{"id":19404,"date":"2017-06-30T13:32:38","date_gmt":"2017-06-30T17:32:38","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=19404"},"modified":"2017-06-30T13:32:38","modified_gmt":"2017-06-30T17:32:38","slug":"things-flare-up-and-then-poof","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2017\/06\/things-flare-up-and-then-poof\/","title":{"rendered":"Things Flare Up… and Then — Poof!"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Metanoia,<\/a><\/p>\n

[Image: “Metanoia: transformation, a change of heart or mind,” by Patricia Wu Wu; found on Flickr, and used here under a Creative Commons license (thank you!). It’s not clear, exactly, but this image seems to be a draft, of sorts — sketches in black ink or paint: Patricia Wu Wu is a fashion\/textiles designer. Apparently this image was included in her “Metanoia” show at the Glasgow School of Art (see the corresponding Flickr album<\/a> for more). You can see more of the work she exhibited there at her own site<\/a>.]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

Then again, if physics is right, we shouldn’t exist. You can watch ions hop across synapses, follow nerve impulses from nose to toes; nothing in any of those processes would lead you to expect the emergence of subjective awareness. Physics describes a world of intelligent zombies who do everything we do, except understand that they’re doing it. That’s what we should be, that’s all we should be: meat and computation. Somehow the meat woke up. How the hell does that even work?<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Peter Watts [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Prelude<\/strong><\/p>\n

Waking up is a parachute jump from dreams.
\nFree of the suffocating turbulence the traveler
\nsinks toward the green zone of morning.
\nThings flare up. From the viewpoint of the quivering lark
\nhe is aware of the huge root systems of the trees,
\ntheir swaying underground lamps. But above ground
\nthere’s greenery—a tropical flood of it—with
\nlifted arms, listening
\nto the beat of an invisible pump. And he
\nsinks toward summer, is lowered
\nin its dazzling crater, down
\nthrough shafts of green damp ages
\ntrembling under the sun’s turbine. Then it’s checked,
\nthis straight-down journey through the moment, and the wings spread
\nto the osprey’s repose above rushing waters.
\nThe bronze-age trumpet’s
\noutlawed note
\nhovers above the bottomless depths.<\/p>\n

In day’s first hours consciousness can grasp the world
\nas the hand grips a sun-warmed stone.
\nThe traveler is standing under a tree. After
\nthe crash through death’s turbulence, shall
\na great light unfold above his head?<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

The plain truth is we are going to die. Here I am, a teeny speck surrounded by boundless space and time, arguing with the whole of creation, shaking my fist, sputtering, growing even eloquent at times, and then — poof! I am gone. Swept off once and for all. I think that is very, very funny.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Charles Simic [source<\/em><\/a> (via<\/a>)])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

June 15th, 8pm<\/strong><\/p>\n

The evening comes slowly over us,
\nover the cardinal and the wren still
\nfeeding, over the swallows suddenly
\nswooping to snatch up mosquitoes<\/p>\n

over the marsh where the green
\nsedge lately has a tawny tinge
\nover two yearlings bending long
\nnecks to nibble hillock bushes<\/p>\n

finally separate from their doe
\nmother. A late hawk is circling
\nagainst the sky streaked lavender.
\nThe breeze has quieted, vanished<\/p>\n

into leaves that still stir a bit
\nlike a cat turning round before
\nsleep. Distantly a car passes
\nand is gone. Night gradually<\/p>\n

unrolls from the east where
\nthe ocean slides up and down
\nthe sand leaving seaweed tassels:
\na perfect world for moments.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Marge Piercy [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

On Erasure
\n<\/strong>(excerpt)<\/em><\/p>\n

I<\/strong><\/p>\n

I was on a plane and, as often happens, the woman next to me asked me what I did. And it often happens in such circumstances, as we are no longer actually on earth but suspended in the ether above, that a lie takes place. But as I was in no mood for a lie to take place I said, “I do Biblical erasures.” And she said, “Bible erasers! You must sell a great many of them!” I didn’t know if she meant pink rubber erasers with Biblical quotes stamped on them were a commodity appealing to millions, or, since I claim ed to support myself in this manner, I would certainly have to sell millions of them. But as I was still in the truth – telling mode I said, “Actually, I haven’t sold a single one.” And as the air of the airplane was suddenly warm and oppressive, I struggled to remove my overcoat, and when she reached out to help me I was overcome by this unexpected and tender gesture of assistance and to my great embarrassment, and for reasons having nothing to do with our conversation, I began to cry. And she said, “Don’t worry, dear, God works in mysterious ways.” We never spoke again, but a month afterwards I dedicated my new book of poems to her, a perfect stranger whose name I don’t even know, because she had become by then, in my mind, the perfect stranger.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Mary Ruefle [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Unholy Sonnet 11<\/strong><\/p>\n

Half asleep in prayer I said the right thing
\nAnd felt a sudden pleasure come into
\nThe room or my own body. In the dark,
\nCharged with a change of atmosphere, at first
\nI couldn\u2019t tell my body from the room.
\nAnd I was wide awake, full of this feeling,
\nAlert as though I\u2019d heard a doorknob twist,
\nA drawer pulled, and instead of terror knew
\nThe intrusion of an overwhelming joy.
\nI had said thanks and this was the response.
\nBut how I said it or what I said it for
\nI still cannot recall and I have tried
\nAll sorts of ways all hours of the night.
\nOnce was enough to be dissatisfied.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

[Image: “Metanoia: transformation, a change of heart or mind,” by Patricia Wu Wu; found on Flickr, and used here under a Creative Commons license (thank you!). It’s not clear, exactly, but this image seems to be a draft, of sorts — sketches in black ink or paint: Patricia Wu Wu is a fashion\/textiles designer. Apparently […]<\/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":[247,1393,250,50,251,4159],"tags":[788,2801,3075,3610,4290,4554,4555,4556],"class_list":{"0":"post-19404","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-ruminations","7":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","8":"category-art","9":"category-language-writing_cat","10":"category-poetry-writing_cat","11":"category-essays","12":"tag-marge-piercy","13":"tag-tomas-transtromer","14":"tag-mary-ruefle","15":"tag-charles-simic","16":"tag-mark-jarman","17":"tag-peter-watts","18":"tag-textiles","19":"tag-patricia-wu-wu","20":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-52Y","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19404","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=19404"}],"version-history":[{"count":12,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19404\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":19416,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19404\/revisions\/19416"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=19404"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=19404"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=19404"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}