{"id":25377,"date":"2022-04-22T12:25:27","date_gmt":"2022-04-22T16:25:27","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=25377"},"modified":"2022-04-22T12:25:44","modified_gmt":"2022-04-22T16:25:44","slug":"ramh14-005479-in-search-of-stasis","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2022\/04\/ramh14-005479-in-search-of-stasis\/","title":{"rendered":"RAMH@14.005479: In Search of Stasis"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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[Image: Cover of <\/em>Off Flew the Hat<\/a>, a 2017 children’s book by Nili Ariely about — apparently — the pleasures of writing a blog over the course of many years. Says the description at that Amazon page, it’s about “about the wonders of discovery and friendship.” But even absent the latter — fresh friendships and shared discoveries — there’s always the thrill of a new discovery for oneself…]<\/em><\/figcaption><\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n\n

In a typical week, whiskey river<\/em> offers me at least one solid tie-in to something I’ve been thinking about. This week, a bonus: it floated two<\/em> selections my way appropriate to the post’s theme. First<\/a>:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Mountain<\/strong><\/p>

My students look at me expectantly.
I explain to them that the life of art is a life
of endless labor. Their expressions
hardly change; they need to know
a little more about endless labor.
So I tell them the story of Sisyphus,
how he was doomed to push
a rock up a mountain, knowing nothing
would come of this effort
but that he would repeat it
indefinitely. I tell them
there is joy in this, in the artist’s life,
that one eludes
judgment, and as I speak
I am secretly pushing a rock myself,
slyly pushing it up the steep
face of a mountain.
Why do I lie
to these children? They aren\u2019t listening,
they aren\u2019t deceived, their fingers
tapping at the wooden desks\u2014
So I retract
the myth; I tell them it occurs
in hell, and that the artist lies
because he is obsessed with attainment,
that he perceives the summit
as that place where he will live forever,
a place about to be
transformed by his burden: with every breath,
I am standing at the top of the mountain.
Both my hands are free. And the rock has added
height to the mountain.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Louise Gl\u00fcck [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

… and then there’s this<\/a>:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rising in Perilous Hope<\/strong><\/p>

What can I hold in my hands this morning
that will not flow through my fingers?
What words can I say that will catch
in your mind like burrs, chiggers that burrow?
If my touch could heal, I would lay my hands
on your bent head and bellow prayers.
If my words could change the weather
or the government or the way the world
twists and guts us, fast or slow,
what could I do but what I do now?
I fit words together and say them;
it is a given like the color of my eyes.
I hope it makes a small difference, as
I hope the drought will break and the morning
come rising out of the ocean wearing
a cloak of clean sweet mist and swirling terns.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Marge Piercy [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Aside from the fact of, well, duh, Friday<\/a><\/em>, today’s post has one other raison d’\u00eatre<\/em>, as I hinted a week ago: today is the 14th anniversary (plus a couple days, hence the nerd-jokey post title) of my first post at Running After My Hat<\/em>. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Some statistics, since then:<\/p>\n\n\n\n