{"id":27613,"date":"2024-11-08T09:02:22","date_gmt":"2024-11-08T14:02:22","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=27613"},"modified":"2024-11-08T09:02:28","modified_gmt":"2024-11-08T14:02:28","slug":"turning-to-a-compass-point-that-does-not-exist","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2024\/11\/turning-to-a-compass-point-that-does-not-exist\/","title":{"rendered":"Turning to a Compass Point that Does Not Exist"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n

[Image: “In Another Direction” by John E. Simpson. (Photo shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page<\/a> at <\/em>RAMH.)]<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

From whiskey river<\/a><\/em> (highlighted<\/span> portion):<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

The Poet
(1644-1694)<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

To suddenly perceive the world as if it were something you had never seen before, and to grasp for an instant, mutely enduring the shock of total comprehension, the outrageous unlikelihood of being here to witness it, and of its being there at all—this is a matter of grace, but also a cruel and conditional ecstasy, one no mental effort can prolong, one that in fact consists of the grievous poignancy with which it bleeds away, fading and vanishing almost before it has fully begun, lasting only long enough to leave you with the familiar sense of missing out on something, raised to a more desolate power by the discovery of what it is. Look at this staggering sight—new leaves shining with a light that’s come here from the sun<\/em>. Even if they can’t recall it, or outright deny it, everyone knows of this eerie event for which they found no name. But how many will spend their days readying themselves for what may well never recur; how many will devote the rest of their lives to the preposterous discipline of waiting, waiting and maintaining constant vigilance for a glimpse of what they can no longer see; of inwardly orienting themselves to a direction that does not exist. And who among them will gradually shed, year by year, every vestige or hope of a place in the world, becoming increasingly familiar with the taste of fear? This is no occupation for an adult who can look other adults in the eye, carry his own weight, and count himself one of them.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Franz Wright [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and, from whiskey river’s commonplace book<\/a><\/em>:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don’t go back to sleep.<\/span>
You must ask for what you really want.
Don’t go back to sleep.<\/span>
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.<\/span>
The door is round and open.
Don’t go back to sleep.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Jalaluddin Rumi [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

What matters is that you allow your heart—not your ego—to rule your life. Then very little matters because you will be a humble person and you’ll take most of life as it comes. If it rains, you get wet; if they don’t show up on time, you wait; if they don’t pay you, you eat less; if they don’t love you, so what, you didn’t come to please them anyway; if they don’t think you’re special, that’s marvelous, it frees you from having to thank them for their compliments. If life doesn’t go the way you want, accept the way it does go, use it as your teacher.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Stuart Wilde [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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

\n

From the polyphonic clangor of holiday meals, before the quarrels began with eternal enmities sworn, another great story emerged in fragments, intertwined with the one about war: the story of origins. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Men and women began to appear, some nameless except for a kinship title, \u201cfather,\u201d \u201cgrandfather,\u201d \u201cgreat-grandmother,\u201d reduced to a character trait, a funny or tragic anecdote, the Spanish flu, the embolism, or kick from a horse that carried them off—and children who hadn\u2019t lived to be our age, a multitude of characters we\u2019d never know. Over years, and with no small effort, the tangled threads of family were unraveled, until at last the \u201ctwo sides\u201d could be clearly distinguished, the people who were something to us by blood from those who were \u201cnothing.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Annie Ernaux [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

I Have Folded My Sorrows<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I have folded my sorrows into the mantle of summer night,
Assigning each brief storm its allotted space in time,
Quietly pursuing catastrophic histories buried in my eyes.
And yes, the world is not some unplayed Cosmic Game,
And the sun is still ninety-three million miles from me,
And in the imaginary forest, the shingled hippo becomes the gray unicorn.
No, my traffic is not with addled keepers of yesterday\u2019s disasters,
Seekers of manifest disembowelment on shafts of yesterday\u2019s pains.
Blues come dressed like introspective echoes of a journey.
And yes, I have searched the rooms of the moon on cold summer nights.
And yes, I have refought those unfinished encounters.
Still, they remain unfinished.<\/span>
And yes, I have at times wished myself something different.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The tragedies are sung nightly at the funerals of the poet;
The revisited soul is wrapped in the aura of familiarity.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Bob Kaufman [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

Being forgotten, she thinks, is a bit like going mad. You begin to wonder what is real, if you <\/em>are real. After all, how can a thing be real if it cannot be remembered? It\u2019s like that Zen koan, the one about the tree falling in the woods. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

If no one heard it, did it happen? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

If a person cannot leave a mark, do they exist<\/em>?<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(V.E. Schwab [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And he answered:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And how else can it be?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter\u2019s oven?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Some of you say, \u201cJoy is greater than sorrow,\u201d and others say, \u201cNay, sorrow is the greater.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I say unto you, they are inseparable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

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

[Image: “In Another Direction” by John E. Simpson. (Photo shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)] From whiskey river (highlighted portion): The Poet(1644-1694) To suddenly perceive the world as if it were something you had never seen before, and to grasp for an instant, mutely enduring the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":27620,"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":null,"activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"federate","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"Franz Wright, Bob Kaufman, et al.: 'Turning to a Compass Point that Does Not Exist'","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[183,247,1028,1393,4701,250,5,4878,251,3477,4159],"tags":[626,1254,1503,3615,5192,5349,6003,6006,6007,6008,6009,6010],"class_list":{"0":"post-27613","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-everyday-life","8":"category-ruminations","9":"category-paying-attention","10":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","11":"category-my-photography","12":"category-art","13":"category-06_writing","14":"category-fiction","15":"category-poetry-writing_cat","16":"category-fantasy-06_writing","17":"category-essays","18":"tag-changes","19":"tag-kahlil-gibran","20":"tag-patience","21":"tag-franz-wright","22":"tag-stuart-wilde","23":"tag-jelaluddin-rumi","24":"tag-annie-ernaux","25":"tag-6006","26":"tag-f0f0f0","27":"tag-bob-kaufman","28":"tag-staying-awake","29":"tag-the-taste-of-fear","30":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/11\/walkingbothways_johnesimpson_med.jpg?fit=1024%2C768&ssl=1","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-7bn","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27613","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=27613"}],"version-history":[{"count":11,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27613\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":27625,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27613\/revisions\/27625"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/27620"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=27613"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=27613"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=27613"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}