{"id":21099,"date":"2019-05-10T10:46:38","date_gmt":"2019-05-10T14:46:38","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=21099"},"modified":"2019-05-10T10:48:13","modified_gmt":"2019-05-10T14:48:13","slug":"it-had-to-be-not-you","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2019\/05\/it-had-to-be-not-you\/","title":{"rendered":"It Had to Be (Not-)You"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: “the sixth discontinuity,” by user “woodleywonderworks” on (where else?) Flickr<\/a>. (Used here under a Creative Commons license; thank you!) Quoting from a work which I haven’t read, the Flickr description says of astronomy that it revealed “we were a minor tribe huddled on a small speck circling a nondescript star at the outer edge of an immense average galaxy floating among a trillion others in one small corner of the universe. The noble distinction between us and the rest of the universe was eliminated to reveal a continuous continuity of existence. Our perceived exceptionalism was demoted to the ordinary. Within the universe, we were not set apart, but dwelt in a continuum.”]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

The Master is not trapped in opposites.
\nHis this is also a that.
\nHe sees that life becomes death
\nand death becomes life, that right
\nhas a kernel of wrong within it
\nand wrong a kernel of right,
\nthat the true turns into the false
\nand the false into the true.
\nHe understands that nothing is absolute,
\nthat since every point of view
\ndepends on the viewer,
\naffirmation and denial
\nare equally beside the point.<\/p>\n

The place where the this and the that
\nare not opposed to each other
\nis called “the pivot of the Tao.”
\nWhen we find this pivot, we find ourselves
\nat the center of the circle,
\nand here we sit, serene,
\nwhile Yes and No keep chasing each other
\naround the circumference, endlessly.<\/p>\n

commentary<\/p>\n

Mind can only create the qualities of good and bad by comparing. Remove the comparison, and there go the qualities. What remains is the pure unknown: ungraspable object, ungraspable subject, and the clear light of awareness streaming through.<\/p>\n

The pivot of the Tao is the mind free of its thoughts. It doesn’t believe that this is a this or that that is a that. Let Yes and No sprint around the circumference toward a finish line that doesn’t exist. How can they stop trying to win the argument of life until you stop? When you do, you realize that you were the only one running. Yes was you, No was you, the whole circumference, with its colored banners, its pom-pom girls and frenzied crowds—that was you as well.<\/p>\n

At the center, the eyes open and again it’s the sweet morning of the world. There’s nothing here to limit you, no one here to draw a circumference. In fact, there’s no one here—not even you.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

The deepest level of obsession is obsession with a sense of self. A sense of self, generated as a reaction to non-referential space, lies at the core of every habituated pattern. A self is felt to be a permanent, independent unit. The feeling of permanence manifests in life as a feeling of dullness, of not being quite present. The illusion of independence arises as a feeling of separation. The feeling of being one thing arises as a feeling of incompleteness or dissatisfaction. Together, these three qualities obscure the mystery of being.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Ken McLeod [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

An Old Story<\/strong><\/p>\n

We were made to understand it would be
\nTerrible. Every small want, every niggling urge,
\nEvery hate swollen to a kind of epic wind.<\/p>\n

Livid, the land, and ravaged, like a rageful
\nDream. The worst in us having taken over
\nAnd broken the rest utterly down.<\/p>\n

A long age<\/span>
\nPassed. When at last we knew how little
\nWould survive us—how little we had mended<\/p>\n

Or built that was not now lost—something
\nLarge and old awoke. And then our singing
\nBrought on a different manner of weather.<\/p>\n

Then animals long believed gone crept down
\nFrom trees. We took new stock of one another.
\nWe wept to be reminded of such color.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Tracy K. Smith [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

The Map of the World Confused with Its Territory<\/strong><\/p>\n

In a drawer I found a map of the world,
\nfolded into eighths and then once again
\nand each country bore the wrong name because
\nthe map of the world is an orphanage.<\/p>\n

The edges of the earth had a margin
\nas frayed as the hem of the falling night
\nand a crease moved down toward the center of
\nthe earth, halving the identical stars.<\/p>\n

Every river ran with its thin blue
\nbrother out from the heart of a country:
\nthere cedars twisted toward the southern sky
\nand reeds plumed eastward like an augur’s pens.<\/p>\n

No dates on the wrinkles of that broad face,
\nno slow grinding of mountains and sand, for—
\nall at once, like a knife on a whetstone—
\nthe map of the world spoke in snakes and tongues.<\/p>\n

The hard-topped roads of the western suburbs
\nand the distant lights of the capitol
\neach pull away from the yellowed beaches
\nand step into the lost sea of daybreak.<\/p>\n

The map of the world is a canvas turning
\naway from the painter’s ink-stained hands
\nwhile the pigments cake in their little glass
\njars and the brushes grow stiff with forgetting.<\/p>\n

There is no model, shy and half-undressed,
\nno open window and flickering lamp,
\nyet someone has left this sealed blue letter,
\nthis gypsy’s bandana on the darkening<\/p>\n

Table, each corner held down by a conch
\nshell. What does the body remember at
\ndusk? That the palms of the hands are a map
\nof the world, erased and drawn again and<\/p>\n

Again, then covered with rivers and earth.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Susan Stewart [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

#99:<\/strong> Funny thing, this “I” — sitting at the center of the world, known and unknown, crisp and sharp at the center and blurring towards the edges, blurring but never quite going away, either, and the longer you look at it the less you know about it, the less distinct from its context, from the I<\/em>s all around it… Funny thing nostalgia, too, random facts called “memories” inseparable from the experiences in which they became memories. Bolivia exports tin<\/em>, I remember, and I remember because that fact, those words, lay at the center of a tale told by Jean Shepherd on a stage in Philadelphia where I sat in an audience and listened, watched, as Jean Shepherd’s I<\/em> blurred outward and commingled with — became — our own, and now I can’t decide where Jean Shepherd ends and I begin…<\/p>\n

All those stories you tell — tell to yourself as well as to others — not a one of them lies separate from its telling, from its teller<\/em>. Every one therefore nothing special; every one therefore the most special thing under the sky.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

[Image: “the sixth discontinuity,” by user “woodleywonderworks” on (where else?) Flickr. (Used here under a Creative Commons license; thank you!) Quoting from a work which I haven’t read, the Flickr description says of astronomy that it revealed “we were a minor tribe huddled on a small speck circling a nondescript star at the outer edge […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":21114,"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":"Tracy K. Smith, Susan Stewart, a Maxim for Nostalgists, etc.: 'It Had to Be (Not-)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":[38,247,1393,250,5,4878,251,3477,4159],"tags":[3285,4383,4551,4914,4915],"class_list":{"0":"post-21099","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-art","11":"category-06_writing","12":"category-fiction","13":"category-poetry-writing_cat","14":"category-fantasy-06_writing","15":"category-essays","16":"tag-maxims-for-nostalgists","17":"tag-susan-stewart","18":"tag-tracy-k-smith","19":"tag-stephen-mitchell","20":"tag-ken-mcleod","21":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/05\/thesixthdiscontinuity_woodleywonderworks_thumb.jpg?fit=500%2C313&ssl=1","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-5uj","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21099","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=21099"}],"version-history":[{"count":11,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21099\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":21113,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21099\/revisions\/21113"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/21114"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=21099"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=21099"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=21099"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}