{"id":20597,"date":"2018-09-28T06:40:03","date_gmt":"2018-09-28T10:40:03","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=20597"},"modified":"2018-09-28T06:40:03","modified_gmt":"2018-09-28T10:40:03","slug":"this-here-this-now-this-you","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2018\/09\/this-here-this-now-this-you\/","title":{"rendered":"This Here, This Now, This You"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: Untitled photograph by Mike Liu; it was taken in 2016, at San Francisco International Airport. (I found it on Flickr<\/a>, and used here under a Creative Commons license –thank you!) About the image, the photographer says only: “I always seem to take the same photograph from the same spot of the same subject after getting off the plane. It is because I think the airport is a place of minor miracles, where connections are lost and made and reunions are the everyday trade.”]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

Take a moment from time to time to remember that you are alive. I know this sounds a trifle obvious, but it is amazing how little time we take to remark upon this singular and gratifying fact. By the most astounding stroke of luck an infinitesimal portion of all the matter in the universe came together to create you and for the tiniest moment in the great span of eternity you have the incomparable privilege to exist.<\/p>\n

For endless eons there was no you. Before you know it, you will cease to be again. And in between you have this wonderful opportunity to see and feel and think and do. Whatever else you accomplish with your life, nothing will remotely compare with the incredible accomplishment of having managed to get yourself born. Congratulation. Well done. You really are special.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Bill Bryson [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a> (last four stanzas):<\/p>\n

Roses, Late Summer<\/strong><\/p>\n

What happens
\nto the leaves after
\nthey turn red and golden and fall
\naway? What happens<\/p>\n

to the singing birds
\nwhen they can’t sing
\nany longer? What happens
\nto their quick wings?<\/p>\n

Do you think there is any
\npersonal heaven
\nfor any of us?
\nDo you think anyone,<\/p>\n

the other side of that darkness,
\nwill call to us, meaning us?
\nBeyond the trees
\nthe foxes keep teaching their children<\/p>\n

to live in the valley.
\nso they never seem to vanish, they are always there
\nin the blossom of the light
\nthat stands up every morning<\/p>\n

in the dark sky.
\nAnd over one more set of hills,
\nalong the sea,
\nthe last roses have opened their factories of sweetness<\/p>\n

and are giving it back to the world.
\nIf I had another life
\nI would want to spend it all on some
\nunstinting happiness.<\/p>\n

I would be a fox, or a tree
\nfull of waving branches.
\nI wouldn’t mind being a rose
\nin a field full of roses.<\/p>\n

Fear has not yet occurred to them, nor ambition.
\nReason they have not yet thought of.
\nNeither do they ask how long they must be roses, and then what.
\nOr any other foolish question.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

A day when one has not pushed oneself to the limit seems a damaged damaging day, a sinful day. Not so! The most valuable thing one can do for the psyche, occasionally, is to let it rest, wander, live in the changing light of a room.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

<\/p>\n

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

Forgiving the Darkness<\/strong><\/p>\n

Darkness is not a death, does not obliterate,
\nwill not bury you or take your breath away.
\nDarkness will not erase you the way it erases day with night
\nbecause darkness is not the clock but merely the time
\nfalling away from the clock’s circular face.
\nDarkness is not the loss but the thing misplaced,
\nnot the hammer but the nail in its curved emergence
\nfrom wood’s grasp, not the storm’s insurgence
\nbut the limbs broken off from their miraculous
\nsuspension in a storm out far, beyond us.
\nDarkness is not about hearts, imperfect as they are,
\nbut what leaks through their incorrigible doors, not the stars
\nbut the glissade or glide of their dust.
\nDarkness no longer shields the hunters’ musk
\nin search of you, or turns you to animal prey,
\nit is only a measure of weight or days.
\nNot something without a beginning or an end,
\nit is not even—especially not—an end.
\nNor is it vertigo, nor the whole, but merely a piece.
\nNo, darkness is but a ghost of an idea, the least
\nremembered, most estranged prayer, and your fear
\nbut a lingering, limbic fear torn from shreds of forgotten years.
\nOnly that much is clear.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Alice B. Fogel [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Alice\u2019s eyes fluttered open once, twice, three-four times. In the half-instant before she fully awoke, a blurry certainty stumbled into her mind that she had seen—well, something<\/em>.
\nShe could not put a name to it: no shadowy, ski-masked human figure by her bedside or fleeing out the window; no bogeyman in the closet. But there had been something, damn it, some thing, some compact physical presence just off to one side of the bed, a concrete precipitate of her sleeping mind.<\/p>\n

She switched on the reading lamp affixed to the headboard. Hoisted herself into sitting position. Looked around the bedroom.<\/p>\n

Gray, cloudy-summer morning light filtered in through the bedroom window as if to placate her with little fragments of reassuring ordinariness. Here<\/em>, said the morning light. Here is your bureau, and all the little doo-dads cluttering up its top. The loose change, the jumble of unmatched and mismatched earrings, the box of facial tissues, the picture of Pete and you at the guest house in the mountains. The coffee mug, patinaed inside with a hardened tan goo from over a week ago. And here, the nightstand, the pile of books on the floor, the bed, the comforter, and over there your dumb old hot-raspberry furry slippers and an armchair and a floor lamp and a wastebasket jammed to the brim with glossy Sunday newspaper ads and balled-up tissues, and on the walls familiar framed prints and a mirror. All real, and you remember all this, right?<\/em><\/p>\n

Nothing new<\/em>, the morning light said; nothing unexpected. See? No mysterious Somethings. Go back to sleep<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Alice did close her eyes for an instant. She licked her lips and swallowed, and then opened her eyes again, silenced the now-shrieking alarm, and swung her feet out of bed.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(JES, “The Iron”)<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: Untitled photograph by Mike Liu; it was taken in 2016, at San Francisco International Airport. (I found it on Flickr, and used here under a Creative Commons license –thank you!) About the image, the photographer says only: “I always seem to take the same photograph from the same spot of the same subject after […]<\/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":"Bill Bryson, May Sarton, et al.: 'This Here, This Now, This You'","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":[183,247,1393,5,105,251,3477,4159],"tags":[595,792,2220,2348,2697,4378,4811],"class_list":{"0":"post-20597","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-06_writing","10":"category-short-fiction","11":"category-poetry-writing_cat","12":"category-fantasy-06_writing","13":"category-essays","14":"tag-mary-oliver","15":"tag-the-everyday","16":"tag-bill-bryson","17":"tag-may-sarton","18":"tag-miracles","19":"tag-the-moment","20":"tag-alice-b-fogel","21":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-5md","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20597","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=20597"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20597\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":20603,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20597\/revisions\/20603"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=20597"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=20597"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=20597"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}