{"id":7244,"date":"2010-04-09T06:54:51","date_gmt":"2010-04-09T10:54:51","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=7244"},"modified":"2010-04-09T14:41:27","modified_gmt":"2010-04-09T18:41:27","slug":"already-elsewhere","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2010\/04\/already-elsewhere\/","title":{"rendered":"Already Elsewhere"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

From whiskey river’s commonplace book<\/em><\/a>:<\/p>\n

Echoing Light<\/strong><\/p>\n

When I was beginning to read I imagined
\nthat bridges had something to do with birds
\nand with what seemed to be cages but I knew
\nthat they were not cages it must have been autumn
\nwith the dusty light flashing from the streetcar wires
\nand those orange places on fire in the pictures
\nand now indeed it is autumn the clear
\ndays not far from the sea with a small wind nosing
\nover dry grass that yesterday was green
\nthe empty corn standing trembling and a down
\nof ghost flowers veiling the ignored fields
\nand everywhere the colors I cannot take
\nmy eyes from all of them red even the wide streams
\nred it is the season of migrants
\nflying at night feeling the turning earth
\nbeneath them and I woke in the city hearing
\nthe call notes of the plover then again and
\nagain before I slept and here far downriver
\nflocking together echoing close to the shore
\nthe longest bridges have opened their slender wings<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(W. S. Merwin [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

After yesterday’s storm I had expected to find the landscape a desert of sodden heathery bogs and swollen reedy lochans<\/span>; and so it mostly was, but over all its vast extent the light was so radiant that I felt I could see not just for great distances but into time itself. The ruins of crofts<\/span>, a mile away, seemed so close in that enchanted air that I saw not only the nettles of ragwort round the doors, but the people coming out for the last time: I could even see the grief on their faces. No wonder, I thought, this was the land of second sight<\/span>. If I stayed here I would be a seer as well as a poet.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

((John) Robin Jenkins, Fergus Lamont<\/em>)<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

From elsewhere:<\/p>\n

Where We Are<\/strong><\/p>\n

Fog in the morning here
\nwill make some of the world far away
\nand the near only a hint.
\nBut rain
\nwill feel its blind progress along the valley,
\ntapping to convert one boulder at a time
\ninto a glistening fact. Daylight will love what came.
\nWhatever fits will be welcome, whatever
\nsteps back in the fog will disappear
\nand hardly exist. You hear the river
\nsaying a prayer for all that’s gone.<\/p>\n

Far over the valley there is an island
\nfor everything left; and our own island
\nwill drift there too, unless we hold on,
\nunless we tap like this: “Friend,
\nare you there? Will you touch when
\nyou pass, like the rain?”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(William Stafford)<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Everyone Was in Love<\/strong><\/p>\n

One day, when they were little, Maud and Fergus
\nappeared in the doorway, naked and mirthful,
\nwith a dozen long garter snakes draped over
\neach of them like brand-new clothes.
\nSnake tails dangled down their backs,
\nand snake foreparts in various lengths
\nfell over their fronts, heads raised
\nand swaying, alert as cobras.
\nThey writhed their dry skins
\nupon each other, as snakes like doing
\nin lovemaking, with the added novelty
\nof caressing soft, smooth, moist human skin.
\nMaud and Fergus were deliciously pleased with themselves.
\nThe snakes seemed to be tickled too.
\nWe were enchanted. Everyone was in love.
\nThen Maud drew down off Fergus’s shoulder,
\nas off a tie rack, a peculiarly
\nlumpy snake and told me to look inside.
\nInside that double-hinged jaw, a frog’s green
\nwebbed hind feet were being drawn,
\nlike a diver’s, very slowly as if into deepest waters.
\nPerhaps thinking I might be considering rescue,
\nMaud said, “Don’t. Frog is already elsewhere.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Galway Kinnell [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

\"\"Like Ralph McTell, who put in an appearance in last week’s “whiskey river<\/em> Friday” post<\/a>, Maria Muldaur<\/a> has been kicking around a good while. Not only was she an integral part of the early-1960s Greenwich Village folk music scene, she was actually born<\/em> in the Village. When she first stepped into public awareness, it was as a vocalist and guitar player for a couple of jug bands<\/a> of the era, and her music these days hearkens back to those roots and others, particularly classic blues.<\/p>\n

For her 25th album, 2001’s Richland Woman Blues<\/em>, she led off with the title song — a version of Mississippi John Hurt<\/a>‘s “Richland Woman Blues” with a lilting rhythm, slightly modified lyrics, and more than a suggestion of hanky-panky (though less of a suggestion than in the original<\/a>). It’s not hard to imagine accompanists on barrelhouse piano and jug in the background.<\/p>\n

[Below, click Play button to begin. While audio is playing, volume control appears at left — a row of little vertical bars. This clip is 4:32 long.]<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

[audio:richlandwomanblues_mariamuldaur.mp3|titles=’Richland Woman Blues'”|artists=Maria Muldaur]<\/div>\n

The lyrics below are accurate for Muldaur’s performance, I think; I couldn’t find this version anywhere online, so transcribed them myself. (Yeah, haha, I’m thinking the same thing: <\/em>?!?<\/strong>) Please let me know if anything seems “off” and I’ll make the correction.<\/em><\/p>\n

Lyrics:<\/p>\n

Richland Woman Blues<\/strong>
\n(words\/music by Mississippi John Hurt, adapted and performed by Maria Muldaur)<\/em><\/p>\n

Gimme red lipstick and a bright red rouge
\nA shingle bob haircut*<\/strong> and a shot of good booze
\nHurry home, sweet papa, and don’t you take your time
\nIf you wait too long, your mama will be gone<\/p>\n

Hurry down to the dress shop, get the one looks best
\nYour own pretty mama, she wants a brand-new dress
\nHurry home, sweet papa, and don’t you take your time
\nIf you wait too long, mama will be gone<\/p>\n

[break]<\/em><\/p>\n

With rosy red garters, pink hose on my feet
\nMy turkey-red bloomers, they got a rumble seat
\nHurry home, sweet papa, and don’t you take your time
\nIf you wait too long, your mama will be gone<\/p>\n

Red rooster said, “Cockle-doodle-do-do”
\nRichland woman she said, “Any dude’ll do”**<\/strong>
\nHurry home, sweet papa, and don’t you take your time
\nIf you wait too long, sweet mama will be gone<\/p>\n

[break]<\/em><\/p>\n

Every Sunday mornin’, church watch me go
\nMy wings’ve sprouted out, the preacher told me so
\nHurry home, sweet papa, and don’t you take your time
\nIf you wait too long, your mama will be gone<\/p>\n

Come along young man, everything settin’ right
\nMy husband’s goin’ away till next Saturday night
\nHurry home, sweet papa, and don’t you take your time
\nIf you wait too long, your mama will be gone<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

__________________________<\/p>\n

\"\"*<\/strong> “Shingle bob haircut”: I’d never heard this term before. It was a style popularized in the mid-1920s: “boyish,” tapering into a V at the back of the neck with waves or curls at the sides. When I read that Louise Brooks (right) had worn a modified shingle bob, I could picture the general look of it at once. Says one site<\/a>: “According to a 1925 article published in a New York City paper, ‘Some devotees of the hair-bobbed fashion are complaining of “shingle headaches.” The\u00a0 medical profession believes this is nothing\u00a0 but a form of neuralgia caused by the sudden removal of hair from the tender nape of the neck, thus exposing it to the blustery winds.'” (Bluster had apparently made its way into “the medical profession” around then, too.)<\/p>\n

**<\/strong> That couplet — both the rhyme and the meaning — makes me grin every time I hear it.<\/p>\n

Note:<\/strong> The image at the top of this post comes from a project by SAMALdesign (DzmitrySamal), called the “Parallel World Collection.” Apparently these are functional shelves and lamps, held in place with wall anchors. For more views of the collection, see this page<\/a> at the SAMALdesign site.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

From whiskey river’s commonplace book: Echoing Light When I was beginning to read I imagined that bridges had something to do with birds and with what seemed to be cages but I knew that they were not cages it must have been autumn with the dusty light flashing from the streetcar wires and those orange […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"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":"","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":[247,1393,74,250,251],"tags":[178,351,1345,1730,1731,1732,1733,1734],"class_list":{"0":"post-7244","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-ruminations","7":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","8":"category-music","9":"category-art","10":"category-poetry-writing_cat","11":"tag-whiskey-river","12":"tag-ws-merwin","13":"tag-william-stafford","14":"tag-samaldesign","15":"tag-robin-jenkins","16":"tag-galway-kinnell","17":"tag-maria-muldaur","18":"tag-mississippi-john-hurt","19":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-1SQ","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7244","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=7244"}],"version-history":[{"count":25,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7244\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7270,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7244\/revisions\/7270"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7244"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7244"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7244"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}