{"id":8505,"date":"2011-09-30T10:28:58","date_gmt":"2011-09-30T14:28:58","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=8505"},"modified":"2011-09-30T10:39:44","modified_gmt":"2011-09-30T14:39:44","slug":"go-right-ahead","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2011\/09\/go-right-ahead\/","title":{"rendered":"Go Right Ahead"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

[Image: note dropped by South Vietnamese Air Force Major Buang-Ly onto the deck of the USS Midway on April 30, 1975. It says, “Can you move the Helicopter to the other side, I can land on your runway, I can fly 1 hour more, we have enough time to mouve. Please rescue me. Major Buang, wife and 5 child.” See the marvelous Letters of Note<\/a> site for the complete story.]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

Our Valley<\/strong><\/p>\n

We don’t see the ocean, not ever, but in July and August
\nwhen the worst heat seems to rise from the hard clay
\nof this valley, you could be walking through a fig orchard
\nwhen suddenly the wind cools and for a moment
\nyou get a whiff of salt, and in that moment you can almost
\nbelieve something is waiting beyond the Pacheco Pass<\/a>,
\nsomething massive, irrational, and so powerful even
\nthe mountains that rise east of here have no word for it.<\/p>\n

You probably think I’m nuts saying the mountains<\/em>
\n have no word for ocean, but if you live here<\/em>
\n you begin to believe they know everything.<\/em>
\n They maintain that huge silence we think of as divine,<\/em>
\n a silence that grows in autumn when snow falls<\/em>
\n slowly between the pines and the wind dies<\/em>
\n to less than a whisper and you can barely catch<\/em>
\n your breath because you’re thrilled and terrified.<\/em><\/p>\n

You have to remember this isn’t your land.
\nIt belongs to no one, like the sea you once lived beside
\nand thought was yours. Remember the small boats
\nthat bobbed out as the waves rode in, and the men
\nwho carved a living from it only to find themselves
\ncarved down to nothing. Now you say this is home,
\nso go ahead, worship the mountains as they dissolve in dust,
\nwait on the wind, catch a scent of salt, call it our life.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Philip Levine [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

The truth is you already know what it’s like. You already know the difference between the size and speed of everything that flashes through you and the tiny inadequate bit of it all you can ever let anyone know. As though inside you is this enormous room full of what seems like everything in the whole universe at one time or another and yet the only parts that get out have to somehow squeeze out through one of those tiny keyholes you see under the knob in older doors. As if we are all trying to see each other through these tiny keyholes.<\/p>\n

But it does have a knob, the door can open. But not in the way you think… The truth is you’ve already heard this. That this is what it’s like. That it’s what makes room for the universes inside you, all the endless inbent fractals of connection and symphonies of different voices, the infinities you can never show another soul. And you think it makes you a fraud, the tiny fraction anyone else ever sees? Of course you’re a fraud, of course what people see is never you. And of course you know this, and of course you try to manage what part they see if you know it’s only a part. Who wouldn’t? It’s called free will, Sherlock. But at the same time it’s why it feels so good to break down and cry in front of others, or to laugh, or speak in tongues, or chant in Bengali — it’s not English anymore, it’s not getting squeezed through any hole.<\/p>\n

So cry all you want, I won’t tell anybody.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(David Foster Wallace, from Oblivion: Stories<\/em>\u00a0[source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

Let Nothing Lie Dormant<\/strong><\/p>\n

At the farmer\u2019s market in Rosarito, Mexico,
\na man touched my arm.
\nHe sat on a stool at a wooden table,
\nand in the center,
\na blue pitcher of water beaded under the sun.
\nHunkered over his lap,
\nhe worked with a gouge on a block of walnut,
\nand he blew at the dust,
\nand the dust swirled in the breeze.<\/p>\n

Done stripping the sapwood vulnerable to rot,
\nthe man held the heart of the wood,
\na purple wood hard against
\nthe chisel\u2019s cutting edge.
\nHe looked up from his work,
\nand his gray eyes told me I must listen.
\n\u201cThis wood must be strong
\nor the heart cracks before the real work is done.
\nSee this?\u201d he asked softly,
\nand he lifted a mallet carved
\nfrom a branch of apple, \u201cStrong wood,\u201d he said.
\n\u201cIt wanted to be more than a tree.\u201d<\/p>\n

He rubbed fresh walnut dust between his palms.
\nWe drank glasses of ice water,
\ntalked about life in general,
\nand he used the pitcher,
\nbillowed and wet like the sail of a boat,
\nto cool his neck.<\/p>\n

Later, through the soft meat of an avocado,
\nI felt the pit longing to be free.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(David Dominguez [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

My mother went over to my aunt’s house to stay for a while. Late in the night she found my aunt standing in front of the mirror in the back bedroom.She was shaking all over and frothing at the mouth. “You ugly old woman,” she growled hoarsely. “You bad, mean old woman. Get out. Get out of my house.”<\/p>\n

…We had to put [my aunt] in a nursing home. Then a nurse called Mama. My aunt had been wandering around in the night until she found a mirror in the entrance hall. She would stand in front of it and talk.<\/p>\n

“We don’t know who she’s talking to,” the nurse said. She tried to remember what my aunt had said. “She said, ‘You’re no better than you ought to be, you young hussy.’ Then she said, ‘I saw you going out in the bushes with that black-headed Root McCall down at Lake Sinclair. And you wearing that little shimmy-tail dress. You had your chance to do right, but you sure went wrong with your bad ways. You sure did go wrong.'”<\/p>\n

The nurse asked our permission to lock my aunt into her room at night so she wouldn’t wander around and find the mirror, and we said that would be fine.<\/p>\n[Some time later, in a hotel room with my aunt:] Early in the morning when it was just beginning to be day, I woke up. My aunt was standing in front of the dresser. I had forgotten to cover up the mirror, and she was gazing into it. She had a look on her face I had never seen before. She leaned toward the mirror. She held one frail, trembling hand out to her reflection. And in the sweetest, quietest voice she said, “My name is Miss Mathews. And who are you, little girl?”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Bailey White, from Mama Makes Up Her Mind<\/em> [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Tomorrow, Today, and Yesterday<\/strong><\/p>\n

the 3-year-old, wanting to know what day
\nit is asks everyday what day it is
\nwe tell her Tuesday or Saturday etcetera
\nthen she asks what day it will be
\ntomorrow and we go through the naming
\nof tomorrows in order
\nchanting the future like a litany<\/p>\n

tomorrow is when she wakes up
\nin the morning and when we tell her
\nwe’ll go shopping tomorrow she
\nremembers yesterday and informs us
\nthat it is tomorrow that today is
\nyesterday that therefore the time is
\nalways now to do what we plan to do
\ntomorrow<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Jane Piirto [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

Bob Dylan’s written enough powerful, big-themed songs that it’s easy to forget he can write on a small and personal scale, too. One of my favorite examples: “I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight,” from 1967’s John Wesley Harding<\/em> album. It’s a favorite of other artists, too; one of the best covers, I think, is Norah Jones’s sweet jazzy riff:<\/p>\n

[Below, click Play button to begin <\/em>I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight. While audio is playing, volume control appears at left — a row of little vertical bars. This clip is 3:20 long.]<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

[audio:illbeyourbabytonight_norahjones.mp3|titles=’I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight’|artists=Norah Jones]<\/div>\n

Lyrics:<\/p>\n

I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight<\/strong>
\n(music and lyrics by Bob Dylan;\u00a0slightly altered\u00a0<\/em>
\nlyrics and performance by Norah Jones)<\/em><\/p>\n

Close your eyes, close the door
\nYou don’t have to worry any more
\nCause I’ll be your baby tonight<\/p>\n

Shut the light, shut the shade
\nYou don’t have to be afraid
\n‘Cause I’ll be your baby tonight<\/p>\n

Well, that mockingbird’s gonna sail away
\nWe’re gonna forget it
\nThat big fat moon
\nIs gonna shine like a spoon
\nBut we’re gonna let it
\nYou won’t regret it<\/p>\n

Kick your shoes off
\nAnd don’t you fear
\nBring that bottle over here
\nCause I’ll be your baby tonight<\/p>\n

Well, that mockingbird’s gonna sail away
\nWe’re gonna forget it
\nThat big fat moon
\nIs gonna shine like a spoon
\nBut we’re gonna let it
\nYou won’t regret it<\/p>\n

Kick your shoes off
\nAnd don’t you fear
\nBring that bottle over here
\nCause I’ll be your baby tonight
\nCause I’ll be your baby tonight
\nCause I’ll be your baby tonight, tonight<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: note dropped by South Vietnamese Air Force Major Buang-Ly onto the deck of the USS Midway on April 30, 1975. It says, “Can you move the Helicopter to the other side, I can land on your runway, I can fly 1 hour more, we have enough time to mouve. Please rescue me. Major Buang, […]<\/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":[247,1393,593,74,251],"tags":[895,1081,2513,2611,2612,2613,2614,2615,2616],"class_list":{"0":"post-8505","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-ruminations","7":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","8":"category-history-in-the-news","9":"category-music","10":"category-poetry-writing_cat","11":"tag-bob-dylan","12":"tag-david-foster-wallace","13":"tag-philip-levine","14":"tag-bailey-white","15":"tag-jane-piirto","16":"tag-david-dominguez","17":"tag-vietnam-war","18":"tag-letters-of-note","19":"tag-norah-jones","20":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-2db","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8505","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=8505"}],"version-history":[{"count":32,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8505\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8538,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8505\/revisions\/8538"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=8505"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=8505"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=8505"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}