{"id":17774,"date":"2016-03-04T08:20:54","date_gmt":"2016-03-04T13:20:54","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=17774"},"modified":"2016-03-07T15:16:35","modified_gmt":"2016-03-07T20:16:35","slug":"interstices","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2016\/03\/interstices\/","title":{"rendered":"Interstices"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: “Interstices 2” (one of several sharing the same title), by user ‘runlevel0’ (Enric Martinez) on Flickr<\/a>.]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

But there is all this time between when the cracks start to open up and when we finally fall apart. And it’s only in that time that we can see one another, because we see out of ourselves through our cracks and into others through theirs. When did we see each other face-to-face? Not until you saw into my cracks and I saw into yours. Before that, we were just looking at ideas of each other, like looking at your window shade but never seeing inside. But once the vessel cracks, the light can get in. The light can get out.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(John Green [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

The Almanac of Last Things<\/strong><\/p>\n

From the almanac of last things
\nI choose the spider lily
\nfor the grace of its brief
\nblossom, though I myself
\nfear brevity,<\/p>\n

but I choose The Song of Songs
\nbecause the flesh
\nof those pomegranates
\nhas survived
\nall the frost of dogma.<\/p>\n

I choose January with its chill
\nlessons of patience and despair – and
\nAugust, too sun-struck for lessons.
\nI choose a thimbleful of red wine
\nto make my heart race,<\/p>\n

then another to help me
\nsleep. From the almanac
\nof last things I choose you,
\nas I have done before.
\nAnd I choose evening<\/p>\n

because the light clinging
\nto the window
\nis at its most reflective
\njust as it is ready
\nto go out.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Linda Pastan [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

The division of one day from the next must be one of the most profound peculiarities of life on this planet. We are not condemned to sustained flights of being, but are constantly refreshed by little holidays from ourselves. We are intermittent creatures, always falling to little ends and rising to new beginnings. Our soon-tired consciousness is meted out in chapters, and that the world will look quite different tomorrow is, both for our comfort and our discomfort, usually true. How marvelously too night matches sleep, sweet image of it, so nearly apportioned to our need. Angels must wonder at these beings who fall so regularly out of awareness into a fantasm-infested dark. How our frail identities survive these chasms no philosopher has ever been able to explain.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Iris Murdoch [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

Lacemakers<\/strong><\/p>\n

Santa Maria Assunta, Torcello<\/em><\/p>\n

Mater dolorosa<\/em>, here I am hungry
\nAnd ill-disposed on worn flags at your feet.
\nThrough high windows wintry sun seeps in
\nAnd floods the six-tiered polychrome Apocalypse,
\nThis Sunday’s text in comic strip.<\/p>\n

That’s my son over by the door, impatient
\nTo be off somewhere. Other boys pose
\nOn attila’s Throne while their fathers snap pictures
\nAnd mothers price lace — clotheslines of lace
\nStrung from trucks selling pizzas.<\/p>\n

Around the lagoon, your fields have grown wild;
\nVines redden on half-fallen fences
\nThat no longer keep the allotments apart.
\nOn some islands the women make lace, punti in aria<\/em> — stitches in air<\/em> —
\nMaterializing the spaces between things.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Beverley Bie Brahic [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

City Elegies<\/strong><\/p>\n

(excerpt)<\/p>\n

I. The Day Dreamers<\/em><\/p>\n

All day all over the city every person
\nWanders a different city, sealed intact
\nAnd haunted as the abandoned subway stations
\nUnder the city. Where is my alley doorway?<\/p>\n

Stone gable, brick escarpment, cliffs of crystal.
\nWhere is my terraced street above the harbor,
\nCaf\u00e9 and hidden workshop, house of love?
\nWebbed vault, tiled blackness. Where is my park, the path<\/p>\n

Through conifers, my iron bench, a shiver
\nOf ivy and margin birch above the traffic?
\nA voice. There is a mountain and a wood<\/em>
\nBetween us<\/em>—one wrote, lovesick—Where the late<\/em><\/p>\n

Hunter and the bird have seen us<\/em>. Aimless at dusk,
\nHeart muttering like any derelict,
\nOr working all morning, violent with will,
\nWhere is my garland of lights? My silver rail?<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Robert Pinsky [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Thomas Merton wrote, “there is always a temptation to diddle around in the contemplative life, making itsy-bitsy statues.” There is always an enormous temptation in all of life to diddle around making itsy-bitsy friends and meals and journeys for itsy-bitsy years on end. It is so self-conscious, so apparently moral, simply to step aside from the gaps where the creeks and winds pour down, saying, I never merited this grace, quite rightly, and then to sulk along the rest of your days on the edge of rage.<\/p>\n

I won’t have it. The world is wilder than that in all directions, more dangerous and bitter, more extravagant and bright. We are making hay when we should be making whoopee; we are raising tomatoes when we should be raising Cain, or Lazarus.<\/p>\n

Go up into the gaps. If you can find them; they shift and vanish too. Stalk the gaps. Squeak into a gap in the soil, turn, and unlock—more than a maple—a universe. This is how you spend this afternoon, and tomorrow morning, and tomorrow afternoon. Spend the afternoon. You can’t take it with you.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Annie Dillard [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

from Auguries of Innocence<\/em>:
\n60.<\/strong><\/p>\n

To see a World in a grain of sand,
\nAnd a Heaven in a wild flower,
\nHold Infinity in the palm of your hand,
\nAnd Eternity in an hour….<\/p>\n

The bat that flits at close of eve
\nHas left the brain that won’t believe.
\nThe owl that calls upon the night
\nSpeaks the unbeliever’s fright….<\/p>\n

Joy and woe are woven fine,
\nA clothing for the soul divine;
\nUnder every grief and pine
\nRuns a joy with silken twine….<\/p>\n

Every tear from every eye
\nBecomes a babe in Eternity….<\/p>\n

The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar
\nAre waves that beat on Heaven’s shore….<\/p>\n

He who doubts from what he sees
\nWill ne’er believe, do what you please.
\nIf the Sun and Moon should doubt,
\nThey’d immediately go out….<\/p>\n

God appears, and God is Light,
\nTo those poor souls who dwell in Night;
\nBut does a Human Form display
\nTo those who dwell in realms of Day.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(William Blake [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

__________________<\/p>\n

Editor’s Note:<\/strong> Yes, yes — I’m shocked, too… a whiskey river Fridays<\/em> post actually published the next day (fake publication date be damned). It signals how busy (and\/or distracting) the last few days have been for me.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “Interstices 2” (one of several sharing the same title), by user ‘runlevel0’ (Enric Martinez) on Flickr.] From whiskey river: But there is all this time between when the cracks start to open up and when we finally fall apart. And it’s only in that time that we can see one another, because we see […]<\/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":"Paying attention to everything in-between (Dillard, Blake, Murdoch, et al.): 'Interstices'","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":[295,623,1812,2787,3252,4267,4268],"class_list":{"0":"post-17774","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-annie-dillard","13":"tag-william-blake","14":"tag-linda-pastan","15":"tag-john-green","16":"tag-robert-pinsky","17":"tag-beverley-bie-brahic","18":"tag-iris-murdoch","19":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-4CG","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17774","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=17774"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17774\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":17789,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/17774\/revisions\/17789"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=17774"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=17774"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=17774"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}