Knowing what
Thou knowest not
Is in a sense
Omniscience.— Piet Hein,
poet and scientist (1905-1996)He who knows does not speak.
He who speaks does not know.–Lao-tzu, The Way of Lao-tzu
Chinese philosopher (604 BC – 531 BC)“He who thinks he knows does not know; he who knows he does not know knows.”
— Often Attributed to Joseph Campbell
Author Archives: Kyle Kimberlin
peaches
… But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. …
That’s from the poem “Why I Am Not A Painter,” by Frank O’Hara. One of those brilliant little poems that keeps making itself useful as metaphor in my life.
So I sat down and ate my peaches and watched the closing disc of bonus features in the Deadwood series. I ate my peaches without weeping, but I have not escaped the gnawing sensation of having been denied closure. (Incidentally, if you Google Deadwood Peaches, you’ll find that I didn’t make that up; canned peaches are indeed served on the show. In fact, one episode is titled “Unauthorized Cinnamon,” concerning someone’s ill-considered idea to add cinnamon to the peaches.)
In comments by Deadwood creator and lead writer David Milch I heard this:
“Any good poem, any good human being, and any good story spins against the way it drives.”
Huzzah! That’s absolutely right, Mr. Milch. We are dissonance seeking harmony, just as we are estrangement seeking atonement. And the ultimate fruition of life is death. Well, maybe I just went a little too far; it’s what we do while we’re alive that matters.
Speaking of things that matter and things that don’t, is anyone reading this blog? I’ve not had a comment since 12/22. My stats say 6 hits a day this week, but somehow the tracker has been counting my own visits when I proof posts, so maybe it’s zero. If you’re out there, could you Please Leave A Comment? Can I get just a smidgen of external validation? Sheesh.
imagine my disappointment
For the last few months, I’ve been slowly working my way – via Netflix – through the HBO cable TV series Deadwood. Once you get past some harsh language and a slathering of violence, it’s absolutely great. Shakespeare in the old west. It has the acting, directing and writing talent that makes a guy like me wish he had a career in TV. It has interesting characters, brilliant dialogue, engrossing sets and costumes. All the best you’d expect from a high budget movie, in 36 hours instead of 2. But I never got bored.
Imagine yourself caught up in a 400 page novel, only to find that someone has torn out the last 50 pages. Imagine that To Kill A Mockingbird fades to black as Jem and Scout leave the school. That’s what happened to me with this show. I came to the end of the third season, with all sorts of story still to be resolved, and discovered they simply stopped. HBO decided not to hire the actors for a fourth season, then they tried to get the creator to make half a fourth season, then there was talk of a couple of move-length things to finish the story. But they never got made.
You can read about the show here. Scroll to the bottom to read about its demise.
Now we literate people – whether writers or readers – know how it is. You get engrossed in a story, and relate to the characters. That’s what we ask of people when we create; we seek their attention, and imply a promise to deliver something for the time we’ve asked for that attention.
Of course most TV shows don’t make it. And even those that do eventually come to an end. So it goes with everything. But after three years, the network has asked for, and in this case definitely received, a great deal of viewer loyalty. Deadwood was enormously popular, by all accounts. At that point, cancellation of the show calls for something very simple: an ending. Resolution. A sense of closure. In other words, a Series Finale.
We’re never going to get that. No last chapter for this book, boys and girls. Any why? Because HBO didn’t wait to pay the actors more money for the increasing popularity of the show; an increase which the network undoubtedly demanded as prerequisite for the show’s survival: You guys make the show popular, you can keep doing it, unless it gets too popular, and you price yourself out of the budget, then we’ll cancel it. Aaargh!
This isn’t just a case of a commercial company deciding not to deliver a product. (They are free not to do so.) But to the extent that films and television speak for and inform our collective unconscious, it’s a case of what passes for art passing into the void.
I want my closure. All I have now is the last disc, with the third season bonus features, and a can of sliced peaches. See, one of the characters – Swearengen – used to serve canned peaches at town meetings. It was a funny and strange twist in the script. So I’ll eat my peaches and
the promises kept …
After the promises have been kept, and the miles have been traveled, and the miles have been traveled, and the little horse has been brushed and put to bed in the barn, do you ever wonder what becomes of the speaker in Frost’s poem the next morning?
I have. I do.
Maybe he gets up a little later than usual, and looks out at the snow, and wanders into the kitchen – scratching himself and yawning – and his wife makes him pancakes.
Hmm, definitely a promising ponderable.
Anyway, I can’t think of any promises I kept well or faithfully over the Christmas days. We single uncle types need to fight the feeling of being a little more old and in the way, from year to year. So it goes. But we’re home from our yuletide expedition to the deep woods, and I’m back at the desk, back to the blog.
So how should I presume?
Oh that Eliot, he always cracks me up.
But seriously, any reader suggestions on a good topic from the many possibilities of reading and writing?
and miles to go for a cup of joe
Here’s a recipe which serves me well on nights like this, which happens to be the longest night of the year.
Uncle Kyle’s Solstice Decaf Mocha, ala Cheapo.
First you make a small pot of decaf coffee.
Pour some coffee into a favorite Christmas coffee mug (example pictured).
Add 1 packet sweetener (optional).
Add 1 small squirt coffee creamer, preferably fat free (optional).
From the cupboard, produce one packet instant hot chocolate mix, preferably sugar free.
Add about a third to a half packet of the chocolate mix.
Note: If you’ve wandered off into impending Winter without some of this stuff, Heaven help you. And don’t use the whole packet; you’re making mocha, not pudding. Besides even the low cal stuff is 60 calories a pop.
Stir languidly but with pensive sincerity, while staring out the kitchen window at your Christmas lights – or at the back-splash, doesn’t matter – until bored.
Serve hot and sip while blogging insipidly into the abyss.
(click to enlarge)
Shot with my phone, so not a great picture. But yep, the flier in the background really says “Join Us for a Holiday Party at the Pool !!!” That’s from the homeowners association. Took place last Friday: Christmas party, outdoors, by the pool. At night. Kids watched Rudolph and his nose struggle against the vice grip of prejudice on our portable giant screen system. Don’t you wish you lived here? I do.
Anyway, there’s a pretty amazing moon out there, so it’s not the darkest evening. But while you’re enjoying a steaming mug of Uncle Kyle’s Solstice Mocha ala Cheapo, here’s a poem for the longest evening of the year.
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
– Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
football
I was just checking the weather report for my little town.
Weather for Carpinteria, CA 93013
53°F
Cloudy
Wind: E at 4 mph
Humidity: 93%
Wind: E at 4 mph
Humidity: 93%
Mon
62°F | 45°F
62°F | 45°F
Tue
62°F | 47°F
62°F | 47°F
Wed
58°F | 45°F
58°F | 45°F
Thu
64°F | 43°F
64°F | 43°F
If humidity is 93%, how come my skin feels like an old deflated football, out in the back corner of Grandpa’s tool shed, in the dust and cobwebs behind a rusted post hole digger and a lawn sprayer half full of 20 year old pesticide?
Hmm? I took a warm bath this evening in copious epsom salt, while perusing an issue of Poetry. That usually helps. The salt, not the poetry. And I’m using this lotion I absconded with, from a Red Lion Inn somewhere up the San Joaquin Valley last year. Well, those are complimentary right?
I need to drink more water maybe.
“He said war was too important to be left to the generals. When he said that, 50 years ago, he might have been right. But today, war is too important to be left to politicians. They have neither the time, the training, nor the inclination for strategic thought. I can no longer sit back and allow Communist infiltration, Communist indoctrination, Communist subversion and the international Communist conspiracy to sap and impurify all of our precious bodily fluids.”
— Gen. Jack D. Ripper
monday ponderable
Be regular and orderly in your life so that you may be violent and original in your work.
-Gustave Flaubert, novelist
Dan Fogelberg
Happy Birthday, Ludwig
Today is Beethoven’s Birthday. If he hadn’t died in 1827, he would be 237 years old today. Damn, that party would be a hoot!
I first became a fan of Beethoven’s tunes when I was eight years old and started taking piano lessons. In college, I made extra cash by giving piano lessons. I still have a piano, though I don’t play it often.
(Note the two busts of Beethoven.)
So in honor of Ludwig’s day, here’s the first movement of his 9th Symphony. Enjoy.
something I heard
on my iPod tonight:
We’ll dream as lovers under the stars —
of civilizations raging afar.
And the ragged dawn breaks on your battle scars.
— Jethro Tull, Velvet Green, 1977
Just a morsel for ponderment; let it lead you where it may.
delicious
it’s cold tonight
It’s weird. I’ve had the heat going in my study for a while, and it got pretty warm. My little digital thermometer said 71.3 degrees F, so I turned the heater off. Went into the kitchen, put on the kettle for tea, walked back to the study.
It’s cold in here. Thermometer says 71.1. Brrr.
If I ever had it, I’m losing it, aren’t I?
Metaphor 