{"id":15135,"date":"2014-01-17T11:33:09","date_gmt":"2014-01-17T16:33:09","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=15135"},"modified":"2014-01-17T11:33:09","modified_gmt":"2014-01-17T16:33:09","slug":"uncanny-revelation","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2014\/01\/uncanny-revelation\/","title":{"rendered":"Uncanny Revelation"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: photograph of an exhibit, <\/em>Always Becoming<\/a>, at the National Museum of the American Indian in Washington, DC. The sculptures — “Moon Woman” on the left, and “Mountain Bird” on the right —\u00a0are the work of artist Nora Naranjo-Morse.\u00a0For more information, see the description at the photographer’s Flickr page<\/a>… or, of course, at the <\/em>Always Becoming site linked above.]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

Often, change doesn’t come trumpeting itself in. It comes in quiet, barely noticed ways. No bolts of lightning and grand entrances here. Just a subtle relaxation into the body. A tiny shift towards where you are. An old belief, an outdated story, seen for what it is. A new path emerging in the darkness. A vague, unspeakable hope dawning in the first light of the day you imagined would never come. Everything the same, everything different, everything always resting in motion, and the mysteries of change forever unresolved.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Jeff Foster [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…<\/span>and<\/a>:<\/span><\/p>\n

Of Love<\/strong><\/p>\n

I have been in love more times than one,
\nthank the Lord. Sometimes it was lasting
\nwhether active or not. Sometimes
\nit was all but ephemeral, maybe only
\nan afternoon, but not less real for that.
\nThey stay in my mind, these beautiful people,
\nor anyway beautiful people to me, of which
\nthere are so many. You, and you, and you,
\nwhom I had the fortune to meet, or maybe
\nmissed. Love, love, love, it was the
\ncore of my life, from which, of course, comes
\nthe word for the heart. And, oh, have I mentioned
\nthat some of them were men and some were women
\nand some — now carry my revelation with you —
\nwere trees. Or places. Or music flying above
\nthe names of their makers. Or clouds, or the sun
\nwhich was the first, and the best, the most
\nloyal for certain, who looked so faithfully into
\nmy eyes, every morning. So I imagine
\nsuch love of the world — its fervency, its shining, its
\ninnocence and hunger to give of itself — I imagine
\nthis is how it began.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Mary Oliver [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Factual information alone isn’t sufficient to guide you through life’s labyrinthine tests. You need and deserve regular deliveries of uncanny revelation. One of your inalienable rights as a human being should therefore be to receive a mysteriously useful omen every day of your life.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Rob Brezsny [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

When Huizi the rationalist visited Zhuangzi to express his condolences for the recent passing of Zhuangzi’s wife, he was shocked to find the great Daoist sage sprawled on the ground happily beating out a rhythm on a tub and singing with gusto. Stop this scandal! Huizi demanded, outraged at his friend’s disregard of decorum.<\/p>\n

Zhuangzi was unmoved. “You’re wrong,” he retorted. “When she first died, do you think I didn’t grieve like anyone else?”<\/p>\n

“But,” he continued, “I looked back to her beginning and the time before she was born. Not only the time before she was born, but the time before she had a body. Not only the time before she had a body, but the time before she had a spirit. In the midst of the jumble of wonder and mystery a change took place and she had a spirit. Another change and she had a body. Another change and she was born. Now there’s been another change and she’s dead.<\/p>\n

“It’s just like the progression of the four seasons, spring, summer, fall, winter.”<\/p>\n

It’s just like the progression of the spider and fly: flight, web, dust.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Hugh Raffles [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Ex-Basketball Player<\/strong><\/p>\n

Pearl Avenue runs past the high-school lot,
\nBends with the trolley tracks, and stops, cut off
\nBefore it has a chance to go two blocks,
\nAt Colonel McComsky Plaza. Berth’s Garage
\nIs on the corner facing west, and there,
\nMost days, you’ll find Flick Webb, who helps Berth out.<\/p>\n

Flick stands tall among the idiot pumps—
\nFive on a side, the old bubble-head style,
\nTheir rubber elbows hanging loose and low.
\nOne’s nostrils are two S’s, and his eyes
\nAn E and O. And one is squat, without
\nA head at all — more of a football type.<\/p>\n

Once Flick played for the high-school team, the Wizards.
\nHe was good: in fact, the best. In ’46
\nHe bucketed three hundred ninety points,
\nA county record still. The ball loved Flick.
\nI saw him rack up thirty-eight or forty
\nIn one home game. His hands were like wild birds.<\/p>\n

He never learned a trade, he just sells gas,
\nChecks oil, and changes flats. Once in a while,
\nAs a gag, he dribbles an inner tube,
\nBut most of us remember anyway.
\nHis hands are fine and nervous on the lug wrench.
\nIt makes no difference to the lug wrench, though.<\/p>\n

Off work, he hangs around Mae’s Luncheonette.
\nGrease-gray and kind of coiled, he plays pinball,
\nSmokes those thin cigars, nurses lemon phosphates.
\nFlick seldom says a word to Mae, just nods
\nBeyond her face toward bright applauding tiers
\nOf Necco Wafers, Nibs, and Juju Beads.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(John Updike [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

I want to hang a map of the world in my house, and then I’m gonna put pins into all the locations that I’ve traveled to. But first I’m gonna have to travel to the top two corners of the map, so it won’t fall down.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Mitch Hedberg [source<\/a><\/em>\u00a0(and elsewhere)])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

You thought you knew what change was. Change, insubstantial and in-between change, began in one thing and ended in another. But change was real, real with the implacable stolidity of the changing and the changed-to things themselves. In more ways than one, change\u00a0matter<\/em>ed: took shape, took substance and form, got in the way, intervened, and in the end waved you by, silently, with a nod of recognition and — always — faint traces of a smile at the corner of (its? his? her?) lips.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(JES)<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: photograph of an exhibit, Always Becoming, at the National Museum of the American Indian in Washington, DC. The sculptures — “Moon Woman” on the left, and “Mountain Bird” on the right —\u00a0are the work of artist Nora Naranjo-Morse.\u00a0For more information, see the description at the photographer’s Flickr page… or, of course, at the Always […]<\/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":[247,1393,250,5,36,251,713],"tags":[595,1330,3601,3713,3714,3715,3716,3717],"class_list":{"0":"post-15135","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-ruminations","7":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","8":"category-art","9":"category-06_writing","10":"category-reading","11":"category-poetry-writing_cat","12":"category-humor-writing_cat","13":"tag-mary-oliver","14":"tag-john-updike","15":"tag-jeff-foster","16":"tag-change","17":"tag-rob-brezsny","18":"tag-hugh-raffles","19":"tag-mitch-hedberg","20":"tag-nora-naranjo-morse","21":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-3W7","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15135","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=15135"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15135\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15145,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15135\/revisions\/15145"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15135"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15135"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15135"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}