{"id":21274,"date":"2019-07-26T15:32:41","date_gmt":"2019-07-26T19:32:41","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=21274"},"modified":"2019-07-26T15:33:12","modified_gmt":"2019-07-26T19:33:12","slug":"seeing-through","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2019\/07\/seeing-through\/","title":{"rendered":"Seeing Through"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: “Cookieee…!,” by John E. Simpson. (Shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page<\/a> at RAMH.) This is one in a series I post occasionally at Instagram, hashtagged “#jesstorypix.” The idea is to start with an odd-looking photo and see a micro-story dwelling therein; for the story associated with this one, see the caption on the Instagram post<\/a>.]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

Most of us find it difficult to know what we are feeling about anything. In any situation it is almost impossible to know what is really happening to us. This is one of the penalties of being human and having a brain so swarming with interesting suggestions and ideas and self-distrust.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Ted Hughes [source<\/em><\/a> (not yet confirmed)])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Imaginary Conversation<\/strong><\/p>\n

You tell me to live each day
\nas if it were my last. This is in the kitchen
\nwhere before coffee I complain
\nof the day ahead—that obstacle race
\nof minutes and hours,
\ngrocery stores and doctors.<\/p>\n

But why the last? I ask. Why not
\nlive each day as if it were the first—
\nall raw astonishment, Eve rubbing
\nher eyes awake that first morning,
\nthe sun coming up
\nlike an ing\u00e9nue in the east?<\/p>\n

You grind the coffee
\nwith the small roar of a mind
\ntrying to clear itself. I set
\nthe table, glance out the window
\nwhere dew has baptized every
\nliving surface.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Linda Pastan [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

There’s nothing wrong with enjoying looking at the surface of the ocean itself, except that when you finally see what goes on underwater, you realize that you’ve been missing the whole point of the ocean. Staying on the surface all the time is like going to the circus and staring at the outside of the tent.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Dave Barry [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

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

One human life is deeper than the ocean. Strange fishes and sea-monsters and mighty plants live in the rock-bed of our spirits. The whole of human history is an undiscovered continent deep in our souls. There are dolphins, plants that dream, magic birds inside us. The sky is inside us. The earth is in us.<\/em> The trees of the forest, the animals of the bushes, tortoises, birds, and flowers know our future. The world that we see and the world that is there are two different things. Wars are not fought on battlegrounds but in a space smaller than the head of a needle. We need a new language to talk to one another. Inside a cat there are many histories, many books. When you look into the eyes of dogs strange fishes swim in your mind. All roads lead to death, but some roads lead to things which can never be finished. Wonderful things.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Ben Okri [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

I asked [Don Juan] if his statements were a pronouncement that what he had called “seeing” was in effect a “better way” than merely “looking at things.” He said that the eyes of man could perform both functions, but neither of them was better than the other; however, to train the eyes only to look was, in his opinion, an unnecessary loss.<\/p>\n

“For instance, we need to look with our eyes to laugh,” he said, “because only when we look at things can we catch the funny edge of the world. On the other hand, when our eyes see, everything is so equal that nothing is funny.”<\/p>\n

“Do you mean, don Juan, that a man who sees cannot ever laugh?’<\/p>\n

He remained silent for some time.<\/p>\n

“Perhaps there are men of knowledge who never laugh,” he said. “I don’t know any of them, though. Those I know see and also look, so they laugh.”<\/p>\n

“Would a man of knowledge cry as well?”<\/p>\n

“I suppose so. Our eyes look so we may laugh, or cry, or rejoice, or be sad, or be happy. I personally don’t like to be sad, so whenever I witness something that would ordinarily make me sad, I simply shift my eyes and see it instead of looking at it. But when I encounter something funny I look and I laugh.”<\/p>\n

“But then, don Juan, your laughter is real and not controlled folly.”<\/p>\n

Don Juan stared at me for a moment.<\/p>\n

“I talk to you because you make me laugh,” he said. “You remind me of some bushy-tailed rats of the desert that get caught when they stick their tails in holes trying to scare other rats away in order to steal their food. You get caught in your own questions. Watch out! Sometimes those rats yank their tails off trying to pull themselves free.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Carlos Castaneda [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Looking For Each of Us<\/strong><\/p>\n

I open the box of my favorite postcards
\nand turn them over looking for de Chirico
\nbecause I remember seeing you standing
\nfacing a wall no wider than a column where
\nto your left was a hall going straight back
\ninto darkness, the floor a ramp sloping down
\nto where you stood alone and where the room
\nopened out on your right to an auditorium
\nfull of people who had just heard you read
\nand were now listening to the other poet.
\nI was looking for the de Chirico because of
\nthe places, the empty places. The word
\n\u201cboulevard\u201d came to mind. Standing on the side
\nof the fountains in Paris where the water
\nblew onto me when I was fifteen. It was night.
\nIt was dark then too and I was alone.
\nWhy didn\u2019t you find me? Why didn\u2019t
\nsomebody find me all those years? The form
\nof love was purity. An art. An architecture.
\nMaybe a train. Maybe the shadow of a statue
\nand the statue with its front turned away
\nfrom me. Maybe one young girl playing alone,
\nhearing even small sounds ring off cobblestones
\nand the stone walls. I turn the cards looking
\nfor the one and come to Giacometti\u2019s eyes
\nfull of caring and something remote.
\nHis eyes are loving and empty, but not with
\nnothingness, not for the usual reasons, but because
\nhe is working. The Rothko Chapel empty. A cheap
\nstatue of Sappho in the modern city of Mytilene
\nand ancient sunlight. David Park\u2019s four men
\nwith smudges for mouths, backed by water,
\neach held still by the impossibility of what
\nart can accomplish. A broken river god,
\nonly the body. A girl playing with her rabbit in bed.
\nThe postcard of a summer lightning storm over Iowa.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Linda Gregg [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

___________<\/p>\n

Note:<\/strong> As sometimes happens, the Linda Gregg poem above has made a previous appearance here at <\/a><\/em>RAMH<\/a> — that was back in 2011.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “Cookieee…!,” by John E. Simpson. (Shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.) This is one in a series I post occasionally at Instagram, hashtagged “#jesstorypix.” The idea is to start with an odd-looking photo and see a micro-story dwelling therein; for the story associated with this […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":21281,"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":"Linda Pastan, Carlos Castaneda, et al.: 'Seeing Through'","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":[247,1393,4701,250,37,5,251,4159],"tags":[1243,1812,2559,2739,4022,4944],"class_list":{"0":"post-21274","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-ruminations","8":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","9":"category-my-photography","10":"category-art","11":"category-onlineworld","12":"category-06_writing","13":"category-poetry-writing_cat","14":"category-essays","15":"tag-carlos-castaneda","16":"tag-linda-pastan","17":"tag-linda-gregg","18":"tag-dave-barry","19":"tag-ted-hughes","20":"tag-ben-okri","21":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/07\/cookie_johnesimpson_thumb.jpg?fit=500%2C375&ssl=1","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-5x8","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21274","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=21274"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21274\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":21283,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21274\/revisions\/21283"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/21281"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=21274"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=21274"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=21274"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}