{"id":20445,"date":"2018-07-06T07:50:50","date_gmt":"2018-07-06T11:50:50","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=20445"},"modified":"2018-07-06T07:50:50","modified_gmt":"2018-07-06T11:50:50","slug":"omnium-gatherum-quotidian","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2018\/07\/omnium-gatherum-quotidian\/","title":{"rendered":"Omnium-Gatherum Quotidian"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: “Plum Blossoms and Moon,” by Katsushika Hokusai; woodblock print, ink and color on paper (1803). Found it at the site of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts<\/a> (MFA). The museum notes that this comes from\u00a0 a Hokusai album called”Fuji in Spring (<\/em>Haru no Fuji)”; you can browse the album’s pages online at the Internet Archive<\/a> (courtesy of the Smithsonian Libraries collection). The image shown here is page 17 of the album. Hokusai’s work has made a couple of previous appearances here at RAMH<\/a> — notably in the site’s banner image (since 2013).]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

Moon, plum blossoms,
\nthis, that,
\nand the day goes.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Kobayashi Issa [source: none canonical, but <\/em>whiskey river found it here<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

To live on a day-to-day basis is insufficient for human beings; we need to transcend, transport, escape; we need meaning, understanding, and explanation; we need to see over-all patterns in our lives. We need hope, the sense of a future. And we need freedom (or, at least, the illusion of freedom) to get beyond ourselves, whether with telescopes and microscopes and our ever-burgeoning technology, or in states of mind that allow us to travel to other worlds, to rise above our immediate surroundings.<\/span><\/p>\n

We may seek, too, a relaxing of inhibitions that makes it easier to bond with each other, or transports that make our consciousness of time and mortality easier to bear. We seek a holiday from our inner and outer restrictions, a more intense sense of the here and now, the beauty and value of the world we live in.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Nirvana is this moment seen directly. There is nowhere else than here. The only gate is now. The only doorway is your own body and mind. There’s nowhere to go. There’s nothing else to be. There’s no destination. It’s not something to aim for in the afterlife, it’s simply the quality of this moment.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Jane Hirshfield [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

Late?<\/strong><\/p>\n

—for George Shelton<\/em><\/p>\n

Sometimes everything feels like a trick.
\nSome days things seem to have been stolen from you.
\nCash to pay the bills, your sense of humor, friendship.
\nYou could almost believe those are what you look for
\nas you walk around your neighborhood. But, no, instead, you get
\nsplashes of zinnias against stucco, cactus wrens,
\na pack of kids who ignore the sodium amber streetlights
\nwhich just stuttered on, because it means their mothers
\nwant them home right this minute. And, on the corner variety
\nstore’s wall, a crude, sun-washed mural of the angel Gabriel
\ndefaced by thick black sideburns so he looks like a street punk,
\na strutting cholo, so he seems the only creature on earth
\nwho hasn’t heard the news that everything can be lost.
\nHis strong upper arms curving naked and graceful
\nas the tan thighs of a slender, athletic girl.
\nA girl he’s after, though she’s gotten bored waiting
\non the stoop and watching the sun set behind the foothills.
\nSky reddening until it slams into a blue that blesses
\nanyone oblivious to all the negations,
\nincluding the one, pal, where you think it’s possible
\nto step out of your heart and leave it empty as
\nan egg shell or a cardboard box.<\/p>\n

When you finally return home
\nthe tint of sky more or less matches the flash
\nof a thrush as it swoops from limb to branch,
\nacacia to willow. Standing at the kitchen counter,
\nyou pick through a carton of strawberries.
\nGood juicy ones from the moldy and over-ripe.
\nChoices that are easy. What do you trust anymore?
\nThe aproned man in the mercado said California strawberries,
\nthey’re the best this time of year. In bed, later,
\nyou remember the grocer, round belly under his apron,
\nbut as you start, nearly asleep, to tell your wife about him,
\nhow he talked about his deals, she starts
\nreading aloud from a tattered bird guide, that the wood thrush
\nis “essentially useful and worthwhile.”
\nWhat is worthwhile? Now, remember.<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(David Rivard [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Jerusalem<\/strong><\/p>\n

“Let’s be the same wound if we must bleed.<\/em>
\nLet’s fight side by side, even if the enemy<\/em>
\nis ourselves: I am your, you are mine.”<\/em>
\n—Tommy Olofsson, Sweden<\/span><\/p>\n

I’m not interested in
\nwho suffered the most.
\nI’m interested in
\npeople getting over it.<\/p>\n

Once when my father was a boy
\na stone hit him on the head.
\nHair would never grow there.
\nOur fingers found the tender spot
\nand its riddle: the boy who has fallen
\nstands up. A bucket of pears
\nin his mother’s doorway welcomes him home.
\nThe pears are not crying.
\nLater his friend who threw the stone
\nsays he was aiming at a bird.
\nAnd my father starts growing wings.<\/p>\n

Each carries a tender spot:
\nsomething our lives forgot to give us.
\nA man builds a house and says,
\n“I am native now.”
\nA woman speaks to a tree in place
\nof her son. And olives come.
\nA child’s poem says,
\n“I don’t like wars,
\nthey end up with monuments.”
\nHe’s painting a bird with wings
\nwide enough to cover two roofs at once.<\/p>\n

Why are we so monumentally slow?
\nSoldiers stalk a pharmacy:
\nbig guns, little pills.
\nIf you tilt your head just slightly
\nit’s ridiculous.<\/p>\n

There’s a place in my brain
\nwhere hate won’t grow.
\nI touch its riddle: wind, and seeds.
\nSomething pokes us as we sleep.<\/p>\n

It’s late but everything comes next.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

[Image: “Plum Blossoms and Moon,” by Katsushika Hokusai; woodblock print, ink and color on paper (1803). Found it at the site of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts (MFA). The museum notes that this comes from\u00a0 a Hokusai album called”Fuji in Spring (Haru no Fuji)”; you can browse the album’s pages online at the Internet […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":20458,"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":"Jane Hirshfield, Naomi Shihab Nye, Oliver Sacks, et al.: 'Omnium-Gatherum Quotidian'","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":[183,247,1393,250,5,251],"tags":[270,1172,3840,3952,4762,4763],"class_list":{"0":"post-20445","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-everyday-life","8":"category-ruminations","9":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","10":"category-art","11":"category-06_writing","12":"category-poetry-writing_cat","13":"tag-jane-hirshfield","14":"tag-naomi-shihab-nye","15":"tag-katsushika-hokusai","16":"tag-david-rivard","17":"tag-kobayashi-issa","18":"tag-oliver-sacks","19":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/07\/plumblossomsandmoon_katsushikahokusai_1803_thumb.jpg?fit=600%2C414&ssl=1","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-5jL","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20445","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=20445"}],"version-history":[{"count":11,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20445\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":20457,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20445\/revisions\/20457"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/20458"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=20445"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=20445"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=20445"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}