![\"'Laugh-Out-Loud](\"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/johnesimpson.com\/images\/laughoutloudcats_1121_adamkoford.jpg?ssl=1\")
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[Image: “Laugh-Out-Loud Cats #1121,” by Adam Koford on Flickr.com<\/a>. Used here under a Creative Commons license.]<\/em><\/p>\n From whiskey river<\/em><\/a> (italicized portion):<\/p>\n Custom<\/strong><\/p>\n There is a difference it used to make, (Carl Phillips [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n …and<\/a> (italicized portion):<\/p>\n White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field<\/strong><\/p>\n Coming down and then it rose, gracefully, as soft as feathers— (Mary Oliver [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n Velocity<\/strong><\/p>\n In the club car that morning I had my notebook but there was nothing to write I did not want to write about the scenery But I kept my pen moving by drawing for no reason I can think of— I also drew many lines to indicate speed, the way it was breaking over the face before the time would arrive to stop for good. the college theologians used to insist, as we rush down the long tunnel of time— speed lines coming off his shoulders and his book, speed lines flying from the posters of her bed, (Billy Collins [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n …and:<\/p>\n The key to the relationship between yang<\/em> and yin<\/em> is called hsiang sheng<\/em>, mutual arising or inseparability. As Lao-tzu puts it:<\/p>\n When everyone knows beauty as beautiful, there is already ugliness; They are thus like the different, but inseparable, sides of a coin, the poles of a magnet, or pulse and interval in any vibration. There is never the ultimate possibility that either one will win over the other, for they are more like lovers wrestling than enemies fighting. It is difficult in our logic to see that being and non-being are mutually generative and mutually supportive, for it is the great and imaginary terror of Western man that nothingness will be the permanent universe. We do not easily grasp the point that the void is creative, and that being comes from nonbeing as sound from silence and and light from space.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n (Alan Watts [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n
\nseeing three swans in this versus four in that
\nquadrant of sky. I am not imagining. It was very large, as its
\neffects were. Declarations of war, the timing fixed upon for a sea-
\ndeparture; or,
\nabout love, a sudden decision not to, to pretend instead to a kind
\nof choice. It was dramatic, as it should be. Without drama,
\nwhat is ritual? I look for omens everywhere, because they are everywhere<\/em>
\nto be found. They come to me like strays, like the damaged,<\/em>
\nsomething that could know better, and should, therefore—but does not:<\/em>
\na form of faith, you’ve said. I call it sacrifice—an instinct for it, or a habit<\/em>
\n at first, that<\/em>
\nbecomes required, the way art can become, eventually, all we have<\/em>
\nof what was true. You shouldn’t look at me like that. Like one of those<\/em>
\n saints<\/em>
\non whom the birds once settled freely<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n
\nout of the freezing sky
\nwith its depths of light,
\nlike an angel,
\nor a buddha with wings,
\nit was beautiful,
\nand accurate,
\nstriking the snow and whatever was there
\nwith a force that left the imprint
\nof the tips of its wings—
\nfive feet apart—and the grabbing thrust
\nof its feet,
\nand the indentation of what had been running
\nthrough the white valleys
\nof the snow—<\/p>\n
\nand flew back to the frozen marshes
\nto lurk there,
\nlike a little lighthouse,
\nin the blue shadows—
\nso I thought:<\/em>
\n maybe death isn\u2019t darkness, after all,<\/em>
\n but so much light
\nwrapping itself around us—<\/em><\/p>\n
\nthat we are instantly weary
\nof looking, and looking, <\/em>and shut our eyes,
\nnot without amazement,<\/em>
\n and let ourselves be carried,<\/em>
\n as through the translucence of mica,<\/em>
\n to the river
\nthat is without the least dapple or shadow,<\/em>
\n that is nothing but light—scalding, aortal light—<\/em>
\n in which we are washed and washed<\/em>
\n out of our bones<\/em>.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n
\nopen on my lap and my pen uncapped,
\nlooking every inch the writer
\nright down to the little writer’s frown on my face,<\/p>\n
\nabout except life and death
\nand the low warning sound of the train whistle.<\/p>\n
\nthat was flashing past, cows spread over a pasture,
\nhay rolled up meticulously—
\nthings you see once and will never see again.<\/p>\n
\nover and over again
\nthe face of a motorcyclist in profile\u2014<\/p>\n
\na biker with sunglasses and a weak chin,
\nleaning forward, helmetless,
\nhis long thin hair trailing behind him in the wind.<\/p>\n
\nto show the air becoming visible
\nas it broke over the biker’s face<\/p>\n
\nof the locomotive that was pulling me
\ntoward Omaha and whatever lay beyond Omaha
\nfor me and all the other stops to make<\/p>\n
\nWe must always look at things
\nfrom the point of view of eternity,<\/p>\n
\nfrom which, I imagine, we would all
\nappear to have speed lines trailing behind us
\nas we rush along the road of the world,<\/p>\n
\nthe biker, of course, drunk on the wind,
\nbut also the man reading by a fire,<\/p>\n
\nand the woman standing on a beach
\nstudying the curve of horizon,
\neven the child asleep on a summer night,<\/p>\n
\nfrom the white tips of the pillowcases,
\nand from the edges of her perfectly motionless body.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n
\nWhen everyone knows good as goodness, there is already evil.
\n“To be” and “not to be” arise mutually;
\nDifficult and easy are mutually realized;
\nLong and short are mutually contrasted;
\nHigh and low are mutually posited; …
\nBefore and after are in mutual sequence<\/p>\n