{"id":15559,"date":"2014-04-25T14:38:22","date_gmt":"2014-04-25T18:38:22","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=15559"},"modified":"2014-04-25T14:40:00","modified_gmt":"2014-04-25T18:40:00","slug":"the-truth-in-sudden-joy-and-vice-versa","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2014\/04\/the-truth-in-sudden-joy-and-vice-versa\/","title":{"rendered":"The Truth in Sudden Joy (and Vice-Versa)"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: <\/em>Interior with Sudden Joy (1951), by American surrealist Dorothea Tanning. This is as reproduced in grayscale for a 1990 <\/em>Bomb Magazine interview<\/a>. To see a (smaller) version in color, click on the image; to see the grayscale somewhat larger, click here<\/a>.]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

Don’t Hesitate<\/strong><\/p>\n

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
\ndon’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
\nof lives and whole towns destroyed or about
\nto be. We are not wise, and not very often
\nkind. And much can never be redeemed.
\nStill, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
\nis its way of fighting back, that sometimes
\nsomething happens better than all the riches
\nor power in the world. It could be anything,
\nbut very likely you notice it in the instant
\nwhen love begins. Anyway, that’s often the
\ncase. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
\nof its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Mary Oliver, Swan: Poems and Prose Poems [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

I became aware of the world’s tenderness, the profound beneficence of all that surrounded me, the blissful bond between me and all of creation, and I realized that the joy I sought in you was not only secreted within you, but breathed around me everywhere, in the speeding street sounds, in the hem of a comically lifted skirt, in the metallic yet tender drone of the wind, in the autumn clouds bloated with rain. I realized that the world does not represent a struggle at all, or a predaceous sequence of chance events, but the shimmering bliss, beneficent trepidation, a gift bestowed upon us and unappreciated.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Vladimir Nabokov [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

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

Prayer<\/strong><\/p>\n

Over a dock railing, I watch the minnows, thousands, swirl
\nthemselves, each a minuscule muscle, but also, without the
\nway to create current, making of their unison (turning, re-
\ninfolding,<\/span>
\nentering and exiting their own unison in unison) making of themselves a
\nvisual current, one that cannot freight or sway by
\nminutest fractions the water’s downdrafts and upswirls, the
\ndockside cycles of finally-arriving boat-wakes, there where
\nthey hit deeper resistance, water that seems to burst into
\nitself (it has those layers), a real current though mostly
\ninvisible sending into the visible (minnows) arrowing
\nmotion that forces change—<\/span>
\nthis is freedom. This is the force of faith. Nobody gets
\nwhat they want. Never again are you the same. The longing
\nis to be pure. What you get is to be changed. More and more by
\neach glistening minute, through which infinity threads itself,
\nalso oblivion, of course, the aftershocks of something
\nat sea. Here, hands full of sand, letting it sift through
\nin the wind, I look in and say take this, this is
\nwhat I have saved, take this, hurry. And if I listen
\nnow? Listen, I was not saying anything. It was only
\nsomething I did. I could not choose words. I am free to go.
\nI cannot of course come back. Not to this. Never.
\nIt is a ghost posed on my lips. Here: never.<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Jorie Graham [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

I Happened To Be Standing<\/strong><\/p>\n

I don’t know where prayers go,
\nor what they do.<\/span>
\nDo cats pray, while they sleep
\nhalf-asleep in the sun?<\/span>
\nDoes the opossum pray as it
\ncrosses the street?<\/span>
\nThe sunflowers? The old black oak
\ngrowing older every year?<\/span>
\nI know I can walk through the world,
\nalong the shore or under the trees,<\/span>
\nwith my mind filled with things
\nof little importance, in full<\/span>
\nself-attendance. A condition I can’t really
\ncall being alive.<\/span>
\nIs a prayer a gift, or a petition,
\nor does it matter?<\/span>
\nThe sunflowers blaze, maybe that’s their way.
\nMaybe the cats are sound asleep. Maybe not.<\/p>\n

While I was thinking this I happened to be standing
\njust outside my door, with my notebook open,
\nwhich is the way I begin every morning.
\nThen a wren in the privet began to sing.
\nHe was positively drenched in enthusiasm,
\nI don’t know why. And yet, why not.
\nI wouldn’t persuade you from whatever you believe
\nor whatever you don’t. That’s your business.
\nBut I thought, of the wren’s singing, what could this be
\nif it isn’t a prayer?<\/span>
\nSo I just listened, my pen in the air.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

…and:<\/p>\n

To the artist is sometimes granted a sudden, transient insight which serves in this matter for experience. A flash, and where previously the brain held a dead fact, the soul grasps a living truth! At moments we are all artists.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Arnold Bennett [quoted various places around the Internet; apparently from The Journals of Arnold Bennett<\/em>, entry for March 18, 1897])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

The New Song<\/strong><\/p>\n

For some time I thought there was time
\nand that there would always be time
\nfor what I had a mind to do
\nand what I could imagine
\ngoing back to and finding it
\nas I had found it the first time
\nbut by this time I do not know
\nwhat I thought when I thought back then<\/p>\n

there is no time yet it grows less
\nthere is the sound of rain at night
\narriving unknown in the leaves
\nonce without before or after
\nthen I hear the thrush waking
\nat daybreak singing the new song<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(W.S. Merwin [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

There is, or was, a contemporary religious crank named Joel Goldsmith, for whose illogical, obscurely published books I confess a fond and enduring weakness. He says that God (aka “It”) has nothing to give you that he (It) is not giving you right now. That all people at all times may avail themselves of this God, and those who are aware of it know no fear, not even fear of death. “God” is the awareness of the infinite in each of us. Repeatedly and reassuringly, God tells Joel Goldsmith (and for this I cannot dismiss Goldsmith, clearly an American, possibly a football fan), “I am on the field.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Annie Dillard [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: Interior with Sudden Joy (1951), by American surrealist Dorothea Tanning. This is as reproduced in grayscale for a 1990 Bomb Magazine interview. To see a (smaller) version in color, click on the image; to see the grayscale somewhat larger, click here.] From whiskey river: Don’t Hesitate If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t […]<\/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],"tags":[295,351,595,2124,3780,3781,3782],"class_list":{"0":"post-15559","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":"tag-annie-dillard","13":"tag-ws-merwin","14":"tag-mary-oliver","15":"tag-vladimir-nabokov","16":"tag-dorothea-tanning","17":"tag-jorie-graham","18":"tag-arnold-bennett","19":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-42X","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15559","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=15559"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15559\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15569,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15559\/revisions\/15569"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15559"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15559"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15559"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}