{"id":17723,"date":"2016-02-26T06:35:03","date_gmt":"2016-02-26T11:35:03","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=17723"},"modified":"2016-02-26T06:35:03","modified_gmt":"2016-02-26T11:35:03","slug":"what-i-imagined-i-thought-i-remembered-i-might-see","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2016\/02\/what-i-imagined-i-thought-i-remembered-i-might-see\/","title":{"rendered":"What I Imagined I Thought I Remembered I Might See"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Untitled<\/a><\/p>\n

[Photo (untitled, as far as I know) by Vivian Maier.]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

Writing in the Afterlife<\/strong><\/p>\n

I imagined the atmosphere would be clear,
\nshot with pristine light,
\nnot this sulphurous haze,
\nthe air ionized as before a thunderstorm.<\/p>\n

Many have pictured a river here,
\nbut no one mentioned all the boats,
\ntheir benches crowded with naked passengers,
\neach bent over a writing tablet.<\/p>\n

I knew I would not always be a child
\nwith a model train and a model tunnel,
\nand I knew I would not live forever,
\njumping all day through the hoop of myself.<\/p>\n

I had heard about the journey to the other side
\nand the clink of the final coin
\nin the leather purse of the man holding the oar,
\nbut how could anyone have guessed<\/p>\n

that as soon as we arrived
\nwe would be asked to describe this place
\nand to include as much detail as possible—
\nnot just the water, he insists,<\/p>\n

rather the oily, fathomless, rat-happy water,
\nnot simply the shackles, but the rusty,
\niron, ankle-shredding shackles—
\nand that our next assignment would be<\/p>\n

to jot down, off the tops of our heads,
\nour thoughts and feelings about being dead,
\nnot really an assignment,
\nthe man rotating the oar keeps telling us—<\/p>\n

think of it more as an exercise, he groans,
\nthink of writing as a process,
\na never-ending, infernal process,
\nand now the boats have become jammed together,<\/p>\n

bow against stern, stern locked to bow,
\nand not a thing is moving, only our diligent pens.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

At every moment, behind the most efficient seeming adult exterior, the whole world of the person’s childhood is being carefully held like a glass of water bulging above the brim. And in fact, that child is the only real thing in them. It’s their humanity, their real individuality, the one that can’t understand why it was born and that knows it will have to die, in no matter how crowded a place, quite on its own. That’s the carrier of all the living qualities. It’s the center of all the possible magic and revelation.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Ted Hughes [source<\/em><\/a>, p. 513])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

And that’s how we measure out our real respect for people — by the degree of feeling they can register, the voltage of life they can carry and tolerate — and enjoy. End of sermon. As Buddha says: live like a mighty river. And as the old Greeks said: live as though all your ancestors were living again through you.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Ted Hughes [source<\/em><\/a>, p. 514])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

I interviewed a woman who is terminally ill. So I tried to delicately ask, “What is it like to wake up every morning and know that you are dying?” “Well,” she responded, “What is it like to wake up every morning and pretend that you are not?”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Marc Chernoff [ascribed; source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

XCVI<\/strong><\/p>\n

My life closed twice before its close;
\nIt yet remains to see
\nIf Immortality unveil
\nA third event to me,<\/p>\n

So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
\nAs these that twice befell.
\nParting is all we know of heaven,
\nAnd all we need of hell.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Emily Dickinson [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Integrity<\/strong>
\nthe quality or state of being complete; unbroken condition; entirety<\/em><\/span>
\n—Webster<\/span><\/p>\n

A wild patience has taken me this far<\/p>\n

as if I had to bring to shore
\na boat with a spasmodic outboard motor
\nold sweaters, nets, spray-mottled books
\ntossed in the prow
\nsome kind of sun burning my shoulder-blades.
\nSplashing the oarlocks. Burning through.
\nYour fore-arms can get scalded, licked with pain
\nin a sun blotted like unspoken anger
\nbehind a casual mist.<\/p>\n

The length of daylight
\nthis far north, in this
\nforty-ninth year of my life
\nis critical.<\/p>\n

The light is critical: of me, of this
\nlong-dreamed, involuntary landing
\non the arm of an inland sea.
\nThe glitter of the shoal
\ndepleting into shadow
\nI recognize: the stand of pines
\nviolet-black really, green in the old postcard
\nbut really I have nothing but myself
\nto go by; nothing
\nstands in the realm of pure necessity
\nexcept what my hands can hold.
\nNothing but myself?… My selves.
\nAfter so long, this answer.
\nAs if I had always known
\nI steer the boat in, simply.
\nThe motor dying on the pebbles
\ncicadas taking up the hum
\ndropped in the silence.<\/p>\n

Anger and tenderness: my selves.
\nAnd now I can believe they breathe in me
\nas angels, not polarities.
\nAnger and tenderness: the spider’s genius
\nto spin and weave in the same action
\nfrom her own body, anywhere —
\neven from a broken web.<\/p>\n

The cabin in the stand of pines
\nis still for sale. I know this. Know the print
\nof the last foot, the hand that slammed and locked that door,
\nthen stopped to wreathe the rain-smashed clematis
\nback on the trellis
\nfor no one’s sake except its own.
\nI know the chart nailed to the wallboards
\nthe icy kettle squatting on the burner.
\nThe hands that hammered in those nails
\nemptied that kettle one last time
\nare these two hands
\nand they have caught the baby leaping
\nfrom between trembling legs
\nand they have worked the vacuum aspirator
\nand stroked the sweated temples
\nand steered the boat here through this hot
\nmisblotted sunlight, critical light
\nimperceptibly scalding
\nthe skin these hands will also salve.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Adrienne Rich [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

I have yet to figure out what life is really all about, and I doubt that I will ever come up with the answer. I do find a certain fascination with the unpredictable. The transitory years we wade through are what they are — what we make of them. I’m still happy to be here, and I’m clever enough to know that my date of departure remains time’s secret. I trust time. It has been my friend for a long while, and we have been through a lot together.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

[Photo (untitled, as far as I know) by Vivian Maier.] From whiskey river: Writing in the Afterlife I imagined the atmosphere would be clear, shot with pristine light, not this sulphurous haze, the air ionized as before a thunderstorm. Many have pictured a river here, but no one mentioned all the boats, their benches crowded […]<\/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":"'What I Imagined I Thought I Remembered I Might See': what seldom (but often enough) WAS","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":[247,1393,250,5,251,4159],"tags":[1141,3523,3887,4022,4263,4264,4265,4266],"class_list":{"0":"post-17723","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-poetry-writing_cat","11":"category-essays","12":"tag-billy-collins","13":"tag-emily-dickinson","14":"tag-the-past","15":"tag-ted-hughes","16":"tag-gordon-parks","17":"tag-adrienne-rich","18":"tag-marc-chernoff","19":"tag-vivian-maier","20":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-4BR","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17723","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=17723"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17723\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17731,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17723\/revisions\/17731"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17723"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17723"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17723"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}