{"id":29420,"date":"2026-04-03T09:53:26","date_gmt":"2026-04-03T13:53:26","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=29420"},"modified":"2026-04-03T09:56:59","modified_gmt":"2026-04-03T13:56:59","slug":"the-world-is-full-of-joys-to-juggle-but-dont-watch-yourself-juggling-them","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2026\/04\/the-world-is-full-of-joys-to-juggle-but-dont-watch-yourself-juggling-them\/","title":{"rendered":"The World Is Full of Joys to Juggle (But Don’t Watch Yourself Juggling Them)"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

[Image: “Confounding Focus,” 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’s commonplace book<\/a><\/em> (last stanza):<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

The Greatest Grandeur<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Some say it\u2019s in the reptilian dance
of the purple-tongued sand goanna,
for there the magnificent translation
of tenacity into bone and grace occurs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And some declare it to be an expansive
desert\u2014solid rust-orange rock
like dusk captured on earth in stone\u2014
simply for the perfect contrast it provides
to the blue-grey ridge of rain
in the distant hills.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Some claim the harmonics of shifting
electron rings to be most rare and some
the complex motion of seven sandpipers
bisecting the arcs and pitches
of come and retreat over the mounting
hayfield.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Others, for grandeur, choose the terror
of lightning peals on prairies or the tall
collapsing cathedrals of stormy seas,
because there they feel dwarfed
and appropriately helpless; others select
the serenity of that ceiling\/cellar
of stars they see at night on placid lakes,
because there they feel assured
and universally magnanimous.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But it is the dark emptiness contained
in every next moment that seems to me
the most singularly glorious gift,
that void which one is free to fill
with processions of men bearing burning
cedar knots or with parades of blue horses,
belled and ribboned and stepping sideways,
with tumbling white-faced mimes or companies
of black-robed choristers; to fill simply
with hammered silver teapots or kiln-dried
crockery, tangerine and almond custards,
polonaises, polkas, whittling sticks, wailing
walls; that space large enough to hold all
invented blasphemies and pieties, 10,000
definitions of god and more, never fully
filled, never.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Pattiann Rogers [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

We inhabit a deeply imagined world that exists alongside the real physical world. Even the crudest utterance, or the simplest, contains the fundamental poetry by which we live. This mind fabric, woven of images and illusions, shields us. In a sense, or rather, in all senses, it’s a shock absorber. As harsh as life seems to us now, it would feel even worse — hopelessly, irredeemably harsh — if we didn’t veil it, order it, relate familiar things, create mental cushions. One of the most surprising facts about human beings is that we seem to require a poetic version of life. It’s not just that some of us enjoy reading or writing poetically, or that many people wax poetic in emotional situations, but that all human beings of all ages in all cultures all over the world automatically tell their story in a poetic way, using the elemental poetry concealed in everyday language to solve problems, communicate desires and needs, even talk to themselves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When people invent new words, they do so playfully, metaphorically — computers have\u00a0viruses<\/em>, one can\u00a0surf<\/em>\u00a0the internet, a naive person is\u00a0clueless<\/em>. In time, people forget the etymology or choose to disregard it. A plumber says he’ll use a gasket on a leaky pipe, without knowing that the word comes from gar\u00e7onette<\/em>, the old French word for a little girl with her hymen intact. We dine at chic restaurants from porcelain dinner plates without realizing that when the smooth, glistening porcelain <\/em>was invented in France a long time ago, someone with a sense of humor thought it looked as smooth as the vulva of a pig, which is indeed what porcelain <\/em>means. When we stand by our scruples, we don’t think of our feet, but the word comes from the Latin scrupulus<\/em>, a tiny stone that was the smallest unit of weight. Thus a scrupulous person is so sensitive he’s irritated by the smallest stone in his shoe. For the most part, we are all unwitting poets.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Diane Ackerman [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From elsewhere:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

You don’t know about the Change War, but it’s influencing your lives all the time and maybe you’ve had hints of it without realizing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Have you ever worried about your memory, because it doesn’t seem to be bringing you exactly the same picture of the past from one day to the next? Have you ever been afraid that your personality was changing because of forces beyond your knowledge or control? Have you ever felt sure that sudden death was about to jump you from nowhere? Have you ever been scared of Ghosts\u2014not the story-book kind, but the billions of beings who were once so real and strong it’s hard to believe they’ll just sleep harmlessly forever? Have you ever wondered about those things you may call devils or Demons\u2014spirits able to range through all time and space, through the hot hearts of stars and the cold skeleton of space between the galaxies? Have you ever thought that the whole universe might be a crazy, mixed-up dream? If you have, you’ve had hints of the Change War.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Fritz Leiber [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

Teaching the Ape to Write Poems<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

They didn’t have much trouble
teaching the ape to write poems:
first they strapped him into the chair,
then tied the pencil around his hand
(the paper had already been nailed down).
Then Dr. Bluespire leaned over his shoulder
and whispered into his ear:
“You look like a god sitting there.
Why don’t you try writing something?”<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(James Tate [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

Meditation with a Gash in the Natural Order<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I like parking at the big box store, watching people come out and go in.
Swaying winter grasses in the median, sky that brigand Saturday blue.
I\u2019m waiting to pick up my son from his guitar lesson. Already masterful,
he doesn\u2019t quit. Even Jimi Hendrix continued with a vocal coach,
up to the very day he died. I have so much useless knowledge.
Like what the monk said about meditation: if while sitting on your cushion
you have the best idea you\u2019ve ever had\u2014stunning, complete\u2014
you mustn\u2019t get up to capture it. Also, a lot of what we call miraculous
is just the way things work: a monarch always emerges from its chrysalis
as a radically different worm. A miracle <\/em>is living flesh restored to reeking
corpse. It\u2019s the man sitting calmly, shaved and dressed, after he\u2019d raved
at city gates for more years than anyone who stepped around him
could remember. The monk said: when wondering what to do in life,
do what will cost you the most. Commit to watching the gorgeous
bubble evanesce. That\u2019s the only way this works.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

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

[Image: “Confounding Focus,” by John E. Simpson. (Photo shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)] From whiskey river’s commonplace book (last stanza): The Greatest Grandeur Some say it\u2019s in the reptilian danceof the purple-tongued sand goanna,for there the magnificent translationof tenacity into bone and grace occurs. And some declare it to […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":29424,"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":"federated","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"Pattiann Rogers, Leslie Williams, et al.: 'The World Is Full of Joys to Juggle (But Don't Watch Yourself Juggling Them)'","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[183,247,1393,4701,250,4878,251,3460],"tags":[793,1438,1837,3417,3632,6291,6292],"class_list":{"0":"post-29420","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-everyday-life","8":"category-ruminations","9":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","10":"category-my-photography","11":"category-art","12":"category-fiction","13":"category-poetry-writing_cat","14":"category-science-fiction-06_writing","15":"tag-attention","16":"tag-diane-ackerman","17":"tag-pattiann-rogers","18":"tag-joy","19":"tag-james-tate","20":"tag-fritz-lieber","21":"tag-leslie-williams","22":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/theunimportant_johnesimpson_med.jpg?fit=1024%2C769&ssl=1","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-7Ew","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/29420","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=29420"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/29420\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":29432,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/29420\/revisions\/29432"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/29424"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=29420"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=29420"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=29420"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}