{"id":8154,"date":"2011-04-22T11:23:59","date_gmt":"2011-04-22T15:23:59","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=8154"},"modified":"2013-03-01T11:48:36","modified_gmt":"2013-03-01T16:48:36","slug":"anima","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2011\/04\/anima\/","title":{"rendered":"Anima<\/em>"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: <\/em>Isle of the Dead<\/a> (third version), by Arnold B\u00f6cklin]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

Life is a garden,
\nnot a road
\nwe enter and exit
\nthrough the same gate
\nwandering,
\nwhere we go matters less
\nthan what we notice<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Bokonon [source<\/em>: see note<\/a> below])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Walking to Oak-Head Pond, and Thinking of<\/strong>
\nthe Ponds I Will Visit in the Next Days and Weeks<\/strong><\/p>\n

What is so utterly invisible
\nas tomorrow?
\nNot love,
\nnot the wind,<\/p>\n

not the inside of a stone.
\nNot anything.
\nAnd yet, how often I’m fooled —
\nI’m wading along<\/p>\n

in the sunlight —
\nand I’m sure I can see the fields and the ponds shining
\ndays ahead —
\nI can see the light spilling<\/p>\n

like a shower of meteors
\ninto next week’s trees,
\nand I plan to be there soon —
\nand, so far, I am<\/p>\n

just that lucky,
\nmy legs splashing
\nover the edge of darkness,
\nmy heart on fire.<\/p>\n

I don’t know where
\nsuch certainty comes from —
\nthe brave flesh
\nor the theater of the mind —<\/p>\n

but if I had to guess
\nI would say that only
\nwhat the soul is supposed to be
\ncould send us forth<\/p>\n

with such cheer
\nas even the leaf must wear
\nas it unfurls
\nits fragrant body, and shines<\/p>\n

against the hard possibility of stoppage —
\nwhich, day after day,
\nbefore such brisk, corpuscular belief,
\nshudders, and gives way.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Mary Oliver, from What Do We Know<\/em> [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

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

We are nowadays accustomed to the idea that a computer can be set up to solve a mathematical equation. The mathematician means by this that the behaviour of the computer is determined<\/em> by the equations he wants to solve; were it not so, it would be of no interest to him. On the other hand, if we were to ask a computer engineer to explain what is happening in the computer, he could easily demonstrate that every physical event in it was fully determined<\/em> (same word) by the laws of physics as applied to the physical components. Any appearance of conflict here would be quite illusory. There is no need for a computer to be open to ‘non-physical influences’ in order that its behaviour may be determined by a (non-physical) equation as well as<\/em> by the laws of physics. The two ‘claims to determination’ here are not mutually exclusive; rather they are complementary<\/em>.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Donald MacKay, from “Brain Science and the Soul,” The Oxford Companion to the Mind<\/a><\/em> (1987))<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

\n
\n

Bone<\/strong><\/p>\n

1.
\nUnderstand, I am always trying to figure out
\nwhat the soul is,
\nand where hidden,
\nand what shape —<\/p>\n

and so, last week,
\nwhen I found on the beach
\nthe ear bone
\nof a pilot whale that may have died<\/p>\n

hundreds of years ago, I thought
\nmaybe I was close
\nto discovering something —
\nfor the ear bone<\/p>\n

2.
\nis the portion that lasts longest
\nin any of us, man or whale; shaped
\nlike a squat spoon
\nwith a pink scoop where<\/p>\n

once, in the lively swimmer\u2019s head,
\nit joined its two sisters
\nin the house of hearing,
\nit was only<\/p>\n

two inches long —
\nand thought: the soul
\nmight be like this —
\nso hard, so necessary —<\/p>\n

3.
\nyet almost nothing.
\nBeside me
\nthe gray sea
\nwas opening and shutting its wave-doors,<\/p>\n

unfolding over and over
\nits time-ridiculing roar;
\nI looked but I couldn\u2019t see anything
\nthrough its dark-knit glare;<\/p>\n

yet don\u2019t we all know, the golden sand
\nis there at the bottom,
\nthough our eyes have never seen it,
\nnor can our hands ever catch it<\/p>\n

4.
\nlest we would sift it down
\ninto fractions, and facts —
\ncertainties —
\nand what the soul is, also<\/p>\n

I believe I will never quite know.
\nThough I play at the edges of knowing,
\ntruly I know
\nour part is not knowing,<\/p>\n

but looking, and touching, and loving,
\nwhich is the way I walked on,
\nsoftly,
\nthrough the pale-pink morning light.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n

(Mary Oliver,\u00a0 from Why I Wake Early<\/em> [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

If you search the Web for information about the British band Lucky Soul<\/a>, you’ll find a lot of references to things like “retro-pop,” “1960s girl groups,” and so on. (Wikipedia just goes with plain old “pop.) Not all their music seems to fit into this neat pigeonhole; they’ve got a talented songwriter in Andrew Laidlaw, and it’s hard to imagine him submitting indefinitely to such a label. But “Upon Hilly Fields,” from their 2010 album A Coming of Age<\/em>, is so easy to listen to that you could easily overlook the subtext of heartbreak. (Lyrics below, per usual. Note: I cribbed these from the site of Elefant Records<\/a>, which displays them as a single paragraph. If anyone knows for sure where the line breaks are supposed to go, please let me know!)<\/p>\n