{"id":12910,"date":"2013-03-08T12:28:48","date_gmt":"2013-03-08T17:28:48","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=12910"},"modified":"2013-03-08T12:28:48","modified_gmt":"2013-03-08T17:28:48","slug":"waypoints","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2013\/03\/waypoints\/","title":{"rendered":"Waypoints"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: possibly the oldest surviving map of the world. Mesopotamia\/Babylon, about 700-500 BCE. Click to enlarge; see the note<\/a> at the foot of this post for more information.]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

In general, lives seem to veer abruptly from one thing to another, to jostle and bump, to squirm. A person heads in one direction, turns sharply in mid-course, stalls, drifts, starts up again. Nothing is ever known, and inevitably we come to a place quite different from the one we set out for.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Paul Auster [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>\u00a0(italicized portion):<\/p>\n

The spiritual life — or the writing life — depends above all on fidelity to objects.<\/p>\n

I wrote that sentence and looked out the window. It has rained for three days and in today’s sun the late roses strain, soggy as wet tissue, toward light coming just in time. Fidelity, I was saying, to objects…<\/p>\n

Whatever your eye falls on — for it will fall on what you love — will lead you to the questions of your life, the questions that are incumbent upon you to answer, because that is how the mind works in concert with the eye. The things of this world draw us where we need to go.<\/em><\/p>\n

It doesn’t matter how unprepossessing the world we look at, though it may seem to the lust of the eye that blue sky and late roses are more amusing to look at than dead winter growth. This mistake I make over and over.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

<\/p>\n

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

Turtle in the Road<\/strong><\/p>\n

It was the spring before we moved again, a list of what
\nwe must do on the refrigerator, when my daughter
\nand I found a turtle in the road. He was not gentle
\nor shy, not properly afraid of the cars that swerved<\/p>\n

around his mistake. I thought I might encourage him
\ntowards safety with a stick but each time I touched
\nhis tail he turned fiercely to show me what he thought
\nof my prodding. He had a raisin head, the legs of<\/p>\n

a fat dwarf, the tail of a dinosaur. His shell was a deep
\ngreen secret he had kept his whole life. I could not tell
\nhow old he was but his claws suggested years of
\nreaching. I was afraid to pick him up, afraid of the way<\/p>\n

he snapped his jaws, but I wanted to help him return
\nto the woods which watched him with an ancient
\ndetachment. I felt I understood him because I didn’t
\nwant to move either; I was tired of going from one place<\/p>\n

to another: the introductions, the goodbyes. I was sick
\nof getting ready, of unpacking, of mail sent to places
\nwhere I used to live. At last I put my stick away
\nand left him to decide which direction was best.<\/p>\n

If I forced him off the road he might return later.
\nMy daughter and I stood awhile, considering him.
\nHe was a traveler from the time of reptiles, a creature
\nwho wore his house like a jacket. I don’t know<\/p>\n

if he survived his afternoon in the road; I am still
\nthinking of the way his eyes watched me go.
\nI can’t forget his terrible legs, so determined
\nto take him somewhere, his tail which pointed
\nbehind him at the dark spaces between the trees.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Faith Shearin [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

XVIII<\/strong><\/p>\n

The days aren’t discarded or collected, they are bees
\nthat burned with sweetness or maddened
\nthe sting: the struggle continues,
\nthe journeys go and come between honey and pain.
\nNo, the net of years doesn’t unweave: there is no net.
\nThey don’t fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.
\nSleep doesn’t divide life into halves,
\nor action, or silence, or honor:
\nlife is like a stone, a single motion,
\na lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves,
\nan arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal
\nthat climbs or descends burning in your bones.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Pablo Neruda, from Still Another Day<\/em> [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

I think I may know how to proceed. I stand up. I turn around. Yes, this is how it was. I walk away from her. And now she begins to pursue me. I am not afraid. This is how it must be. I have created this maze. I am its author.<\/p>\n

Through dimly-lit corridors, she pursues me. She travels at the same pace as me. When I slow, she slows. When I quicken, she does likewise. Nothing appears to have changed. But everything has changed.<\/p>\n

I am the author of this maze. I know its every turn and bend, its every blind alley. I know its heart. Now, she is following me. Now I control our destination.<\/p>\n

Counting in the half-light, I pass by one entrance, then another, then another. The passages appear identical. I am looking for the heart of the maze. I choose carefully. This place is larger than one might have expected.<\/p>\n

I lead her along the route I have chosen. She is always just a little behind me, just out of view.<\/p>\n

We come at last to the place I have chosen. The heart of the maze. I know, I think I know, what will happen here.<\/p>\n

The centre of the maze is an empty room. This is the secret at the heart of every maze. She knows it too. Emptiness, a space at the heart.<\/p>\n

The room is long. It is unbending. It is as large as the maze itself. This is a mystery beyond explanation.<\/p>\n

I walk slowly up the length of the room. Slower than slow. She is behind me. She knows what will happen now.<\/p>\n

I reach the far distance. This is impossible, of course.<\/p>\n

I turn around.<\/p>\n

I see her.<\/p>\n

She sees me.<\/p>\n

She speaks a series of words. They mean nothing to me. They mean everything. They are this story.<\/p>\n

It is time for me to go.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(from “Pietro’s maze,” an article at the Wiki for the alternate-reality game (ARG) Perplex City<\/em><\/a> [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/a>____________________________<\/p>\n

About the image:<\/strong> This tablet (clearly broken and reassembled) is in the collection of the British Museum<\/a>. That page explains:<\/p>\n

This tablet contains both a cuneiform inscription and a unique map of the Mesopotamian world. Babylon is shown in the centre (the rectangle in the top half of the circle), and Assyria, Elam and other places are also named. The central area is ringed by a circular waterway labelled ‘Salt-Sea’. The outer rim of the sea is surrounded by what were probably originally eight regions, each indicated by a triangle, labelled ‘Region’ or ‘Island’, and marked with the distance in between. The cuneiform text describes these regions, and it seems that strange and mythical beasts as well as great heroes lived there, although the text is far from complete.<\/p>\n

The regions are shown as triangles since that was how it was visualized that they first would look when approached by water.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The\u00a0Visual Complexity<\/em><\/a> (!) site furnishes more detail:<\/p>\n

The map itself is small, occupying only two-thirds of the surface of a clay tablet that measures about 125 x 75 mm (5 x 3 in).<\/p>\n

The accompanying text mentions eight outer regions beyond the encircling ocean. The descriptions of five of them have survived:<\/p>\n