{"id":16278,"date":"2015-01-16T11:29:20","date_gmt":"2015-01-16T16:29:20","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=16278"},"modified":"2015-01-16T11:29:20","modified_gmt":"2015-01-16T16:29:20","slug":"une-moment","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2015\/01\/une-moment\/","title":{"rendered":"Une Moment<\/em>"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: “Three Boys at Lake Tanganyika” (full title:\u00a0<\/em>Negerknaben in der Brandung des Tahganyikasees, or “Boys in the Surf at Lake Tanganyika”) by Martin Munk\u00e1csi (ca. 1930). This picture crystallized for photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson all the elements of what became famous as his insistence that photography capture a “decisive moment.” See Cartier-Bresson’s quote about it, below.]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

There are such moments in life: one unexpectedly discovers that perfection exists, that it, too, is a tiny sphere traveling in time, empty, transparent, luminous, and which sometimes (rarely) comes in our direction and encircles us for a few brief moments before traveling on to other parts and other people.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Jos\u00e9 Saramago [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Horses<\/strong><\/p>\n

From the window I saw the horses.<\/p>\n

I was in Berlin, in winter. The light
\nwas without light, the sky without sky.<\/p>\n

The air white like wet bread.<\/p>\n

And from my window a vacant arena,
\nbitten by the teeth of winter.<\/p>\n

Suddenly led by a man,
\nten horses stepped out into the mist.<\/p>\n

Hardly had they surged forth, like flame,
\nthan to my eyes they filled the whole world,
\nempty till then. Perfect, ablaze,
\nthey were like ten gods with pure white hoofs,
\nwith manes like a dream of salt.<\/p>\n

Their rumps were worlds and oranges.<\/p>\n

Their color was honey, amber, fire.<\/p>\n

Their necks were towers
\ncut from the stone of pride,
\nand behind their transparent eyes
\nenergy raged, like a prisoner.<\/p>\n

And there, in the silence, in the middle
\nof the day, of the dark, slovenly winter,
\nthe intense horses were the blood
\nand rhythm, the animating treasure of life.<\/p>\n

I looked. I looked and was reborn: without knowing it,
\nthere, was the fountain, the dance of gold, the sky,
\nthe fire that revived in beauty.<\/p>\n

I have forgotten that dark Berlin winter.<\/p>\n

I will not forget the light of the horses.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Pablo Neruda [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

But being<\/em> is making; not only large things, a family, a book, a business; but the shape we give this afternoon, a conversation between friends, a meal.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Frank Bidart [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

I saw a photograph of three black children running into the sea, and I must say that it is that very photograph which was for me the spark that set fire to the fireworks. It is only that one photograph which influenced me. There is in that image such intensity, spontaneity, such a joy of life, such a prodigy, that I am still dazzled by it even today. I suddenly understood that photography can fix eternity in a moment. I couldn\u2019t believe such a thing could be caught with the camera. I said damn it, I took my camera and went out into the street.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Henri Cartier-Bresson [source<\/a> (and elsewhere)<\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Fall River<\/strong><\/p>\n

When I wake now it’s below ocherous, saw-ridged
\npine beams. Haze streaks all three windows. I look up
\nat the dog-eared, glossy magazine photo
\nI’ve taken with me for years. It gets tacked
\nlike a claim to some new wall in the next place—
\nBill Russell & Wilt Chamberlain, one on one
\nthe final game of the 1969 NBA championship,
\ntwo hard men snapped elbowing & snatching at a basketball
\nas if it were a moment one of them might stay inside
\nforever. I was with
\nmy father the night that game played
\non a fuzzy color television, in a jammed Fall River bar.
\nSeagram & beer chasers for hoarse ex-jocks,
\nsmoke rifting the air. A drunk called him “Tiger”
\nand asked about the year he’d made all-state guard—
\npoint man, ball-hawk, pacer. Something he rarely spoke
\nof, & almost always with a gruff mix of impatience
\nand shyness. Each year,
\ndays painting suburban tract houses & fighting
\nwith contractors followed by
\nnight shifts at the fire station
\nfollowed by his kids swarming at breakfast
\nand my mother trying to stay out of his way,
\neach of the many stone-hard moments between 1941 & 1969—
\nthey made up a city of granite mills
\nby a slate & blue river. That town was my father’s
\nlife, & still is. If he felt cheated by it,
\nby its fate for him,
\nto bear that disappointment, he kept it secret.
\nThat<\/span>
\nnight, when he stared deep into a drunk’s memory,
\nhe frowned. He said nothing. He twisted on the stool,
\nand ordered this guy a beer.
\nWhatever my father & I have in common
\nis mostly silence. And anger that keeps twisting
\nback on itself, though not before it ruins,
\noften, even something simple
\nas a walk in the dunes at a warm beach.
\nBut what we share too is a love so awkward
\nthat it explains, with unreasoning perfection,
\nwhy we still can’t speak
\neasily to each other, about the past or anything else,
\nand why I wake this far from the place where I grew up,
\nwhile the wall above me claims now
\nnothing has changed & all is different.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

…and:<\/p>\n

Who could ever tire of this radiant transition, this surfacing to awareness and this deliberate plunging to oblivion — the theater curtain rising and falling? Who could tire of it when the sum of those moments at the edge — the conscious life we so dread losing — is all we have, the gift at the moment of opening it?<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

[Image: “Three Boys at Lake Tanganyika” (full title:\u00a0Negerknaben in der Brandung des Tahganyikasees, or “Boys in the Surf at Lake Tanganyika”) by Martin Munk\u00e1csi (ca. 1930). This picture crystallized for photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson all the elements of what became famous as his insistence that photography capture a “decisive moment.” See Cartier-Bresson’s quote about it, below.] […]<\/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":[600,601,1926,3949,3951,3952,3953],"class_list":{"0":"post-16278","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-henri-cartier-bresson","13":"tag-the-decisive-moment","14":"tag-pablo-neruda","15":"tag-jose-saramago","16":"tag-martin-munkacsi","17":"tag-david-rivard","18":"tag-lindsey-meade-russell","19":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-4ey","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16278","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=16278"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16278\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":16286,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16278\/revisions\/16286"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=16278"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=16278"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=16278"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}