In his book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Pirsig explores
the question of quality. No doubt I’ll bring it up again in this space, Inshala. He says that Quality is the properties of something which make the observer aware of himself, or something to that effect. And since I just couldn’t go on to bed tonight, knowing that the image in the last post was the last one posted here – that it might stick hard in your consciousness of quality, I offer Rembrandt’s Apostle Paul.


Now tell me, doesn’t that visage make you more aware of yourself? Doesn’t the
world make more sense with this one hanging on a wall somewhere, than with the
other? There is a difference between art and crap.

I’ve been thinking a lot about drivel today. You know what I mean. I happen to believe that it’s valid for a society that encourages creative expression to also encourage the criticism of it. There should be a consciousness of quality.

When someone creates a beautiful or meaningful thing, we ought to applaud. And when somebody makes something ugly, we ought to say so. We ought to stand up and say, “That’s Crap!” If for no better reason than that the children should be taught there’s a difference.

Not all art is artful. Sometimes, it’s OK to send the artist back to the studio, to the writing desk, with a sympathetic admonition to take a class and try again.

Case in point: it’s time to say “That’s Crap!” to reality TV, in all its misbegotten incarnations. I refuse to watch anything fictional that doesn’t have a script evidently written, on purpose, by a writer. And all that Survivor and Fear Factor stuff is fictional, ladies and gents.

Moreover, we need to tell the truth. Lies and damned lies should not be manifest and tolerated in our media, and any media sources that lie for a living should be anathema.

Case in point: the other day, I happened to glance at the cover of the National Enquirer (I know, it’s too obvious an example) in the grocery store. On the cover was a photo, purportedly of Steve Irwin swimming inches above the giant stingray that took his life. Dramatic. Compelling. Problem: when the slobs faked up the photo, it didn’t occur to their tiny indehiscent minds that, as much as Steve undoubtedly loved his trademark khaki safari shirt, he wouldn’t wear it while scuba diving. He probably owned a wetsuit, don’t you think?

That’s crap!

We all know crap when we see it, but there used to be in this country a breed of insightful and literate persons who had the guts to call it when they saw it. Where are they? Where are the critics – excluding hypesters – of art and entertainment? The boot of political correctness has kicked them to the curb, and I say it’s time to get them back, and pay them well. The last bubbles of “American Culture” are circling the drain.

He wants to change the world
only because that is what art
does. He wants to stand
in a high place and draw it all
into himself;
all the mass and movement
of it, the music and time
and bleeding, surging life,
and let it sit quietly in a space
within him – near his lungs –
where it can breathe in and out
with him, bearing away the hours
and the small, animal sounds
of pain; and near his heart,
where it can find a new rhythm.
Something less a locomotive
than the sea.
And when it has rested
for the years it takes a tree
to stand and live and die,
he’ll take it out and set it
softly on a table in the sun.


© 2006 by Kyle Kimberlin
all rights reserved

Be kinder than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle.

“Margaret Atwood, the internationally acclaimed novelist, yesterday issued blunt advice to budding authors: don’t do it.

At a master-class at Glasgow University, the Booker winner, joked with an audience of creative writing students: ‘If I were your parent, I would say: ‘why are you doing it?’ You should go get a proper [job]’.'”

The Scotsman

Well that’s not exactly follow your bliss, is it? She may have a point of course, but really … how do you spell a raspberry, a Bronx cheer? ptbtbtbtbtbbbbbt.

Time: bin Laden ill, perhaps dead

John 14:6

I hope you got done what you needed to: a little sunbathing, maybe a nice cruise down the creek in your old inner tube. Did you get a couple of good sun-ripened tomatoes? I did. But I’ll miss the long days. And sleeping with a big old fan rustling the sheets on my bed all night. I sleep good that way. I got in some good walks in warm morning air, took some swims, went out in the evening to watch the jets go by.

I hear the summer is sending a vicious Santa Ana from the four corners, just to remember him by. Not good news for the firefighters on the Day Fire, and probably more ash for my little town.

But as much as I love the summer, with its long daze, Autumn is my favorite time of year. I welcome its contemplation, the slow turning to a quieter, interior landscape. Not necessarily as beautiful, but usually serene. Once we get past this daunting time of equal days and nights, that is. All this balance is too static for me, like something teetering there that shouldn’t be.

Anyhoo, the frost is on the pumpkin soon enough. I’ll try to hit the pool a few more times. It’s good for what ails ya, you know. And then, the long day’s journey into … aw, what do I know about it.

Here’s something scribbled in my journal today.

Sometimes reading poetry
I put the book aside and sigh.
My work will never be as good
and then I’ll die.

Happy equinox y’all!

I use Google Calendar now. I used Yahoo for many years, but – God bless their little hearts -they’re not keeping up. This is a screenshot from a reminder e-mail, such as I get for most of my personal events. I get a couple of these day, to keep me on schedule. (HOA is Homeowners Association.)

See the colorful Google logo? It was broken for a couple of days. Just a little red X, you know, meaning the link was broken to that embedded image. So I sent an e-mail to Google support, got a prompt response … and in the next reminder I received, it was fixed.

Somehow, that just surprised the heck out of me. I’ve reported broken stuff on the ‘net many times. But that Google would get my message – and those of others who undoubtedly reported it – and someone there would simply fix it, promptly, is strange. And it makes me feel hopeful for the seemingly inevitable de-evolution of our kind.

good goin’ google.