{"id":14021,"date":"2013-06-14T12:25:10","date_gmt":"2013-06-14T16:25:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=14021"},"modified":"2017-04-05T06:37:12","modified_gmt":"2017-04-05T10:37:12","slug":"the-waking-moment","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2013\/06\/the-waking-moment\/","title":{"rendered":"The Waking Moment"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: Because of childhood associations, all I can think of when I see this is something like, “Come ON. It’s Saturday morning! Can I watch cartoons yet? Can I can I can I?!?”]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

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

I had no idea that the gate I would step through
\nto finally enter this world<\/p>\n

would be the space my brother’s body made. He was
\na little taller than me: a young man<\/p>\n

but grown, himself by then,
\ndone at twenty-eight, having folded every sheet,<\/p>\n

rinsed every glass he would ever rinse under the cold
\nand running water.<\/p>\n

This is what you have been waiting for, he used to say to me.
\nAnd I’d say, What?<\/p>\n

And he’d say, This — holding up my cheese and mustard sandwich.
\nAnd I’d say, What?<\/p>\n

And he’d say, This, sort of looking around.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Marie Howe [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Annunciation<\/strong><\/p>\n

Even if I don’t see it again — nor ever feel it
\nI know it is — and that if once it hailed me
\nit ever does —
\nAnd so it is myself I want to turn in that direction
\nnot as towards a place, but it was a tilting
\nwithin myself,
\nas one turns a mirror to flash the light to where
\nit isn’t — I was blinded like that — and swam
\nin what shone at me
\nonly able to endure it by being no one and so
\nspecifically myself I thought I’d die
\nfrom being loved like that.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Marie Howe [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

A lifetime may not be long enough to attune ourselves fully to the harmony of the universe. But just to become aware that we can resonate with it — that alone can be like waking up from a dream.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(David Steindl-Rast [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river:<\/p>\n

At some point early in our lives, we decide just how conscious we wish to be. We establish a threshold of awareness. We choose how stark a truth we are willing to admit into consciousness, how readily we will examine contradictions in our lives and beliefs, how deeply we wish to penetrate. Our brains can censor what we see and hear, we can filter reality to suit our level of courage. At every crossroads we make the choice again for greater or lesser awareness.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Marilyn Ferguson [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Then there is the issue of HAL’s death. In the early 1960s at Bell Laboratories I had heard a recording of an Illiac computer singing “Bicycle Built for Two.” I thought it would be good for the death scene especially the slowing down of the words at the end. Imagine my surprise, then, when I recently came upon a 1918 poem, “In the Theater,” about brain surgeon Lambert Rogers operating to remove a brain tumor. Near the end of the poem the patient on the operating table speaks to the surgeon…<\/p>\n

I do not know how many actors Stanley interviewed before he settled on Douglas Rain as the voice of HAL; but I am almost certain that one of them was Martin Balsam, who comes to a memorably sticky end in Psycho<\/em>. Apparently Martin made some recordings but decided the role wasn’t for him. So here is another piece of unknown Kubricana — like the custard-pie fight in the war room of Dr. Strangelove<\/em> that never made it into the final version. (Did you ever wonder what those tables of goodies were doing at the back of the room?) I still hear Douglas Rain’s silky voice every time I tell my computer to do something stupid and it says reproachfully, “I’m sorry, Dave, I can’t do that.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Arthur C. Clarke, on 2001<\/em>‘s HAL [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

In the Theatre<\/strong><\/p>\n

\n

(A true incident)<\/p>\n

‘Only a local anaesthetic was given because of the blood pressure problem. The patient, thus, was fully awake throughout the operation. But in those days–in 1938, in Cardiff, when I was Lambert Rogers’ dresser<\/span>–they could not locate a brain tumour with precision. Too much normal brain tissue was destroyed as the surgeon searched for it, before he felt the resistance of it … all somewhat hit and miss. One operation I shall never forget … ‘<\/p>\n

(Dr Wilfred Abse)<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

Sister saying–‘Soon you’ll be back in the ward,’
\nsister thinking–‘Only two more on the list,’
\nthe patient saying–‘Thank you, I feel fine’;
\nsmall voices, small lies, nothing untoward,
\nthough, soon, he would blink again and again
\nbecause of the fingers of Lambert Rogers,
\nrash as a blind man’s, inside his soft brain.<\/p>\n

If items of horror can make a man laugh
\nthen laugh at this: one hour later, the growth
\nstill undiscovered, ticking its own wild time;
\nmore brain mashed because of the probe’s braille path;
\nLambert Rogers desperate, fingering still;
\nhis dresser thinking, ‘Christ! Two more on the list,
\na cisternal puncture and a neural cyst.’<\/p>\n

Then, suddenly, the cracked record in the brain,
\na ventriloquist voice that cried, ‘You sod,
\nleave my soul alone, leave my soul alone,’—
\nthe patient’s dummy lips moving to that refrain,
\nthe patient’s eyes too wide. And, shocked,
\nLambert Rogers drawing out the probe
\nwith nurses, students, sister, petrified.<\/p>\n

‘Leave my soul alone, leave my soul alone,’
\nthat voice so arctic and that cry so odd
\nhad nowhere else to go–till the antique
\ngramophone wound down and the words began
\nto blur and slow, ‘ … leave … my … soul … alone … ‘
\nto cease at last when something other died.
\nAnd silence matched the silence under snow.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Dannie Abse [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\nI<\/span>f you want to talk really<\/em>\u00a0seriously about waking up, it’s hard not to reach eventually for that iconic perfect sleeper,\u00a0Rip Van Winkle<\/a>. Singer-songwriter\/multi-instrumentalist\/violin collector David Bromberg<\/a> cast Rip’s tale in his “Kaatskill Serenade,” never released as a single but included on his great 1976 album,\u00a0How Late’ll You Play ‘Til?<\/em> (Lyrics below.)<\/p>\n\n

[Lyrics<\/a>]<\/em><\/p>\n

Bob Dylan covered Bromberg’s song (using the more contemporary “Catskill” in the title) for an album, The Genuine Bootleg Series, Volume 4: Fourth Time Around<\/em>, never officially released in MP3 form. You can find the complete story of this recording at the Nightly Song<\/em> blog<\/a> (“Musings on Songs that Strike a Chord Tonight”). The clever proprietor of the\u00a0Haiku 61 Revisited<\/em> blog boils the lyrics down<\/a> for the impatient:<\/p>\n

My wife annoys me.
\nBut drinking with these strangers
\nAnnoys me much more.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Ha!<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: Because of childhood associations, all I can think of when I see this is something like, “Come ON. It’s Saturday morning! Can I watch cartoons yet? Can I can I can I?!?”] From whiskey river: The Gate I had no idea that the gate I would step through to finally enter this world would […]<\/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":[38,247,1393,405,53,74,250,5,251,3477],"tags":[895,3476,3507,3508,3509,3510,3511,3512],"class_list":{"0":"post-14021","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-backwards","7":"category-ruminations","8":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","9":"category-nature","10":"category-movies-media","11":"category-music","12":"category-art","13":"category-06_writing","14":"category-poetry-writing_cat","15":"category-fantasy-06_writing","16":"tag-bob-dylan","17":"tag-marie-howe","18":"tag-david-steindl-rast","19":"tag-marilyn-ferguson","20":"tag-arthur-c-clarke","21":"tag-dannie-abse","22":"tag-david-bromberg","23":"tag-rip-van-winkle","24":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-3E9","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14021","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=14021"}],"version-history":[{"count":21,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14021\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":19033,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14021\/revisions\/19033"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=14021"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=14021"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=14021"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}