{"id":9500,"date":"2012-01-06T12:08:36","date_gmt":"2012-01-06T17:08:36","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=9500"},"modified":"2012-01-06T12:08:36","modified_gmt":"2012-01-06T17:08:36","slug":"its-right-in-front-of-you","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2012\/01\/its-right-in-front-of-you\/","title":{"rendered":"It’s Right in Front of You"},"content":{"rendered":"

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[Image: unretouched photograph of an anamorphically<\/a>-painted building interior, by French artist George Rousse; I found it\u00a0here<\/a>. As suggested at that site, be sure to see the video about Rousse’s “Durham (NC) project.” And while you’re at it, check out the similar but sometimes <\/em>entire\u00a0city-sized\u00a0work of Swiss artist\u00a0Felice Varini<\/a>. I couldn’t decide which artist’s work to feature here and finally flipped a coin.]<\/em><\/p>\n

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

Flaws<\/strong><\/p>\n

I had been worrying once again
\nabout sad lives<\/span>
\nand almost perfect art, Van Gogh,<\/p>\n

Kafka, so when that voice on the radio
\nsang about drinking<\/span>
\na toast to those who most survive<\/p>\n

the lives they’ve led, I drank that toast
\nin the prayerless<\/span>
\nsanctum of my room, I said it<\/p>\n

out loud in a hush. Then I thought
\nof Dr. Williams<\/span>
\nwho toward the end apologized<\/p>\n

to his wife for doing everything
\nhe had loved to do.<\/span>
\nHe was speaking of course to death,<\/p>\n

not to her, though death instructed him
\nhow valuable she was.<\/span>
\nI thought of a lamp the neighbor’s child<\/p>\n

had broken, then pieced back together
\nwith wires and glue.
\nAnd my friend, the good husband,<\/span><\/p>\n

kissing the scars his wife brought home
\nafter the mastectomy.<\/span>
\nI drank that toast again, though silently.<\/p>\n

The radio was playing something old
\nand bad<\/span>
\nI once thought was good.<\/p>\n

Flaws. Suddenly the act of trying
\nto say how it feels<\/span>
\nto live a life, to say it flawlessly,<\/p>\n

seemed more immense than ever. Then
\nI remembered<\/span>
\nthose Persian rug makers built them in,<\/p>\n

the flaws, because only Allah was perfect.
\nWhat arrogance to think<\/span>
\nthat otherwise they wouldn’t be there!<\/p>\n

I allowed myself to wonder
\nabout the ethics<\/span>
\nof repair, but just for a while.<\/p>\n

Sleep, too, was on my mind
\nand I knew<\/span>
\nthe difficulty that lay ahead:<\/p>\n

how hard I’d try when I couldn’t,
\nhow it would come<\/span>
\nif only I could find a way<\/p>\n

to enter and drift without concern
\nfor what it is.<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Stephen Dunn [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

…

source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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

The external world of physics has thus become a world of shadows. In removing our illusions we have removed the substance, for indeed we have seen that substance is one of the greatest of our illusions… In the world of physics we watch a shadowgraph performance of the drama of familiar life. The shadow of my elbow rests on the shadow table as the shadow ink flows over the shadow paper. It is all symbolic, and as a symbol the physicist leaves it. Then comes the alchemist Mind who transmutes the symbols. The sparsely spread nuclei of electric force become a tangible solid; their restless agitation becomes the warmth of summer; the octave of aethereal vibrations becomes a gorgeous rainbow. Nor does the alchemy stop here. In the transmuted world new significances arise which are scarcely to be traced in the world of symbols; so that it becomes a world of beauty and purpose — and, alas, suffering and evil.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Arthur Stanley Eddington, from The Nature of the Physical World<\/em>\u00a0[source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Shoulders<\/strong><\/p>\n

A man crosses the street in rain,
\nstepping gently, looking two times north and south,
\nbecause his son is asleep on his shoulder.<\/p>\n

No car must splash him.
\nNo car drive too near to his shadow.<\/p>\n

This man carries the world’s most sensitive cargo
\nbut he’s not marked.
\nNowhere does his jacket say FRAGILE,
\nHANDLE WITH CARE.<\/p>\n

His ear fills up with breathing.
\nHe hears the hum of a boy’s dream
\ndeep inside him.<\/p>\n

We’re not going to be able
\nto live in this world
\nif we’re not willing to do what he’s doing
\nwith one another.<\/p>\n

The road will only be wide.
\nThe rain will never stop falling.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Naomi Shihab Nye [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

In a three-minute stretch between commercials, or in seven hundred words, it is impossible to present unfamiliar thoughts or surprising conclusions with the argument and evidence required to afford them credibility. Regurgitation of welcome pieties faces no such problem.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Noam Chomsky [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

To R.D., March 4th 1988<\/strong><\/p>\n

You were my mentor. Without knowing it,
\nI outgrew the need for a mentor.
\nWithout knowing it, you resented that,
\nand attacked me. I bitterly resented
\nthe attack, and without knowing it
\nfreed myself to move forward
\nwithout a mentor. Love and long friendship
\ncorroded, shrank, and vanished from sight
\ninto some underlayer of being.
\nThe years rose and fell, rose and fell,
\nand the news of your death after years of illness
\nwas a fact without resonance for me,
\nI had lost you long before, and mourned you,
\nand put you away like a folded cloth
\nput away in a drawer. But today I woke
\nwhile it was dark, from a dream
\nthat brought you live into my life:
\nI was in church, near the Lady Chapel
\nat the head of the west aisle. Hearing a step
\nI turned: you were about to enter
\nthe row behind me, but our eyes met
\nand you smiled at me, your unfocussed eyes
\nfocussing in that smile to renew
\nall the reality our foolish pride extinguished.
\nYou moved past me then, and as you sat down
\nbeside me, I put a welcoming hand
\nover yours, and your hand was warm.
\nI had no need
\nfor a mentor, nor you to be one;
\nbut I was once more
\nyour chosen sister, and you
\nmy chosen brother.
\nWe heard strong harmonies rise and begin to fill
\nthe arching stone,
\nsounds that had risen here through centuries.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Denise Levertov [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

I’m not crazy about reality, but it’s still the only place to get a decent meal.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Groucho Marx [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

Finally… I actually had a musical selection to accompany this post. But after Jules<\/a> shared the video below with me, I just had to include it here:<\/p>\n