If we are going to survive these enervating days, we need to come to an understanding. We must give each other space to Be. We should stop demanding the use of each other’s minds to further our own questionable, possibly misbegotten, ends.
American culture in 2017 is scripted for television, in the worst possible sense. Viewer discretion is not only advised, it may be crucial to our hopes for sanity. Covfefe the Clown thinks he’s holding court in the Big Top, the Center Ring, but in reality we all have lives that are much more important to us, far closer, more pressing and urgent, day to day. 45 is just a sideshow barker surrounded by flying monkeys, screaching “Welcome to the Grand Illusion. Come on in and see what’s happening. Pay the price, get your tickets to the Show!”
Don’t fall for it. Your mind was made for better things. You have a truth to express and it’s entirely possible it exists in no other mind in the world. I mean you won’t find it in opinions, in the results of other people’s thinking. No one else can think what you can think. Find the freedom to think it.
Proposed First Rule of the Creative Life
Whenever someone is creating something where these was nothing, don’t interrupt.
Sub part A: Transpersonal expressions count, whether you believe it or not.
Sub part B: Making Nothing out of anything should be assessed with strictest scrutiny.
Metaphors be with you.
Listen to Styx, The Grand Illusion:
Poetry is above all a concentration of the power of language, which is the power of our ultimate relationship to everything in the universe.
– Adrienne Rich
Poetry is the art of saying the unsayable, that which can only be said in a kind of music, which can be said in no other way.
I have always felt, very strongly, that all art should be allowed to speak for itself. Maybe that’s most essentially true of poetry.
Res ipsa loquitur.
Our lives are a mystery to us. So much happens at the level of shadow and heartbeat, of spirit, breath and reflection.
If you ask a poet, “what does it mean?” you’re asking for the unspeakable to be spoken, for a song without music, for a kind of life demeaned and stripped of art. If it could be said the way you want it explained, it wouldn’t be poetry in the first place. You’re asking him to take that work out of its context and put it in yours.
Read it again. Read it at sunrise or in the bathtub. Read it while rain pounds on the house. Read it with one eye open or with a mouth full of feathers and wine. Read it over and over until it gets through to you. Or give up. Move on and try again when you’re older. When you can hear the clock more clearly ticking, maybe it’s time.
His art is eccentricity, his aim
How not to hit the mark he seems to aim at,
His passion how to avoid the obvious,
His technique how to vary the avoidance.
– Robert Francis
Sunday, late afternoon and early summer.
Cooking smells rise from the four directions
of time, past, future, now, and forever.
The small dog dozes in shadow, as do I.
The songbirds and a ring neck dove
in the jacaranda join the breeze
and the windchimes for a long quartet.
Adagio for a sabbath of forgotten prayers.
I don’t remember you very well anymore,
and that’s no fault of mine. I remained.
There are days when I am still, listening,
and I can hear the planet turn and sigh.
J. Kyle Kimberlin
“Have nothing in your homes that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.”
There are many things around me that claim their beauty from a still, small place on the arc of memory.