{"id":20437,"date":"2018-06-29T06:35:28","date_gmt":"2018-06-29T10:35:28","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=20437"},"modified":"2018-06-29T17:47:40","modified_gmt":"2018-06-29T21:47:40","slug":"spelunking-the-extraordinary","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2018\/06\/spelunking-the-extraordinary\/","title":{"rendered":"Spelunking the Extraordinary"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Image:<\/a><\/p>\n

[Image: illustrations and captions from “Radio Milks Cows, Runs Street Cars,” in the February 1931 edition of Modern Mechanix. Found it here<\/a>, at the <\/em>Modern Mechanix blog (it’s a bit extraordinary that such a blog even exists). To see the whole page on which the photo appeared, including more detailed text, just click on the image.]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

No one yet has made a list of places where the extraordinary may happen and where it may not. Still, there are indications. Among crowds, in drawing rooms, among easements and comforts and pleasures, it is seldom seen. It likes the out-of-doors. It likes the concentrating mind. It likes solitude. It is more likely to stick to the risk-taker than the ticket-taker. It isn’t that it would disparage comforts, or the set routines of the world, but that its concern is directed to another place. Its concern is the edge, and the making of a form out of the formlessness that is beyond the edge.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Saving Daylight<\/strong><\/p>\n

Suppose for a moment you live in a land,
\nAmazed at what happens during summer solstice.
\nVery strange things begin to occur,
\nInstantly, there is little darkness,
\nNight that we are so used to
\nGone; what is left is the brilliant colors.<\/p>\n

Daylight from dusk to dawn to dusk again,
\nAlight in all its energy and brightness.
\nYes, we are north of the sixtieth parallel;
\nLand of the midnight sun.
\nI have been here before and seen things,
\nGazed upon the horizon, waiting for darkness to reappear,
\nHolding on to summer in all its life, love and beauty;
\nTo see it ebb once more as daylight fades to night.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(C. M. Davidson-Pickett [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a> (italicized portion):<\/p>\n

There is purity in living beautifully. To indulge in the small ecstasies, the small pleasures. Silk dresses, white tea, gold, sunshine, carved crown molding. It is all malleable, atmospherically — our lives. Simplicity, blue palms, white wines, whipped espresso. You create your paradise out of all these simple luxuries, and that’s purely religious. True divinity wades in the warm oceans of bliss.<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(“Dove Mother” (quoted by Linden Fern) [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

Annunciation<\/strong><\/p>\n

I learned to hide my wings almost immediately,
\nlearned to tuck and bandage them down.
\nLong before the accident, before the glass shattering
\nand that scene going dim, dimmer, and then dark,
\nbefore the three fractures at the axis, three cracks<\/p>\n

in the bone, it had already begun. My voice
\nhad begun to deepen, the sound of it
\nsuddenly more my father’s than my own. My beard
\nhad started growing, my bones growing, my bones
\nsore from the speed of their growth, and there,<\/p>\n

at fourteen years of age, the first tugging
\nof the muscles between my shoulder blades.
\nIt began as a tiny ache. It was just a minor irritation.
\nDay after day passed, and this ache grew,
\nand then the tips of the cartilaginous wings<\/p>\n

began to tent my skin. Father Callahan
\nhad already warned that in each of us
\nthere was both potential for bad and good.
\nWhen trying to shave for the first time, I nicked
\nmy cheek, the bleeding slow but continuous.<\/p>\n

Standing there, dabbing at this small cut with tissue paper,
\nthe first tear surprised me, the left wing heaving through
\nthat fleshy mound of muscle between my shoulder blades
\nand then the skin. I buckled and, on my knees, the right wing
\npresented itself more rapidly than the left.<\/p>\n

When I stood, there in the mirror, my wings outstretched
\nwith their tiny feathers wet, almost glutinous, a quick
\nribbon of blood snaking down my back. You wonder
\nwhy I am such a master of avoidance, such a master
\nof what is withheld. Is there any wonder, now?<\/p>\n

I had no idea then they would wither and fall off
\nin a few weeks. When Father Callahan patted
\nmy head in the sacristy and told me I was
\na good boy, a really good boy, an extraordinary boy,
\nI wanted to be anything but extraordinary.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(C. Dale Young [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

“#50:<\/strong> When you were very young, everything you encountered represented by definition a miracle: a thing never before encountered. You are not very young anymore; the garish colors and extravagant music of those miracles have faded. But in memory, the experiences of them linger — making plain (if you will but listen) that the miraculous essences<\/em> of things have not changed… only your perception of them. If you hold them the right way, inspect them properly, squint and peer into the spaces between their atoms, there you will find again the miracles. Keep looking.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(JES, Maxims for Nostalgists<\/em>)<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: illustrations and captions from “Radio Milks Cows, Runs Street Cars,” in the February 1931 edition of Modern Mechanix. Found it here, at the Modern Mechanix blog (it’s a bit extraordinary that such a blog even exists). To see the whole page on which the photo appeared, including more detailed text, just click on the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":20442,"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":[38,247,1393,50,251,4159],"tags":[595,792,2697,3285,4757,4758,4759,4760,4761],"class_list":{"0":"post-20437","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-backwards","8":"category-ruminations","9":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","10":"category-language-writing_cat","11":"category-poetry-writing_cat","12":"category-essays","13":"tag-mary-oliver","14":"tag-the-everyday","15":"tag-miracles","16":"tag-maxims-for-nostalgists","17":"tag-c-dale-young","18":"tag-linden-fern","19":"tag-c-m-davidson-pickett","20":"tag-wonders-of-science","21":"tag-explaining-it-away","22":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/06\/radiomilkscows_thumb.jpg?fit=500%2C583&ssl=1","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-5jD","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20437","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=20437"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20437\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":20443,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20437\/revisions\/20443"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/20442"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=20437"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=20437"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=20437"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}