{"id":17092,"date":"2015-08-14T06:35:25","date_gmt":"2015-08-14T10:35:25","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=17092"},"modified":"2015-08-27T05:57:51","modified_gmt":"2015-08-27T09:57:51","slug":"in-media-res","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2015\/08\/in-media-res\/","title":{"rendered":"In Media Res<\/em>"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"'Charon,'<\/a><\/p>\n

[Image: “Charon,” by user h-k-d (Hartwig HKD) on Flickr<\/a>. (Used under a Creative Commons license.)]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

Limbo<\/strong><\/p>\n

Each of them can’t decide if there is a God
\nor if there is a self.<\/p>\n

Do I have an I? one says
\nto another who seems distracted, looking out what might have been a window.<\/p>\n

What is the difference between a self and a soul?
\nIs it true that one god is in relationship to each of us?
\nOr is the each of us an illusion, and we are the god we are looking for?
\nThat’s what the distracted one is thinking and what<\/span>
\nshe wants to know,<\/p>\n

and she wishes that other person would stop bothering her,
\nand she wishes she had more time to think about these things,
\nalthough she has all the time in the world.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Marie Howe [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

\n

Les g\u00e9ographies solennelles des limites humaines…
\n(Paul Eluard, Les Yeux fertiles, p. 42)<\/p>\n

(“The solemn geographies of human limits”)<\/p>\n

Car nous sommes o\u00f9 nous ne sommes pas.
\n(Pierre-Jean Jouve, Lyrique, p. 59)<\/p>\n

(“For we are where we are not.”)<\/p>\n

But how many daydreams we should have to analyze under the simple heading of Doors! For the door is an entire cosmos of the Half-open. In fact, it is one of its primal images, the very origin of a daydream that accumulates desires and temptations: the temptation to open up the ultimate depths of being, and the desire to conquer all reticent beings. The door schematizes two strong possibilities, which sharply classify two types of daydream. At times, it is closed, bolted, padlocked. At others, it is open, that is to say, wide open…<\/p>\n

And what of all the doors of mere curiosity, that have tempted being for nothing, for emptiness, for an unknown that is not even imagined?<\/p>\n

Is there one of us who hasn’t in his memories a Bluebeard chamber that should not have been opened, even halfway? Or — which is the same thing for a philosophy that believes in the primacy of the imagination — that should not even have been imagined open, or capable of opening half-way?<\/p>\n

How concrete everything becomes in the world of the spirit when an object, a mere door, can give images of hesitation, temptation, desire, security, welcome and respect. If one were to give an account of all the doors one has closed and opened, of all the doors one would like to re-open, one would have to tell the story of one’s entire life.<\/p>\n

But is he who opens a door and he who closes it the same being?<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Gaston Bachelard [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

Last Night I Drove My Son Home <\/strong><\/p>\n

from his friend\u2019s house, where they were filming
\na movie starring my son in a love triangle.
\nMy son, fifteen, has never been in a love right angle,
\nor even a love straight line, as far as I know.
\nHe stopped talking two years ago —
\nto me, I mean. I got this secondhand from a street informant
\nI\u2019ll refer to here by her code name, Little Sister.<\/p>\n

A warm night, windows rolled down — my cheap car
\nrequires physical cranking. (Not even a CD player!)
\nPurchased in 2003 when he was ten and still kissed me goodnight
\nand may even have held my hand while we watched
\nold movies. (No cable TV either!) Yesterday
\nhe made me kill a giant bug, and I briefly saw
\nthat ten-year-old again.<\/p>\n

Full moon — I could see him looking up at it,
\nfollowing it as I turned and we lost it to the trees.
\nSeptember, but moist like August. I ached
\nfor a few soft words between us in that silence.<\/p>\n

On a sidewalk near the park a young man sat,
\nface in hands, a friend standing helpless above him.
\nI slowed down. What\u2019s that guy doing?<\/em> I said aloud.
\nIs he OK?<\/em><\/p>\n

I see him too<\/em>, my son said.<\/span>
\nAs the friend helped the man
\nto his feet, I sped on.<\/p>\n

My son hummed an old song about the moon
\nthat I didn\u2019t know he knew. My son, the star
\nof a movie I\u2019ll never see. I just get
\nthese vague coming attractions.
\nI caught him in a lie or two this week.
\nEvery exchange a house of cards — all it takes
\nis a deep sigh, and they come tumbling down.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d have hummed along with him,
\nbut I didn\u2019t want him to stop.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Jim Daniels [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

If I were God, I would make a world exactly like this one. I love its inconsistencies, its contradictions. I love it that this river flows around stones and finds its own way. I love it that people are free, even to be selfish and to think they own beaches and mountaintops and have the right to keep the poor off them. I love it that things change, that the boundaries of nations and the fences of the rich get torn down sometimes. I love it that some people think we have many lifetimes while others think we have only this one. I especially love it that no one knows for certain, even if they think they do.<\/p>\n

I love it that there are little clovers here in the grass beside me as I write, the same kind I have known all my life, and that this morning there was a bewildered-looking moose that I have not known at all standing in the mist at the edge of this river.<\/p>\n

I love it that I am sixty years old and my hair is gray and my hand against this white paper is showing age spots and I am sitting on a wedge of land between a river and a stream on a Monday afternoon in July. I love it that I don’t know exactly where I am, because it helps me to remember that I don’t know exactly where Earth is in this galaxy, or where this galaxy is in this universe, or whether I have only this lifetime or many lifetimes. I love supposing this one is the only one, because it keeps me mindful of how precious everything is.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

[Image: “Charon,” by user h-k-d (Hartwig HKD) on Flickr. (Used under a Creative Commons license.)] From whiskey river: Limbo Each of them can’t decide if there is a God or if there is a self. Do I have an I? one says to another who seems distracted, looking out what might have been a window. […]<\/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":[247,1393,250,5,50,251],"tags":[3476,4106,4129,4130,4131,4132],"class_list":{"0":"post-17092","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-marie-howe","13":"tag-richard-grossinger","14":"tag-gaston-bachelard","15":"tag-jim-daniels","16":"tag-pat-schneider","17":"tag-hartwig-hkd","18":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-4rG","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17092","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=17092"}],"version-history":[{"count":18,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17092\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17143,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17092\/revisions\/17143"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17092"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17092"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17092"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}