{"id":7907,"date":"2010-10-01T06:55:11","date_gmt":"2010-10-01T10:55:11","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=7907"},"modified":"2018-05-19T15:11:37","modified_gmt":"2018-05-19T19:11:37","slug":"when-its-not-quite-yet-still-light","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2010\/10\/when-its-not-quite-yet-still-light\/","title":{"rendered":"When It’s Not Quite (Yet, Still) Light"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: “Zodiacal Light vs. Milky Way,” by Daniel L\u00f3pez;
\nfeatured<\/a> at <\/em>Astronomy Picture of the Day on March 20, 2010]<\/em><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

Incandescence at Dusk<\/strong><\/p>\n

\n

(Homage to Dionysius the Areopagite)<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

There is fire in everything,
\nshining and hidden —<\/span><\/em>
\nOr so the saint believed. And I believe the saint:
\nNothing stays the same
\nin the shimmering heat<\/span>
\nOf dusk during Indian summer in the country.<\/p>\n

Out here it is possible to perceive
\nThat those brilliant red welts
\nslashed into the horizon<\/span>
\nAre like a drunken whip
\nwhistling across a horse\u2019s back,<\/span>
\nAnd that round ball flaring in the trees
\nIs like a coal sizzling
\nin the mouth of a desert prophet.<\/span><\/p>\n

Be careful.
\nSomeone has called the orange leaves
\nsweeping off the branches<\/span>
\nThe colorful palmprints of God<\/em>
\nbrushing against our faces.<\/span>
\nSomeone has called the banked piles
\nof twigs and twisted veins<\/span>
\nThe handprints of the underworld<\/em>
\nGathering at our ankles and burning
\nthrough the soles of our feet.<\/span>
\nWe have to bear the sunset deep inside us.
\nI don\u2019t believe in ultimate things.
\nI don\u2019t believe in the inextinguishable light
\nof the other world.<\/span>
\nI don\u2019t believe that we will be lifted up
\nand transfixed by radiance.<\/span>
\nOne incandescent dusky world is all there is.<\/p>\n

But I like this vigilant saint
\nWho stood by the river at nightfall
\nAnd saw the angels descending
\nas burnished mirrors and fiery wheels,<\/span>
\nAs living creatures of fire,
\nas streams of white flame….<\/span><\/p>\n

1500 years in his wake,
\nI can almost imagine
\nhis disappointment and joy<\/span>
\nWhen the first cool wind
\nstarts to rise on the prairie,<\/span>
\nWhen the soothing blue rain begins
\nto fall out of the cerulean night.<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n

(Edward Hirsch [source<\/em><\/a>]; here<\/a>‘s a good place to start learning about the mysterious figure whose name appears in the epigraph)<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Do you wake up as I do, having forgotten what it is that hurts or where, until you move? There is a second of consciousness that is clean again. A second that is you, without memory or experience, the animal warm and waking into a brand new world. There is the sun dissolving the dark, and light as clear as music, filling the room where you sleep and the other rooms behind your eyes.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Jeanette Winterson, from Gut Symmetries<\/em> [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

I have this strange feeling that I’m not myself<\/em> anymore. It’s hard to put into words, but I guess it’s like I was fast asleep, and someone came, disassembled me, and hurriedly put me back together again. That sort of feeling.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Haruki Murakami, from The Sputnik Sweetheart<\/em> (translated by J. Philip Gabriel) [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em> (Mark Clare is an archaeologist obsessed with a recent find):<\/p>\n

Two nights later and Mark Clare lay in bed, unable to sleep. Kathleen was beside him, clutching a pillow around her head. Each time he closed his eyes, coloured whorls and spirals crossed each other within the infinite recesses of his night vision; and, as always, these phantom shapes seemed to mimic the object of his thoughts — even as he tried to sleep he was still attempting to understand the circles and indentations which had been carved upon the large stone which sealed the tomb. Quietly he got up from the bed and tiptoed across the room; he did not want to wake his wife who, in the waning darkness before dawn, seemed invested with a kind of sacred stillness. The world was balanced between night and day, and her troubles had left her suspended in a fragile sleep. Or so it seemed to Mark. But when softly he opened the door she watched him from the bed with wide eyes; and when he had closed the door she pressed her face once more against the pillow, her eyes still open.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Peter Ackroyd, from First Light<\/em> [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

and:<\/p>\n

Recuerdo<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

We were very tired, we were very merry —
\nWe had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
\nIt was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable —
\nBut we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
\nWe lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
\nAnd the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.<\/p>\n

We were very tired, we were very merry —
\nWe had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
\nAnd you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
\nFrom a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
\nAnd the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
\nAnd the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.<\/p>\n

We were very tired, we were very merry,
\nWe had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
\nWe hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a
\nshawl-covered head,<\/span>
\nAnd bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
\nAnd she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears,
\nAnd we gave her all our money but our subway fares.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Edna St. Vincent Millay [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

Last week, I heard a song on NPR<\/a> — a cover of Randy Newman’s “Losing You,” by Mavis Staples. Long after the last note had sounded, long after the radio was off, I could not stop hearing Staples’s voice. It seemed torn from her heart. And although the NPR piece is called “A Look Back in Regret,” I’m not sure that covers what’s happening here. The persona which Staples wears during this performance seems not entirely regretful; her voice seems to gouge a rough, indistinct line in the sky — a narrow canyon, visible only in long retrospect, separating an all too brief light (unappreciated at the time?) from a profound dark.<\/p>\n\n

Lyrics:<\/p>\n

Losing You<\/strong>
\n(by Randy Newman; performance by Mavis Staples)<\/em><\/p>\n

Was a fool with my money
\nAnd I lost every dime
\nAnd the sun stopped shining
\nAnd it rained all the time
\nIt did set me back some
\nOh but I — I made it through
\nBut I’ll never get over losing you<\/p>\n

Do you know how much you mean to me?
\nShould’ve told you ’cause it’s true
\nI’d get over losing anything
\nBut I’ll never get over losing you<\/p>\n

When you’re young
\nAnd there\u2019s time
\nYou forget the past
\nYou don’t think that you will
\nBut you do
\nBut I know that I don’t have time enough
\nAnd I\u2019ll never get over losing you<\/p>\n

I’ve been cold
\nI’ve been hungry
\nBut not for awhile
\nI guess most of my dreams have come true
\nWith it all here around me
\nNo peace do I find
\n‘Cause I’ll never get over losing you
\nNo, I’ll never get over losing you<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Damn. Just… damn<\/em>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “Zodiacal Light vs. Milky Way,” by Daniel L\u00f3pez; featured at Astronomy Picture of the Day on March 20, 2010] From whiskey river: Incandescence at Dusk (Homage to Dionysius the Areopagite) There is fire in everything, shining and hidden — Or so the saint believed. And I believe the saint: Nothing stays the same in […]<\/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":[38,247,1393,73,74,250,5,251],"tags":[1496,1593,1987,1988,1989,1990,1991,1992,1993,1994],"class_list":{"0":"post-7907","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-backwards","7":"category-ruminations","8":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","9":"category-radio","10":"category-music","11":"category-art","12":"category-06_writing","13":"category-poetry-writing_cat","14":"tag-jeanette-winterson","15":"tag-dawn","16":"tag-edward-hirsch","17":"tag-haruki-murakami","18":"tag-peter-ackroyd","19":"tag-randy-newman","20":"tag-mavis-staples","21":"tag-dark","22":"tag-dusk","23":"tag-light","24":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-23x","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7907","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=7907"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7907\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":20296,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7907\/revisions\/20296"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7907"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7907"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7907"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}