{"id":16934,"date":"2015-07-03T10:33:19","date_gmt":"2015-07-03T14:33:19","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=16934"},"modified":"2015-07-18T06:51:19","modified_gmt":"2015-07-18T10:51:19","slug":"the-things-you-find-and-sometimes-need-to-ignore","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2015\/07\/the-things-you-find-and-sometimes-need-to-ignore\/","title":{"rendered":"The Things You Find (and Sometimes Need to Ignore)"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: “Everyone #9<\/a>\/177” (carved and painted wooden sculpture), by Rodney Glick. See the note<\/a> at the foot of this post for more information.]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

The Blind Leading the Blind<\/strong><\/p>\n

Take my hand. There are two of us in this cave.
\nThe sound you hear is water; you will hear it forever.
\nThe ground you walk on is rock. I have been here before.
\nPeople come here to be born, to discover, to kiss,
\nto dream, and to dig and to kill. Watch for the mud.
\nSummer blows in with scent of horses and roses;
\nfall with the sound of sound breaking; winter shoves
\nits empty sleeve down the dark of your throat.
\nYou will learn toads from diamonds, the fist from palm,
\nlove from the sweat of love, falling from flying.
\nThere are a thousand turnoffs. I have been here before.
\nOnce I fell off a precipice. Once I found gold.
\nOnce I stumbled on murder, the thin parts of a girl.
\nWalk on, keep walking, there are axes above us.
\nWatch for the occasional bits and bubbles of light—
\nBirthdays for you, recognitions: yourself, another<\/em>.
\nWatch for the mud. Listen for bells, for beggars.
\nSomething with wings went crazy against my chest once.
\nThere are two of us here. Touch me.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Lisel Mueller [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

One of the strangest things about life is that it will chug on, blind and oblivious, even as your private world—your little carved-out sphere—is twisting and morphing, even breaking apart. One day you have parents; the next day you’re an orphan. One day you have a place and a path. The next day you’re lost in the wilderness.<\/p>\n

And still the sun rises and clouds mass and drift and people shop for groceries and toilets flush and blinds go up and down. That’s when you realize that most of it—life, the relentless mechanism of existing—isn’t about you. It doesn’t include you at all. It will thrust onward even after you’ve jumped the edge.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Crests<\/strong><\/p>\n

With a sigh the elevators begin to rise
\nin high blocks delicate as porcelain.
\nIt will be a hot day out on the asphalt.
\nThe traffic signs have drooping eyelids.<\/p>\n

The land a steep slope to the sky.
\nCrest after crest, no proper shadow.
\nWe hunt for You, flying
\nthrough the summer in cinemascope.<\/p>\n

And in the evening I lie like a ship
\nwith lights out, just at the right distance
\nfrom reality, while the crew
\nswarms in the parks ashore.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Tomas Transtr\u00f6mer [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

Literature, like magic, has always been about the handling of secrets, about the pain, the destruction and the marvelous liberation that can result when they are revealed. Telling the truth, when the truth matters most, is almost always a frightening prospect. If a writer doesn’t give away secrets, his own or those of the people he loves; if she doesn’t court disapproval, reproach and general wrath, whether of friends, family, or party apparatchiks; if the writer submits his work to an internal censor long before anyone else can get their hands on it, the result is pallid, inanimate, a lump of earth.<\/p>\n

The adept handles the rich material, the rank river clay, and diligently intones his alphabetical spells, knowing full well the history of golems: how they break free of their creators, grow to unmanageable size and power, refuse to be controlled. In the same way, the writer shapes his story, flecked like river clay with the grit of experience and rank with the smell of human life, heedless of the danger to himself, eager to show his powers, to celebrate his mastery, to bring into being a little world that, like God’s, is at once terribly imperfect and filled with astonishing life.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Michael Chabon [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Butter<\/strong><\/p>\n

Butter, like love,
\nseems common enough
\nyet has so many imitators.
\nI held a brick of it, heavy and cool,
\nand glimpsed what seemed like skin
\nbeneath a corner of its wrap;
\nthe d\u00e9colletage revealed
\na most attractive fat!<\/p>\n

And most refined.
\nNot milk, not cream,
\nnot even cr\u00e8me de la cr\u00e8me<\/em>.
\nIt was a delicacy which assured me
\nthat bliss follows agitation,
\nthat even pasture daisies
\nthrough the alchemy of four stomachs
\nmay grace a king’s table.<\/p>\n

We have a yellow bowl near the toaster
\nwhere summer’s butter grows
\nsoft and sentimental.
\nWe love it better for its weeping,
\nits nostalgia for buckets and churns
\nand deep stone wells,
\nfor the press of a wooden butter mold
\nshaped like a swollen heart.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Connie Wanek [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Milton’s God<\/strong><\/p>\n

Where I-95 meets The Pike,
\na ponderous thunderhead flowered—<\/p>\n

stewed a minute, then flipped
\nlike a flash card, tattered
\nedges crinkling in, linings so dark
\nwith excessive bright<\/span><\/p>\n

that, standing, waiting, at the overpass edge,
\nthe onlooker couldn’t decide<\/p>\n

until the end, or even then,
\nwhat was revealed and what had been hidden.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Nate Klug [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/a>__________________________<\/p>\n

About the image:<\/strong> Although some sources identify this image as “Everyone #177,” it may<\/em> actually be just a detail of what Art Guide Australia<\/a><\/em> refers to as “Everyone #9<\/a>.” In any case, it appears to be one of a series called “Hi, I’m Everyone” (currently on exhibit at the Lismore Regional Gallery in Lismore, New South Wales). Art Guide Australia<\/em> continues:<\/p>\n

Since 2007, Glick has been creating sculptures in which ordinary people sprout extra arms and float on lotus blossoms, standing in for deities from the Hindu pantheon… Religion can be a touchy subject, and Glick tackles it with tongue firmly in cheek. “We are hoping that it will be something that people will find challenging,” [curator Kezia] Geddes says, “but also we hope they will see the humour in the work, as well as the sarcasm.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

[Image: “Everyone #9\/177” (carved and painted wooden sculpture), by Rodney Glick. See the note at the foot of this post for more information.] From whiskey river: The Blind Leading the Blind Take my hand. There are two of us in this cave. The sound you hear is water; you will hear it forever. The ground […]<\/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":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[247,1393,250,5,36,251,372,3477],"tags":[193,371,620,1849,2314,2801,3641,4078,4079,4080,4081,4082],"class_list":{"0":"post-16934","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-style-and-craft","13":"category-fantasy-06_writing","14":"tag-michael-chabon","15":"tag-epiphany","16":"tag-gods","17":"tag-connie-wanek","18":"tag-lisel-mueller","19":"tag-tomas-transtromer","20":"tag-lauren-oliver","21":"tag-rodney-glick","22":"tag-nate-klug","23":"tag-revelation","24":"tag-insight","25":"tag-hinduism","26":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-4p8","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16934","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=16934"}],"version-history":[{"count":15,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16934\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17013,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16934\/revisions\/17013"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=16934"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=16934"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=16934"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}