{"id":15674,"date":"2014-06-06T11:13:13","date_gmt":"2014-06-06T15:13:13","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=15674"},"modified":"2014-06-06T11:15:40","modified_gmt":"2014-06-06T15:15:40","slug":"at-sea","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2014\/06\/at-sea\/","title":{"rendered":"At Sea"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: “It Wasn’t Unfulfillment, But Rather Conscious Decisions on Their Path to Happiness,”
\na photo by user “skrubu” (Pekka Nikrus) on Flickr<\/a>. Used under a Creative Commons license.
\nFor more information, see the note at the foot of this post<\/a>.]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, “Morning, boys. How’s the water?” And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then one of them looks over at the other and says, “What the hell is water?”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

…and (same link as above):<\/p>\n

If the multiverse idea is correct, then the historic mission of physics to explain all the properties of our universe in terms of fundamental principles — to explain why the properties of our universe must necessarily be what they are — is futile, a beautiful philosophical dream that simply isn’t true. Our universe is what it is simply because we are here. The situation can be likened to that of a group of intelligent fish who one day begin wondering why their world is completely filled with water. Many of the fish, the theorists, hope to prove that the cosmos necessarily has to be filled with water. For years, they put their minds to the task but can never quite seem to prove their assertion. Then a wizened group of fish postulates that maybe they are fooling themselves. Maybe, they suggest, there are many other worlds, some of them completely dry, some wet, and everything in between.<\/p>\n

Some of the fish grudgingly accept this explanation. Some feel relieved. Some feel like their lifelong ruminations have been pointless. And some remain deeply concerned. Because there is no way they can prove this conjecture. That same uncertainty disturbs many physicists who are adjusting to the idea of the multiverse. Not only must we accept that basic properties of our universe are accidental and uncalculable. In addition, we must believe in the existence of many other universes. But we have no conceivable way of observing these other universes and cannot prove their existence. Thus, to explain what we see in the world and in our mental deductions, we must believe in what we cannot prove.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Alan Lightman [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and (italicized portion):<\/p>\n

Early one morning words were missing. Before that, words were not. Facts were, faces were. In a good story, Aristotle tells us, everything that happens is pushed by something else. Ond day someone noticed there were stars but no words, why? I’ve asked a lot of people, I think it is a good question. Three old women were bending in the fields. What use is it to question us? they said. Well it shortly became clear that they knew everything there is to know about the snowy fields and the bluegreen shoots and the plant called ‘audacity’ that poets mistake for violets. I began to copy out everything that was said. The marks construct an instant of nature gradually, without the boredom of a story. I emphasize this. I will do anything to avoid boredom. It is the task of a lifetime. You can never know enough, never work enough, never use the infinitives and participles oddly enough, never impede the movement harshly enough, never leave the mind quickly enough<\/em>.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Anne Carson [source<\/em><\/a>, but quoted here<\/em><\/a> and elsewhere])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

Submerged City
\n<\/strong>
\nThat city will be no more, no halos
\nof spring mornings when green hills
\ntremble in the midst and rise
\nlike barrage balloons—<\/p>\n

and May won’t cross its streets
\nwith shrieking birds and summer’s promises.
\nNo breathless spells,
\nno chilly ecstasies of spring water.<\/p>\n

Church towers rest on the ocean’s floor,
\nand flawless views of leafy avenues
\nfix no one’s eyes.<\/p>\n

And still we live on calmly,
\nhumbly — from suitcases,
\nin waiting rooms, on airplanes, trains,<\/p>\n

and still, stubbornly, blindly, we seek the image,
\nthe final form of things
\nbetween inexplicable fits
\nof mute despair—<\/p>\n

as if vaguely remembering
\nsomething that cannot be recalled,
\nas if that submerged city were traveling with us,
\nalways asking questions,<\/p>\n

and always unhappy with our answers—
\nexacting, and perfect in its way.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Adam Zagajewski, translated by Clare Cavanagh [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Creatures<\/strong><\/p>\n

Hamlet noticed them in the shapes of clouds,
\nbut I saw them in the furniture of childhood,
\ncreatures trapped under surfaces of wood,<\/p>\n

one submerged in a polished sideboard,
\none frowning from a chair-back,
\nanother howling from my mother’s silent bureau,
\nlocked in the grain of maple, frozen in oak.<\/p>\n

I would see these presences, too,
\nin a swirling pattern of wallpaper
\nor in the various greens of a porcelain lamp,
\neach looking so melancholy, so damned,
\nsome peering out at me as if they knew
\nall the secrets of a secretive boy.<\/p>\n

Many times I would be daydreaming
\non the carpet and one would appear next to me,
\nthe oversize nose, the hollow look.<\/p>\n

So you will understand my reaction
\nthis morning at the beach
\nwhen you opened your hand to show me
\na stone you had picked up from the shoreline.<\/p>\n

“Do you see the face?” you asked
\nas the cold surf circled our bare ankles.
\n“There’s the eye and the line of the mouth,
\nlike it’s grimacing, like it’s in pain.”<\/p>\n

“Well, maybe that’s because it has a fissure
\nrunning down the length of its forehead
\nnot to mention a kind of twisted beak,” I said,<\/p>\n

taking the thing from you and flinging it out
\nover the sparkle of blue waves
\nso it could live out its freakish existence
\non the dark bottom of the sea<\/p>\n

and stop bothering innocent beachgoers like us,
\nstop ruining everyone’s summer.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Billy Collins [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

_______________________________<\/p>\n

<\/a>About the image:<\/strong> Apparently, there’s a subculture of artists and\/or photographers (and\/or, I guess I should add, artist-photographers) who specialize in images of pedestrians painted on pavement — at least, to judge from this Flickr “pool.”<\/a> Moderated by a photographer(-artist) known on Flickr as “skrubu” (Pekka Nikrus), who also seems to be its most prolific contributor, it aims to be:<\/p>\n

…a group for photographs where painted (not drawn, no chalk outlines) walking pedestrians on pavement are the main subject. You know, the ones that quite often depict a bigger pedestrian holding hands with a smaller one, but also single walking painted pedestrians are cool too.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Some of the images are simple, albeit mysterious; some are quite eerie or baffling — maybe “thought-provoking” is the word — especially when titled as “skrubu” likes to title them. I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of these images firsthand. Clearly, I’m hanging around the wrong pavements.<\/p>\n

[back to top<\/a>]<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “It Wasn’t Unfulfillment, But Rather Conscious Decisions on Their Path to Happiness,” a photo by user “skrubu” (Pekka Nikrus) on Flickr. Used under a Creative Commons license. For more information, see the note at the foot of this post.] From whiskey river: There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to […]<\/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":[247,1393,250,5,50,251],"tags":[1081,1141,1633,3209,3810,3811,3812],"class_list":{"0":"post-15674","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-language-writing_cat","11":"category-poetry-writing_cat","12":"tag-david-foster-wallace","13":"tag-billy-collins","14":"tag-adam-zagajewski","15":"tag-street-art","16":"tag-alan-lightman","17":"tag-anne-carson","18":"tag-pekka-nikrus","19":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-44O","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15674","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=15674"}],"version-history":[{"count":11,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15674\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15688,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15674\/revisions\/15688"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15674"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15674"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15674"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}