{"id":7778,"date":"2010-06-25T06:48:05","date_gmt":"2010-06-25T10:48:05","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=7778"},"modified":"2010-06-25T06:48:05","modified_gmt":"2010-06-25T10:48:05","slug":"the-mysterious-clarities-of-summer","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2010\/06\/the-mysterious-clarities-of-summer\/","title":{"rendered":"The Mysterious Clarities of Summer"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

From whiskey river<\/em><\/a> (italicized portion below):<\/p>\n

Mind Wanting More<\/strong><\/p>\n

Only a beige slat of sun
\nabove the horizon, like a shade pulled
\nnot quite down. Otherwise,
\nclouds. Sea rippled here and
\nthere. Birds reluctant to fly.
\nThe mind wants a shaft of sun to
\nstir the grey porridge of clouds,
\nan osprey to stitch the sea to sky
\nwith its barred wings, some dramatic
\nmusic: a symphony, perhaps
\na Chinese gong.<\/p>\n

But the mind always
\nwants more than it has —
\none more bright day of sun,
\none more clear night in bed
\nwith the moon; one more hour
\nto get the words right; one
\nmore chance for the heart in hiding
\nto emerge from its thicket
\nin dried grasses — as if this quiet day
\nwith its tentative light weren’t enough,
\nas if joy weren’t strewn all around.<\/em><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Holly Hughes [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

The answer is never the answer. What’s really interesting is the mystery. If you seek the mystery instead of the answer, you’ll always be seeking. I’ve never seen anybody really find the answer — they think they have, so they stop thinking. But the job is to seek mystery, evoke mystery, plant a garden in which strange plants grow and mysteries bloom. The need for mystery is greater than the need for an answer.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Ken Kesey, from “The Art of Fiction,” interview by Robert Faggen, The Paris Review<\/em>)<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

Another solitary pleasure I have known is to sit at the back of an old oak pew below a white dove descending in a narrow window of stained glass. I returned recently to the chapel of St. Catherine’s Court after an absence of many years. The little building was full of shadow; it was like sitting in a whitewashed cave. I sat in the gloom and the silence and let my eyes fall closed. How long I sat there I do not know, but it was long enough to become unusually still.<\/p>\n

Then suddenly, out of nowhere, a voice seemed to ring through the quiet of my body: Just rest<\/em>, it said. Just rest<\/em>. It wasn’t a thought, it was a sound, as clear and loud as day. I had thought I was already at rest, but as I heard these words I was instantly aware of the silence I was in. Even that small ripple of an effort was a residual holding back from being where I was completely. I let the silence take me then, hold me; and in that moment I became the silence. I was the silence.<\/p>\n

… All my strivings, all my questionings, all my aspirations and disappointments, everything had fallen away to reveal this. I had come home, and I knew then that it was good.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Roger Housden [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

One perfect afternoon we spent at Bodiam<\/a> — my first visit there. It was still the old spell-bound ruin, unrestored, guarded by great trees, and by a network of lanes which baffled the invading charabancs<\/span>. Tranquil white clouds hung above it in a windless sky, and the silence and solitude were complete as we sat looking across at the crumbling towers, and at their reflection in a moat starred with water-lilies, and danced over by great blue dragonflies. For a long time no one spoke; then James turned to me and said solemnly: “Summer afternoon — summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Edith Wharton, writing of a visit with Henry James)<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

If You Get There Before I Do<\/strong><\/p>\n

Air out the linens, unlatch the shutters on the eastern side,
\nand maybe find that deck of Bicycle cards
\nlost near the sofa. Or maybe walk around
\nand look out the back windows first.
\nI hear the view’s magnificent: old silent pines
\nleading down to the lakeside, layer upon layer
\nof magnificent light. Should you be hungry,
\nI’m sorry but there’s no Chinese takeout,
\nonly a General Store. You passed it coming in,
\nbut you probably didn’t notice its one weary gas pump
\nalong with all those Esso cans from decades ago.
\nIf you’re somewhat confused, think Vermont,
\nthat state where people are folded into the mountains
\nlike berries in batter…. What I’d like when I get there
\nis a few hundred years to sit around and concentrate
\non one thing at a time. I’d start with radiators
\nand work my way up to Meister Eckhart<\/span>,
\nor why do so few people turn their lives around, so many
\ntake small steps into what they never do,
\nthe first weeks, the first lessons,
\nuntil they choose something other,
\nbeginning and beginning their lives,
\nso never knowing what it’s like to risk
\nlast minute failure…. I’d save blue for last. Klein blue<\/a>,
\nor the blue of Crater Lake on an early June morning.
\nThat would take decades…. Don’t forget
\nto sway the fence gate back and forth a few times
\njust for its creaky sound. When you swing in the tire swing
\nmake sure your socks are off. You’ve forgotten, I expect,
\nthe feeling of feet brushing the tops of sunflowers:
\nIn Vermont, I once met a ski bum on a summer break
\nwho had followed the snows for seven years and planned
\non at least seven more. We’re here for the enjoyment of it,
\nhe said,<\/span>
\nto salaam into joy…. I expect you’ll find
\nBibles scattered everywhere, or Talmuds, or Qur’ans,
\nas well as little snippets of gospel music, chants,
\nold Advent calendars with their paper doors still open.
\nYou might pay them some heed. Don’t be alarmed
\nwhen what’s familiar starts fading, as gradually
\nyou lose your bearings,
\nyour body seems to turn opaque and then transparent,
\nuntil finally it’s invisible — what old age rehearses us for
\nand vacations in the limbo of the Middle West.
\nTake it easy, take it slow. When you think I’m on my way,
\nthe long middle passage done,
\nfill the pantry with cereal, curry, and blue and white boxes
\nof macaroni, place the<\/span>
\ncheckerboard set, or chess if you insist,
\nout on the flat-topped stump beneath the porch’s shadow,
\npour some lemonade into the tallest glass you can find
\nin the cupboard,<\/span>
\nthen drum your fingers, practice lifting your eyebrows,
\nuntil you tell them all — the skeptics, the bigots, blind
\nneighbors,<\/span>
\nthose damn-with-faint-praise critics on their hobbyhorses —
\nthat I’m allowed,
\nand if there’s a place for me that love has kept protected,
\nI’ll be coming, I’ll be coming too.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Dick Allen [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

The mysterious British graffiti artist known as Banksy<\/a> branched out a year ago in a “cheeky and renegade<\/a>” exhibit at the Bristol City Museum and Art Gallery — way beyond graffiti. (Some of the works were original; others appeared to be vandalizations of the museum’s own holdings.) Here’s the BBC’s introduction to it:<\/p>\n

<\/object><\/div>\n

Also see the Telegraph<\/em>‘s Flickr gallery<\/a> of photos of the exhibit, the Guardian<\/em>‘s version<\/a>, the BBC’s own slideshow<\/a>, and many other photos<\/a> around the Web. (Apparently, photography wasn’t just allowed but actively encouraged!) Total attendance — even having endured fantastically long lines of five, six hours and more — reportedly ran to over 300,000 during the two-and-a-half months the exhibit ran… and admission was free<\/em>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

From whiskey river (italicized portion below): Mind Wanting More Only a beige slat of sun above the horizon, like a shade pulled not quite down. Otherwise, clouds. Sea rippled here and there. Birds reluctant to fly. The mind wants a shaft of sun to stir the grey porridge of clouds, an osprey to stitch the […]<\/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":[247,1393,250,36,251],"tags":[178,238,1858,1859,1860,1861,1862,1863],"class_list":{"0":"post-7778","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-ruminations","7":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","8":"category-art","9":"category-reading","10":"category-poetry-writing_cat","11":"tag-whiskey-river","12":"tag-edith-wharton","13":"tag-infinite-summer","14":"tag-holly-hughes","15":"tag-ken-kesey","16":"tag-roger-housden","17":"tag-dick-allen","18":"tag-banksy","19":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-21s","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7778","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=7778"}],"version-history":[{"count":28,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7778\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7806,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7778\/revisions\/7806"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7778"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7778"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7778"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}