortality. For example:

It is sad, is it not, that no one today displays an interest in the art of shrunken heads. Men, women, and children walk on the streets, they cross fields and enter forests, they run along the edges of oceans, but none of them, to the best of my knowledge, are thinking about shrunken heads.

(Mary Ruefle [source])

…and:

Where the text says song, see ghost.
Where the text says ghost, see further.

(Brenda Steczkowski [no authoritative source that I could locate, although it’s quoted in a handful of places online])

…and:

You lock the door. You lock the window. You dream of the dead. You salt the sills from the inside. You are going to dream. You check the window. You burn a piece of paper. You burn a piece of hair. You check the door. You put a root beneath your pillow. You put the candle out. You bite the root before you put it beneath your pillow. You dream of the dead. You keep a candle burning. You bite the root. The dead put their fingers in your mouth. You are dreaming. You draw the dead & burn the paper. The dead have no doors. They have no salt. Each one takes a grain of salt. There are more dead than salt. You bolt the door. You are dreaming. When the salt is gone the dead touch your mouth. When the salt is gone you buy more salt. When the salt is gone the root does nothing. The salt does nothing.

(Lisa Ciccarello [source, apparently])

While researching the source of the Ciccarello quote, I found this description of it, per Google Books:

Told in an age we can’t quite put our finger on, the poems in Lisa Ciccarello’s debut collection twist up from tales of witchcraft and the punishing morals of the Newgate Calendar. Vulnerable in the darkness as the dead watch behind salt-lined windows, we are led to explore a world of simple objects through a complex fog of cruelty and longing, strength and feebleness, folklore and familial traditions. Violence, love, death, jealousy, sex, and shadows fill the pages of At Night. If you seek comfort, you will find none here.

[source]

And then, as sometimes happens, I fell into an even deeper rabbit hole… I won’t even try to recreate for you the chain of links — graphically, it’d probably resemble a map of our ongoing road trip (haha) — but here’s one of the treats I encountered along the way:

After Stephen Dunn

If you are sleeping when the axe buries itself
in the stump outside your home, wake and walk
softly through your halls. Walk softly through
this house that is like your heart, built in the solace
of these woods from things you claimed as your own.
Touch everything. Touch it roughly, and
think of the heartbeats of the trees giving
their lives, each swaying wood grain a
skipped beat of gasping titans beneath
your hands, your careful eyes, your gentle
push, the settling of these quiet things.
But your hands are not in this house. Your
heart is not in this house. Your love is not in
this house. This house was not built from tall,
certain things, but from the surest things
you could find: roots, nests, not clocks
but the parts hidden behind their faces,
reminders of belief in always moving forward.
One morning you will wake in this home that
is like your heart to find that the axe, the certain
and the strong, has buried itself in the wet stump
outside, you will touch everything roughly, this
house will sound no longer like your heart but
your heart will sound like this house, built tall
from imagined things, high ceilings, echoes,
stopped clock pieces, empty nests, gasping
roots. Your heart will feel like this house. You
will burn it to the ground.

(Lewis Mundt [source])

A real haunted house of the heart, eh?

How to Discombobulate a Demon

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[Image: “Demons,” by a Flickr user who identifies themselves only as “Ken.” (Used here under a Creative Commons license — thank you!)]

That time of year again, as whiskey river reminds us:

Scary Movies

Today the cloud shapes are terrifying,
and I keep expecting some enormous
black-and-white B-movie Cyclops
to appear at the edge of the horizon,

to come striding over the ocean
and drag me from my kitchen
to the deep cave that flickered
into my young brain one Saturday

at the Baronet Theater where I sat helpless
between my older brothers, pumped up
on candy and horror — that cave,
the litter of human bones

gnawed on and flung toward the entrance,
I can smell their stench as clearly
as the bacon fat from breakfast. This
is how it feels to lose it —

not sanity, I mean, but whatever it is
that helps you get up in the morning
and actually leave the house
on those days when it seems like death

in his brown uniform
is cruising his panel truck
of packages through your neighborhood.
I think of a friend’s voice

on her answering machine —
Hi, I’m not here —
the morning of her funeral,
the calls filling up the tape

and the mail still arriving,
and I feel as afraid as I was
after all those vampire movies
when I’d come home and lie awake

all night, rigid in my bed,
unable to get up
even to pee because the undead
were waiting underneath it;

if I so much as stuck a bare
foot out there in the unprotected air
they’d grab me by the ankle and pull me
under. And my parents said there was

nothing there, when I was older
I would know better, and now
they’re dead, and I’m older,
and I know better.

(Kim Addonizio [source])

A newsletter I subscribe to also offered this, in perhaps (and perhaps not) coincidental manner:

One day Milarepa left his cave to gather firewood, and when he returned he found that his cave had been taken over by demons. There were demons everywhere! His first thought upon seeing them was, “I have got to get rid of them!” He lunges toward them, chasing after them, trying forcefully to get them out of his cave. But the demons are completely unfazed. In fact, the more he chases them, the more comfortable and settled-in they seem to be. Realizing that his efforts to run them out have failed miserably, Milarepa opts for a new approach and decides to teach them the dharma. If chasing them out won’t work, then maybe hearing the teachings will change their minds and get them to go. So he takes his seat and begins teaching about existence and nonexistence, compassion and kindness, the nature of impermanence. After a while he looks around and realizes all the demons are still there. They simply stare at him with their huge bulging eyes; not a single one is leaving.

At this point Milarepa lets out a deep breath of surrender, knowing now that these demons will not be manipulated into leaving and that maybe he has something to learn from them. He looks deeply into the eyes of each demon and bows, saying, “It looks like we’re going to be here together. I open myself to whatever you have to teach me.” In that moment all the demons but one disappear. One huge and especially fierce demon, with flaring nostrils and dripping fangs, is still there. So Milarepa lets go even further. Stepping over to the largest demon, he offers himself completely, holding nothing back. “Eat me if you wish.” He places his head in the demon’s mouth, and at that moment the largest demon bows low and dissolves into space.

(Aura Glaser [source])

We’re in central Ohio at the time I’m posting this, having stopped for just a single night en route to Kentucky, Tennessee, and points beyond. Hope you’re all staying safe, and keeping the monsters at bay… as with a frustratingly tenacious bout of hiccups, sometimes it can help just to distract yourself enough: they get bored and move on. Heh.

Finding Color: Looking for It, and Then Looking Harder

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[This, pretty much. The only difference: I took the photo on our arrival a couple days ago. But since yesterday afternoon, the sky has been white-clouded, sunless, and rainy, the light weak: what color you see out the window above is, right now, genuinely drained.]

This week, The Missus and I have been wrapping up the northeastern leg of our Road Trip 2021. We spent at least a few days — beginning in mid-August — in every New England state, over a week in New Jersey, and all the rest here and there in New York State, including Long Island. (Pennsylvania: our apologies, but we’re pretty much just passing through!) At the moment, I’m looking out the windows of a 19th-century farmhouse in the westernmost corner of New York; brushing up against the glass is a spray of pokeberry, almost — almost, but not really — reminding me of its cousins down in North Florida, in the wooded area behind our house. Beyond, the wooded back yard is predominantly pale green and yellow, with some splotches of unenthusiastic orange. (The only orange in sight: incandescent light on wood surfaces. And not a bit of red.)

Our timing, to the extent we’d planned it at all, was more or less intentional. We’d thought, y’know, we’ll get up to the Northeast at summer’s peak, and stay there into autumn: avoiding the oppressive heat of the South and Midwest, lingering for the changing woodland colors a month or two later. 2021, as it happens, was not the year to meet those objectives, and I wonder if — never mind when — we might again see such a year…

Next on the itinerary, starting in a few days: probably heading down through Ohio, into Kentucky and Tennessee, maybe getting as far as Arkansas before temporarily changing course for a Thanksgiving back in South Florida — which by then should be more or less in its own version of autumn. (Read: green, unexciting, more or less just like summer — unless the hurricane season lingers…)

But, y’know, at least I’m experiencing all this in good company. And just a few days ago, whiskey river, as is its wont, had something to say about a reality of my life — this reality:

Fall Song

It is a dark fall day.
The earth is slightly damp with rain.
I hear a jay.
The cry is blue.
I have found you in the story again.
Is there another word for “divine”?
I need a song that will keep sky open in my mind.
If I think behind me, I might break.
If I think forward, I lose now.
Forever will be a day like this
Strung perfectly on the necklace of days.
Slightly overcast
Yellow leaves
Your jacket hanging in the hallway
Next to mine.

(Joy Harjo [source])

P.S. It’s not especially relevant to today’s theme, but whenever I think of autumn leaves, I think of the memories encapsulated in this post, from not quite 13 years ago.

How (Not) to Worry… Even (Especially) About Worrying

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[Image: an entry, from August, in my #jesstorypix series on Instagram. The caption reads: “It was the last day he’d remember marveling at anything — anything at all. But on this day, this morning by the banks of the Savannah River, yes: he marveled. He marveled at the smoke in the sky, the height of the flames in far-off Jacksonville, casting their eerie light on the clouds, the absence of any other people… and yet, the frighteningly normal pall that underlay it all…”]

Among the several weekly newsletters I subscribe to in the hope they’ll make me smarter, gentler, cleverer, and/or simply more me is one called Aeon. (It’s a nonprofit publication with offices in Australia, Great Britain, and the US. Subscriptions are free; contributors include philosophers, psychologists, scientists, numerous other authorities, artists, and so on. It sums up its mission: “We are committed to big ideas, serious enquiry and a humane worldview. That’s it.”) However, I don’t read every weekly edition of the site’s offerings (which probably indicates my wishy-washy commitment to becoming smarter, gentler, etc.).

This week, whiskey river drew my attention to “The usefulness of dread,” an essay first published at Aeon in 2018, with this excerpt:

An anxiety is a lens through which to view the world, a colouration that grants the sufferer’s experiences their distinctive hue. The Buddha alerted us to a fundamental metaphysical feature of this world, the ‘co-dependent arising’ of all that we experience and know. That is, nothing possesses existence independent of all else that makes it so: an anxious person inhabits a world coloured and contoured by their own, highly individual anxieties; it is a world co-constructed by the sufferer and his or her anxieties. Anxiety is therefore a perspective, a hermeneutical relationship with the world, whose text now gets read in a very peculiar way by this anxiety-laden vision. Things and persons and events fall into focus depending on their interactions with our anxieties: that man in the corner becomes threatening, this chair becomes unstable and unbalanced, that food becomes the agent of a fatal illness, my family — my wife, my daughter — appear as targets for cruel twists of fate. I live in a distinctive world shaded and illuminated by an idiosyncratic anxiety.

(Samir Chopra [source])

Now, if you remember this RAMH post from a couple of weeks ago, you’ll recognize why this passage so spoke to me. Naturally enough, I think, I at once hied me hence to read the rest of Chopra’s essay. It may be worth a read for anyone similarly afflicted (at least, if one is not put off by intellectual responses to something as visceral as dread). For instance:

We are rational animals, but implicit in that rationality is an anxiety. The rational animal remembers and has learned from its past; it anticipates and plans for its future; it modifies its present, anxiously, in response to these memories and anticipations; it is anxious to avoid mistakes, even those it cannot remember and has consigned to the unconscious forgotten… I propose a ‘self-as-bundled-anxieties’ theory: we are a bundle of anxieties; by examining them, to see what vexes us, what makes us anxious, we come to know who we are. Anxiety is a reminder that our selves are rather more diffuse and disorderly than we might imagine, that there are more bits to be seized as they swirl ‘about’ and ‘inside’ us…

My anxieties tell me I’m still capable of feeling. They provide an acute reminder that I’m alive and responsive, and yes, anxious. My anxieties about my family inform me that I have let myself become wrapped up in their selves; they inform me of the boundaries I have formed around and about myself; they inform me of what my self is. They inform me of the risibility of the claim that we are isolated beings whose boundaries terminate at our fingertips, at the surface of our skins. Thus does anxiety inform me of who I am.

(Chopra, ibid.)

I’m not sure what to make of all this. Like a superhero, I have donned a cloak pretty much every day of my thinking life (the Cloak of Apprehension and Second Thoughts); by now, a good part of me wonders why I bother to take it off before going to bed. Still, as they say, it’s always possible to have too much of a thing. Maybe I should have a go at Chopra’s approach — this “Good morning, Anxiety! Up already? Good to see you again!” sort of thinking.

Or maybe I’m misstating his case, oversimplifying it. I probably should worry about that before working out anything like a new Life Goal, eh?

Looking for the Light, in Whichever Direction You Need To

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[Untitled image (but I think “Looking for the Light” works as well as anything) by John E. Simpson. (Shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.) See the post on Instagram for some background on the photo.]

In a couple of entries over the last week, whiskey river (as in the italicized lines below, from Jack Gilbert’s poem) seems to have taken special note of the need for a 360-degree perspective: to sense the reality of, yes, lots of ugliness in front of us (thank you, online world and mass media of all kinds!) — but also of the delight and happiness which lie behind (or within), waiting patiently and quietly for our attention.

A Brief For The Defense

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.

(Jack Gilbert [source])

…all of which echoes this — not from whiskey river, and much more oblique in effect:

Lingering in Happiness

After rain after many days without rain,
it stays cool, private and cleansed, under the trees,
and the dampness there, married now to gravity,
falls branch to branch, leaf to leaf, down to the ground

where it will disappear—but not, of course, vanish
except to our eyes. The roots of the oaks will have their share,
and the white threads of the grasses, and the cushion of moss;
a few drops, round as pearls, will enter the mole’s tunnel;

and soon so many small stones, buried for a thousand years,
will feel themselves being touched.

(Mary Oliver [source])

Now that I’m thinking about it, and speaking perhaps only for myself… Maybe the easy characterization of emotional states as a one-dimensional continuum — from misery to ecstasy — is glib and short-sighted. Maybe it’s really two- or three-dimensional, forming a circle or sphere around the tiny little nub of a me at the center. Very seldom (never?) do I switch from one emotional state to another; more often (always?), I’m in transition — drifting. Misery fades into anger, which fades into rue and hurt, which in turn yield to a sort of gallows humor, which becomes, a moment later, actual outright laughter…

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