{"id":21511,"date":"2019-09-20T10:46:46","date_gmt":"2019-09-20T14:46:46","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=21511"},"modified":"2019-09-20T10:48:20","modified_gmt":"2019-09-20T14:48:20","slug":"dotting-your-i","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2019\/09\/dotting-your-i\/","title":{"rendered":"Dotting Your ‘I’"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: “Causeway Bay Last Day – Hong Kong Umbrella Revolution,” by Studio Incendo (found on Flickr<\/a>, and used here under a Creative Commons license; thank you!). See here<\/a> for more information about the stirring context.]<\/em><\/p>\n

From\u00a0whiskey river’s commonplace book<\/em><\/a> (“the psychic theater”):<\/p>\n

We have curious ideas of ourselves. We think of ourselves as a body with a spirit in it, or a body with a soul in it, or a body with a mind in it. Mens sana in corpore sano.<\/em> The years drink up the wine, and at last throw the bottle away: the body, of course, being the bottle.<\/p>\n

It is a funny sort of superstition. Why should I look at my hand, as it so cleverly writes these words, and decide that it is a mere nothing compared to the mind that directs it? Is there really any huge difference between my hand and my brain? — or my mind? My hand is alive, it flickers with a life of its own. It meets all the strange universe, in touch, and learns a vast number of things, and knows a vast number of things. My hand, as it writes these words, slips gaily along, jumps like a grasshopper to dot an i<\/em>, feels the table rather cold, gets a little bored if I write too long, has its own rudiments of thought, and is just as much me<\/em> as is my brain, my mind, or my soul. Why should I imagine that there is a me<\/em> which is more me<\/em> than my hand is? Since my hand is absolutely alive, me alive.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(D.H. Lawrence [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a> (“the pursuits of fantasy”):<\/p>\n

Writing in the Dark<\/strong><\/p>\n

It’s not difficult.
\nAnyway, it’s necessary.<\/p>\n

Wait till morning, and you’ll forget.
\nAnd who knows if morning will come.<\/p>\n

Fumble for the light, and you’ll be
\nstark awake, but the vision
\nwill be fading, slipping
\nout of reach.<\/p>\n

You must have paper at hand,
\na felt-tip pen, ballpoints don’t always flow,
\npencil points tend to break. There’s nothing
\nshameful in that much prudence: those are our tools.<\/p>\n

Never mind about crossing your t’s, dotting your i’s—
\nbut take care not to cover
\none word with the next. Practice will reveal
\nhow one hand instinctively comes to the aid of the other
\nto keep each line
\nclear of the next.<\/p>\n

Keep writing in the dark:
\na record of the night, or
\nwords that pulled you from depths of unknowing,
\nwords that flew through your mind, strange birds
\ncrying their urgency with human voices,<\/p>\n

or opened
\nas flowers of a tree that blooms
\nonly once in a lifetime:<\/p>\n

words that may have the power
\nto make the sun rise again.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Denise Levertov [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a> (“359\u00b0 blind”):<\/p>\n

Consider this: in our everyday state of consciousness, we regard our body to be extremely limited. What’s more, we feel that this body is the major source of all our sufferings — the feelings of pain arise in the body, the fear of illnesses and death are intimately connected to the body, etc. On the other hand, we think bright, encouraging thoughts about our minds, and our imaginative capabilities. Whilst the body is weak, limited and prone to breaking down easily, the mind is sovereign, it is our sanctuary and can give us a glimpse of the victory over our humiliating conditions. Our conscious thoughts seemingly know no bounds — we can fantasize to our hearts content about ideal conditions, distant lands, nice, heartwarming events and circumstances. We can easily imagine pigs with wings — something that’s impossible for nature itself to accomplish. What can possibly stop our imagination? And look, it’s not only idle daydreaming — all the achievements that the science, technology, art and philosophy can boast of, all have their origin in our imagination.<\/p>\n

Well, the experience of enlightenment changes all that. Strictly speaking, it turns things on their heads. Upon opening our mind’s eye, we see that it is our conscious mind that is extremely limited, feeble, and prone to easily break down. Our body, which we have despised so much, turns out to be the wondrous limitless reality — we can go anywhere, climb any mountain and hill. Our body enables us to truly live.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Alex Bunard [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em> itself, nor from its commonplace book<\/em>:<\/p>\n

If I Were Another<\/strong><\/p>\n

If I were another on the road, I would not have looked
\nback, I would have said what one traveler said
\nto another: Stranger! awaken
\nthe guitar more! Delay our tomorrow so our road
\nmay extend and space may widen for us, and we may get rescued
\nfrom our story together: you are so much yourself … and I am
\nso much other than myself right here before you!<\/p>\n

If I were another I would have belonged to the road,
\nneither you nor I would return. Awaken the guitar
\nand we might sense the unknown and the route that tempts
\nthe traveler to test gravity. I am only
\nmy steps, and you are both my compass and my chasm.
\nIf I were another on the road, I would have
\nhidden my emotions in the suitcase, so my poem
\nwould be of water, diaphanous, white,
\nabstract, and lightweight … stronger than memory,
\nand weaker than dewdrops, and I would have said:
\nMy identity is this expanse!<\/p>\n

If I were another on the road, I would have said
\nto the guitar: Teach me an extra string!
\nBecause the house is farther, and the road to it prettier—
\nthat’s what my new song would say. Whenever
\nthe road lengthens the meaning renews, and I become two
\non this road: I … and another!<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Mahmoud Darwish (translated by Fady Joudah) [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

My Proteins<\/strong><\/p>\n

They have discovered, they say,
\nthe protein of itch<\/a>—
\nnatriuretic polypeptide b—
\nand that it travels its own distinct pathway
\ninside my spine.
\nAs do pain, pleasure, and heat.<\/p>\n

A body it seems is a highway,
\na cloverleaf crossing
\nwell built, well traversed.
\nSome of me going north, some going south.<\/p>\n

Ninety percent of my cells, they have discovered,
\nare not my own person,
\nthey are other beings inside me.<\/p>\n

As ninety-six percent of my life is not my life.<\/p>\n

Yet I, they say, am they—
\nmy bacteria and yeasts,
\nmy father and mother,
\ngrandparents, lovers,
\nmy drivers talking on cell phones,
\nmy subways and bridges,
\nmy thieves, my police
\nwho chase my self night and day.<\/p>\n

My proteins, apparently also me,
\nfold the shirts.<\/p>\n

I find in this crowded metropolis
\na quiet corner,
\nwhere I build of not-me Lego blocks
\na bench,
\npigeons, a sandwich
\nof rye bread, mustard, and cheese.<\/p>\n

It is me and is not,
\nthe hunger
\nthat makes the sandwich good.<\/p>\n

It is not me then is,
\nthe sandwich—
\na mystery neither of us
\ncan fold, unfold, or consume.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

[Image: “Causeway Bay Last Day – Hong Kong Umbrella Revolution,” by Studio Incendo (found on Flickr, and used here under a Creative Commons license; thank you!). See here for more information about the stirring context.] From\u00a0whiskey river’s commonplace book (“the psychic theater”): We have curious ideas of ourselves. We think of ourselves as a body […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":21520,"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":"D.H. Lawrence, Jane Hirshfield, et al: 'Dotting Your 'I''","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":[247,1393,94,5,251,4159],"tags":[270,850,1400,1910,3963,4982,4983,4984],"class_list":{"0":"post-21511","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-02_in-the-news","10":"category-06_writing","11":"category-poetry-writing_cat","12":"category-essays","13":"tag-jane-hirshfield","14":"tag-denise-levertov","15":"tag-the-self","16":"tag-d-h-lawrence","17":"tag-mahmoud-darwish","18":"tag-alex-bunard","19":"tag-taking-care","20":"tag-paying-attention","21":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/09\/hongkongumbrellarevolution_studioincendo_thumb.jpg?fit=500%2C312&ssl=1","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-5AX","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21511","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=21511"}],"version-history":[{"count":9,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21511\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":21522,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21511\/revisions\/21522"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/21520"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=21511"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=21511"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=21511"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}