{"id":12169,"date":"2012-11-30T10:02:27","date_gmt":"2012-11-30T15:02:27","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=12169"},"modified":"2012-11-30T10:02:27","modified_gmt":"2012-11-30T15:02:27","slug":"alterations","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2012\/11\/alterations\/","title":{"rendered":"Alterations"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

[He: “It’s not like you need your head, right? I think you’re sexier without it.” She: “What?!” (Shinra and Celty, from <\/em>Durarara!! For more information, see the note<\/a> at the foot of this post.)]<\/em><\/p>\n

From\u00a0whiskey river<\/a><\/em>:<\/p>\n

I would not call this meditation, sitting in the back garden. Maybe I would call it eating light. Mystical traditions recognize two kinds of practice: apophatic mysticism<\/em>, which is the dark surrender of Zen, the Via Negativa of John of the Cross, and kataphatic mysticism<\/em>, less well defined: an openhearted surrender to the beauty of creation. Maybe Francis of Assissi was, on the whole, a kataphatic mystic, as was Th\u00e9r\u00e8se of Lisieux in her exuberant moments: but the fact is, kataphatic mysticism has low status in religious circles. Francis and Th\u00e9r\u00e8se were made, really made, any mother superior will let you know, in the dark nights of their lives: no more of this throwing off your clothes and singing songs and babbling about the shelter of God’s arms.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Mary Rose O’Reilley [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

The heart changes, and it is our worst sorrow; but we know it only through reading, through our imagination: in reality its alteration, like that of certain natural phenomena, is so gradual that, even if we are able to distinguish, successively, each of its different states, we are still spared the actual sensation of change.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Marcel Proust [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from\u00a0whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

The Escape<\/strong><\/p>\n

Amused when she asks, is your wife Jewish?<\/em> and,
\nbecause it’s easier, because I don’t
\nwant to think, I answer yes<\/em>. It’s the first time.
\nLater, a pushy man wants to know my
\nson’s birthday. Confused, I make him younger
\nand the shift of dates feels so natural<\/p>\n

I let it stand. Then it’s happening with family
\nnames, with where I work, how long, with
\nwhom — minor changes in my vita<\/em>, small alterations,
\nother lives, one variant for this person,
\nanother for that, as though I were picking out
\nballpoint pens or books, rummaging for<\/p>\n

keep-sakes to give away, a different self to
\neach, each time. Months pass before I
\ncatch on too and admit I’ve done what I did out of
\ncaution, an attempt to screen the self,
\nerase the scent, obscure the trail with a series
\nof dead-ends until no one could thread<\/p>\n

a way ahead through those dense thickets back to
\nme, reeking of fear. what did I think I
\nhad worth hiding and who was I trying to deceive?
\nTell me: surrounded by those casual lies
\nfabricating with disarming aplomb, why didn’t I ask
\nwhose escape I imagined I was fashioning?<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Mark Halperin [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Retouching [photos] is here to stay. Technology doesn’t move backward… I do see a future in which we all retouch the bejeezus out of our own pictures at home. Family Christmas cards will just be eyes and nostrils in a snowman border.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Tina Fey [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Constellations<\/strong><\/p>\n

After bedtime the child climbed on her dresser
\nand peeled phosphorescent stars off the sloped
\ngable-wall, dimming the night vault of her ceiling
\nlike a haze or the interfering glow
\nof a great city, small hands anticipating
\neons as they raided the playful patterns
\nher father had mapped for her — black holes now
\nwhere the raised thumb-stubs and ears of the Bat
\nhad been, the feet of the Turtle, wakeful
\neyes of the Mourning Dove. She stuck those paper
\nstars on herself. One on each foot, the backs
\nof her hands, navel, tip of nose and so on,
\nthen turned on the lamp by her bed and stood close
\nlike a child chilled after a winter bath
\npressed up to an air duct or a radiator
\nuntil those paper stars absorbed more light
\nthan they could hold. Then turned off the lamp,
\nwalked out into the dark hallway and called.<\/p>\n

Her father came up. He heard her breathing
\nas he clomped upstairs preoccupied, wrenched
\nout of a rented film just now taking grip
\non him and the child\u2019s mother, his day-end
\nbottle of beer set carefully on the stairs,
\nmarking the trail back down into that evening
\nadult world — he could hear her breathing (or
\nreally, more an anxious, breathy giggle) but
\ncouldn\u2019t see her, then in the hallway stopped,
\nmind spinning to sort the apparition
\nof fireflies hovering ahead, till he sensed
\nhis daughter and heard in her breathing
\nthe pent, grave concentration of her pose,
\nmapped onto the star chart of the darkness,
\narms stretched high, head back, one foot slightly raised —
\nthe Dancer, he supposed, and all his love
\nspun to centre with crushing force, to find her
\nmomentarily fixed, as unchanging
\nas he and her mother must seem to her,
\nand the way the stars are; as if the stars are.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Steven Heighton [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

________________________________
\n<\/a>
\nAbout the image:<\/strong> This is a frame from the anime series\u00a0Durarara!!<\/a><\/em> (based on an illustrated\u00a0light novel<\/a> series of the same name; the title means nothing at all and is, per Wikipedia, “often romanized as DRRR!!<\/strong>“). Arguably the series’ main character, the young lady on the right is one Celty\u00a0Sturluson — actually a varietyof fairy folk known as\u00a0a\u00a0dullahan<\/a><\/em>:\u00a0a headless creature from Irish mythology who goes about on horseback (updated in the series to a motorcycle). Unlike a typical dullahan, however, Celty does not carry her head under one arm; in fact, she seems to have lost<\/em> it. (And you thought you had problems.) Much of the series’ action is devoted to her efforts to find the missing head (if it gets destroyed, she herself will be as well). She’s often seen instead in a bright-yellow motorcycle helmet, which — while moderately disturbing — alarms humans rather less than the alternative.<\/p>\n

Celty lives with a young man named Shinra. In the image above, Shinra confesses to Celty that, y’know, he doesn’t really mind her headlessness, so maybe she should just… relax<\/em>. (The shadow\/smoke swirling from her neck is in fact a mysterious dark substance which Celty can manipulate to form various useful objects, including her suit.)<\/p>\n

The invaluable (and endlessly entertaining)\u00a0TV Tropes<\/em> site uses this image to illustrate the trope it calls\u00a0Freakiness Shame<\/a><\/em>:<\/p>\n

A character has some fantastical characteristic, such as wings, or horns, or a tail, of which they are deeply ashamed. They may have been born with them, they may have transformed for one reason or another. Later, some other character (commonly, her love interest) catches a glimpse of these and assures the character that their wings, or horns, or tail, or whatever, are not in fact ugly but very attractive.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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[He: “It’s not like you need your head, right? I think you’re sexier without it.” She: “What?!” (Shinra and Celty, from Durarara!! For more information, see the note at the foot of this post.)] From\u00a0whiskey river: I would not call this meditation, sitting in the back garden. Maybe I would call it eating light. Mystical […]<\/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":[247,1393,274,5,251,713],"tags":[626,2500,3251,3265,3266,3267,3268],"class_list":{"0":"post-12169","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-ruminations","7":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","8":"category-cartoons","9":"category-06_writing","10":"category-poetry-writing_cat","11":"category-humor-writing_cat","12":"tag-changes","13":"tag-tina-fey","14":"tag-mary-rose-oreilley","15":"tag-durarara","16":"tag-marcel-proust","17":"tag-mark-halperin","18":"tag-steven-heighton","19":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-3ah","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12169","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=12169"}],"version-history":[{"count":15,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12169\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":12185,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12169\/revisions\/12185"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=12169"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=12169"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=12169"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}