{"id":20529,"date":"2018-08-24T13:38:59","date_gmt":"2018-08-24T17:38:59","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=20529"},"modified":"2018-08-24T13:38:59","modified_gmt":"2018-08-24T17:38:59","slug":"a-fabulous-yonder","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2018\/08\/a-fabulous-yonder\/","title":{"rendered":"A Fabulous Yonder"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: “Rippled Water (Twin Peaks),” by John E. Simpson (shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page<\/a> here at <\/em>RAMH).]<\/em><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em><\/a> (first paragraph):<\/p>\n

On Parables<\/strong><\/p>\n

Many complain that the words of the wise are always merely parables and of no use in daily life, which is the only life we have. When the sage says: “Go over,” he does not mean that we should cross over to some actual place, which we could do anyhow if the labor were worth it; he means some fabulous yonder, something unknown to us, something too that he cannot designate more precisely, and therefore cannot help us here in the very least. All these parables really set out to say merely that the incomprehensible is incomprehensible, and we know that already. But the cares we have to struggle with every day: that is a different matter.<\/p>\n

Concerning this a man once said: Why such reluctance? If you only followed the parables you yourselves would become parables and with that rid yourself of all your daily cares.<\/p>\n

Another said: I bet that is also a parable.<\/p>\n

The first said: You have won.<\/p>\n

The second said: But unfortunately only in parable.<\/p>\n

The first said: No, in reality: in parable you have lost.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Franz Kafka [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Welcome<\/strong><\/p>\n

if you believe nothing is always what’s left
\nafter a while, as I did,
\nIf you believe you have this collection
\nof ungiven gifts, as I do (right here
\nbehind the silence and the averted eyes)
\nIf you believe an afternoon can collapse
\ninto strange privacies—
\nhow in your backyard, for example,
\nthe shyness of flowers can be suddenly
\noverwhelming, and in the distance
\nthe clear goddamn of thunder
\npersonal, like a voice,
\nIf you believe there’s no correct response
\nto death, as I do; that even in grief
\n(where I’ve sat making plans)
\nthere are small corners of joy
\nIf your body sometimes is a light switch
\nin a house of insomniacs
\nIf you can feel yourself straining
\nto be yourself every waking minute
\nIf, as I am, you are almost smiling…<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Stephen Dunn [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

When William Stafford Died<\/strong><\/p>\n

Well, water goes down the Montana gullies.
\n“I’ll just go around this rock and think
\nAbout it later.” That’s what you said.
\nWhen death came, you said, “I’ll go there.”<\/p>\n

There’s no sign you’ll come back. Sometimes
\nMy father sat up in the coffin and was alive again.
\nBut I think you were born before my father,
\nAnd the feet they made in your time were lighter.<\/p>\n

One dusk you were gone. Sometimes a fallen tree
\nHolds onto a rock, if the current is strong.
\nI won’t say my father did that, but I won’t
\nSay he didn’t either. I was watching you both.<\/p>\n

If all a man does is to watch from the shore,
\nThen he doesn’t have to worry about the current.
\nBut if affection has put us into the stream,
\nThen we have to agree to where the water goes.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

<\/p>\n

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

“Everybody knows the story about me and Dr. Freud,” says my grandfather.<\/p>\n

“We were in love with the same pair of black shoes in the window of the same shoe store. The store, unfortunately, was always closed. There’d be a sign: death in the family or back after lunch, but no matter how long I waited, no one would come to open.<\/p>\n

“Once I caught Dr. Freud there shamelessly admiring the shoes. We glared at each other before going our separate ways, never to meet again.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

…and:<\/p>\n

October<\/strong>
\n(excerpt)<\/em><\/p>\n

6<\/em><\/p>\n

“The very hairs of your head
\nare numbered,” said the words
\nin my head, as the haircutter
\nsnipped and cut, my round head
\na newel poked out of the tent
\ntop’s slippery sheet, while my
\nhairs’ straight rays rained
\ndown, making pattern on the neat
\nvacant cosmos of my lap. And
\nmaybe it was those tiny flies,
\nphantoms of my aging eyes, seen
\nout of the sides floating (that,
\nwhen you turn to find them
\nfull face, always dissolve) but
\nI saw, I think, minuscule,
\nmarked in clearest ink, Hairs
\n#9001 and #9002 fall, the cut-off
\nends streaking little comets,
\ntill they tumbled to confuse
\nwith all the others in their
\nfizzled heaps, in canyons of my
\nlap. And what keeps asking
\nin my head now that, brushed off
\nand finished, I’m walking
\nin the street, is how can those
\nnumbers remain all the way through,
\nand all along the length of every
\nhair, and even before each one
\nis grown, apparently, through
\nmy scalp? For, if the hairs of my
\nhead are numbered, it means
\nno more and no less of them
\nhave ever, or will ever be.
\nIn my head, now cool and light,
\nthoughts, phantom white flies,
\ntake a fling: This discovery
\ncan apply to everything.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(May Swenson [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

#25:<\/strong> People say: age is a blessing; people say: age is a curse. But people are wrong. Age is a flexible sack or bottle — a bota bag, a wineskin — in which we store beans, precious stones, grains of spice. As we age the container stretches, warps, still expands… but the rate of growth<\/em> slows, and eventually stops. And so the grains of memory continue to mound up, mound up, and they approach the top of the container. We sprinkle out one, two, a few every now and then onto the plate, and when they emerge their chemical structure is not quite the same as when they joined the heap: altered by time, humidity, the amount of light and air we have allowed into the sack. The container fills. There is always more of everything inside. Someday the container will be full, and someday, if we live long enough, the level of the contents sinks lower. But always, the container itself is just a container. Blessings, curses: if such judgments can be made, they apply only to individual stones, beans, grains. Choose the contents carefully. Your sack will never hold them all, and you can afford to be selective.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

[Image: “Rippled Water (Twin Peaks),” by John E. Simpson (shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page here at RAMH).] From whiskey river (first paragraph): On Parables Many complain that the words of the wise are always merely parables and of no use in daily life, which is the only […]<\/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":"Franz Kafka, May Swenson, a Maxim for Nostalgists, etc.: 'A Fabulous Yonder'","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":[183,247,1393,4701,250,5,251,4159],"tags":[61,179,725,1395,1877,3285,3610,4790,4791],"class_list":{"0":"post-20529","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-everyday-life","7":"category-ruminations","8":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","9":"category-my-photography","10":"category-art","11":"category-06_writing","12":"category-poetry-writing_cat","13":"category-essays","14":"tag-memory","15":"tag-stephen-dunn","16":"tag-old-age","17":"tag-robert-bly","18":"tag-franz-kafka","19":"tag-maxims-for-nostalgists","20":"tag-charles-simic","21":"tag-may-swenson","22":"tag-age","23":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-5l7","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20529","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=20529"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20529\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":20539,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20529\/revisions\/20539"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=20529"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=20529"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=20529"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}