{"id":10865,"date":"2012-05-18T11:03:40","date_gmt":"2012-05-18T15:03:40","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=10865"},"modified":"2012-05-18T11:03:40","modified_gmt":"2012-05-18T15:03:40","slug":"what-doesnt-change","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2012\/05\/what-doesnt-change\/","title":{"rendered":"What Doesn&#8217;t Change"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><iframe loading=\"lazy\" src=\"http:\/\/player.vimeo.com\/video\/10151682?title=0&amp;byline=0&amp;portrait=0\" frameborder=\"0\" width=\"600\" height=\"337\"><\/iframe><\/p>\n<p class=\"smalltext\"><em>[Video: &#8220;Every Day the Same Dream,&#8221; based on the Flash-based <a title=\"Game: 'Every Day the Same Dream'\" href=\"http:\/\/www.molleindustria.org\/everydaythesamedream\/everydaythesamedream.html\" target=\"_blank\">game of the same name<\/a>]<\/em><\/p>\n<p>From <em><a title=\"whiskey river: Robert Fulghum, on ceaseless wonder\" href=\"http:\/\/whiskeyriver.blogspot.com\/2012\/05\/i-do-not-believe-meaning-of-life-is.html\" target=\"_blank\">whiskey river<\/a><\/em>:<\/p>\n<blockquote><p>I do not believe the meaning of life is a puzzle to be solved. Life is. Anything might happen. And I believe I may invest my life with meaning. The uncertainty is a blessing in disguise. If I were absolutely certain about all things, I would spend my life in anxious misery, fearful of losing my way. But since everything and anything are always possible, the miraculous is always nearby and wonders shall never, ever cease.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n<p>(Robert Fulghum)<\/p>\n<p>&#8230;\u00a0<a title=\"whiskey river: 'Formaggio,' by Louise Gl\u00fcck\" href=\"http:\/\/whiskeyriver.blogspot.com\/2012\/05\/formaggio-world-was-whole-because-it.html\" target=\"_blank\">and<\/a>:<\/p>\n<blockquote><p><strong>Formaggio<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>The world<br \/>\nwas whole because<br \/>\nit shattered. When it shattered,<br \/>\nthen we knew what it was.<\/p>\n<p>It never healed itself.<br \/>\nBut in the deep fissures, smaller worlds appeared:<br \/>\nit was a good thing that human beings made them;<br \/>\nhuman beings know what they need,<br \/>\nbetter than any god.<\/p>\n<p>On Huron Avenue they became<br \/>\na block of stores; they became<br \/>\nFishmonger, Formaggio. Whatever<br \/>\nthey were or sold, they were<br \/>\nalike in their function: they were<br \/>\nvisions of safety. Like<br \/>\na resting place. The salespeople<br \/>\nwere like parents; they appeared<br \/>\nto live there. On the whole,<br \/>\nkinder than parents.<\/p>\n<p>Tributaries<br \/>\nfeeding into a large river: I had<br \/>\nmany lives. In the provisional world,<br \/>\nI stood where the fruit was,<br \/>\nflats of cherries, clementines,<br \/>\nunder Hallie&#8217;s flowers.<\/p>\n<p>I had many lives. Feeding<br \/>\ninto a river, the river<br \/>\nfeeding into a great ocean. If the self<br \/>\nbecomes invisible has it disappeared?<\/p>\n<p>I thrived. I lived<br \/>\nnot completely alone, alone<br \/>\nbut not completely, strangers<br \/>\nsurging around me.<\/p>\n<p>That&#8217;s what the sea is:<br \/>\nwe exist in secret.<\/p>\n<p>I had lives before this, stems<br \/>\nof a spray of flowers: they became<br \/>\none thing, held by a ribbon at the center, a ribbon<br \/>\nvisible under the hand. Above the hand,<br \/>\nthe branching future, stems<br \/>\nending in flowers. And the gripped fist &#8212;<br \/>\nthat would be the self in the present.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n<p>(Louise Gl\u00fcck)<\/p>\n<p>&#8230;<a title=\"whiskey river: Alain de Botton, on the point of the everyday\" href=\"http:\/\/whiskeyriver.blogspot.com\/2012\/05\/you-normally-have-to-be-bashed-about.html\" target=\"_blank\">and<\/a>:<\/p>\n<blockquote><p>You normally have to be bashed about a bit by life to see the point of daffodils, sunsets and uneventful nice days.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n<p>(Alain de Botton)<\/p>\n<p><!--more--><\/p>\n<p>Not from <em>whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n<blockquote><p><strong>Trying to Name What Doesn&#8217;t Change<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>Roselva says the only thing that doesn&#8217;t change<br \/>\nis train tracks. She&#8217;s sure of it.<br \/>\nThe train changes, or the weeds that grow up spidery<br \/>\nby the side, but not the tracks.<br \/>\nI&#8217;ve watched one for three years, she says,<br \/>\nand it doesn&#8217;t curve, doesn&#8217;t break, doesn&#8217;t grow.<\/p>\n<p>Peter isn&#8217;t sure. He saw an abandoned track<br \/>\nnear Sabinas, Mexico, and says a track without a train<br \/>\nis a changed track. The metal wasn&#8217;t shiny anymore.<br \/>\nThe wood was split and some of the ties were gone.<\/p>\n<p>Every Tuesday on Morales Street<br \/>\nbutchers crack the necks of a hundred hens.<br \/>\nThe widow in the tilted house<br \/>\nspices her soup with cinnamon.<br \/>\nAsk her what doesn&#8217;t change.<\/p>\n<p>Stars explode.<br \/>\nThe rose curls up as if there is fire in the petals.<br \/>\nThe cat who knew me is buried under the bush.<\/p>\n<p>The train whistle still wails its ancient sound<br \/>\nbut when it goes away, shrinking back<br \/>\nfrom the walls of the brain,<br \/>\nit takes something different with it every time.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n<p>(Naomi Shihab Nye [<em><a title=\"Poetry Foundation: 'Trying to Name What Doesn't Change,' by Naomi Shihab Nye\" href=\"http:\/\/www.poetryfoundation.org\/poem\/178320\" target=\"_blank\">source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n<p>&#8230;and:<\/p>\n<blockquote><p><strong>Calmly We Walk through This April&#8217;s Day<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>Calmly we walk through this April&#8217;s day,<br \/>\nMetropolitan poetry here and there,<br \/>\nIn the park sit pauper and <span class=\"explannote\" title=\"someone who lives off income from property or other investments\"><em>rentier<\/em><\/span>,<br \/>\nThe screaming children, the motor-car<br \/>\nFugitive about us, running away,<br \/>\nBetween the worker and the millionaire<br \/>\nNumber provides all distances,<br \/>\nIt is Nineteen Thirty-Seven now,<br \/>\nMany great dears are taken away,<br \/>\nWhat will become of you and me<br \/>\n(This is the school in which we learn &#8230;)<br \/>\nBesides the photo and the memory?<br \/>\n(&#8230; that time is the fire in which we burn.)<\/p>\n<p>(This is the school in which we learn &#8230;)<br \/>\nWhat is the self amid this blaze?<br \/>\nWhat am I now that I was then<br \/>\nWhich I shall suffer and act again,<br \/>\nThe <span class=\"explannote\" title=\"defense of God, given the reality of evil\">theodicy<\/span> I wrote in my high school days<br \/>\nRestored all life from infancy,<br \/>\nThe children shouting are bright as they run<br \/>\n(This is the school in which they learn &#8230;)<br \/>\nRavished entirely in their passing play!<br \/>\n(&#8230; that time is the fire in which they burn.)<\/p>\n<p>Avid its rush, that reeling blaze!<br \/>\nWhere is my father and Eleanor?<br \/>\nNot where are they now, dead seven years,<br \/>\nBut what they were then?<br \/>\n<span style=\"margin-left: 12em;\">No more? No more?<\/span><br \/>\nFrom Nineteen-Fourteen to the present day,<br \/>\nBert Spira and Rhoda consume, consume<br \/>\nNot where they are now (where are they now?)<br \/>\nBut what they were then, both beautiful;<\/p>\n<p>Each minute bursts in the burning room,<br \/>\nThe great globe reels in the solar fire,<br \/>\nSpinning the trivial and unique away.<br \/>\n(How all things flash! How all things flare!)<br \/>\nWhat am I now that I was then?<br \/>\nMay memory restore again and again<br \/>\nThe smallest color of the smallest day:<br \/>\nTime is the school in which we learn,<br \/>\nTime is the fire in which we burn.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n<p>(Delmore Schwartz [<em><a title=\"Google Books: 'Selected Poems (1938-1958),' by Delmore Schwartz\" href=\"http:\/\/books.google.com\/books?id=9VckeViE1BsC&amp;pg=PA66#v=onepage&amp;q&amp;f=false\" target=\"_blank\">source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n<p>&#8230;and:<\/p>\n<blockquote><p>I confess I do not believe in time. I like to fold my magic carpet, after use, in such a way as to superimpose one part of the pattern upon another. Let visitors trip. And the highest enjoyment of timelessness &#8212; in a landscape selected at random &#8212; is when I stand among rare butterflies and their food plants. This is ecstasy, and behind the ecstasy is something else, which is hard to explain. It is like a momentary vacuum into which rushes all that I love. A sense of oneness with sun and stone. A thrill of gratitude to whom it may concern-to the contrapuntal genius of human fate or to tender ghosts humoring a lucky mortal.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n<p>(Vladimir Nabokov [<em><a title=\"Google Books: 'Speak, Memory,' by Vladimir Nabokov\" href=\"http:\/\/books.google.com\/books?id=gjSSzkGWozAC&amp;lpg=PP1&amp;pg=PT142#v=onepage&amp;q&amp;f=false\" target=\"_blank\">source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>[Video: &#8220;Every Day the Same Dream,&#8221; based on the Flash-based game of the same name] From whiskey river: I do not believe the meaning of life is a puzzle to be solved. Life is. Anything might happen. And I believe I may invest my life with meaning. The uncertainty is a blessing in disguise. If [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[247,1393,1189,50,251],"tags":[376,792,1019,1172,2124,2946,2959,3006,3007],"class_list":{"0":"post-10865","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-ruminations","7":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","8":"category-videocomputer-gaming","9":"category-language-writing_cat","10":"category-poetry-writing_cat","11":"tag-louise-gluck","12":"tag-the-everyday","13":"tag-time","14":"tag-naomi-shihab-nye","15":"tag-vladimir-nabokov","16":"tag-robert-fulghum","17":"tag-alain-de-botton","18":"tag-every-day-the-same-dream","19":"tag-delmore-schwartz","20":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-2Pf","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10865","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=10865"}],"version-history":[{"count":18,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10865\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10883,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10865\/revisions\/10883"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=10865"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=10865"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=10865"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}