Landscrape

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On Thursday morning, the remnants of Tuesday night’s ice storm still gave things a bit of sparkle, here and there. Even so, it hardly resembled a typical January landscape. And with any landscape, picturesque typicality is what we look for, isn’t it? Recall that the word for landscape in Mandarin Chinese is composed of the characters for mountain and water: apropos if you happen to live in the mountains; not so apropos if you live in the plains. But in a traditional Chinese landscape painting, the mountains in the far distance curve upward toward the horizon to dwarf the human figures in the middle distance, suggesting the kind of vastness that one almost never experiences here in the East.

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Landscrape, I thought as I stalked along the ridgetop with camera and tripod, peering through the naked trees at the farm fields and rounded hills like a lab technician peering into a petri dish. Make a scraping, add it to some sort of fertile fundament, and grow a culture: isn’t that how it works? Landless peasants arrive with their axes, their seeds and their visions, and within a few decades, the pastoral landscape of Western Europe has taken over. The landscape-specific treaty formula, “as long as the grass grows and the waters run,” somehow gets lost in the transition. This is dairy country now.

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I’m still learning how to use the camera. Pictures taken with my old camera had no depth of field; background and foreground were always equally focused. With this one, I have yet to fully absorb the lesson that zooming in is not a substitute for cropping. If you want the landscape to be legible, you have to pull back – or as they say in football, go deep. Way deep. Let the foreground take care of itself.

Later, as I review the photos in my desktop monitor, I think of David Byrne in the musical mockumentary True Stories, sitting in an obviously stationary convertible and pretending to drive while the landscape scrolls past behind him. Well, that’s the reality, isn’t it? Even a landscape composed in the best Chinese style should probably have little automobiles in it to attract the eye. Nobody goes out walking anymore, except for dog owners and the odd photographer.

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Talk to a Bum

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Got answers? Diogenes has questions.

Image hosting by PhotobucketDear Diogenes,

Three months ago, I was a pathetic shell of a human being. Every evening around 8:30, as I sat exhausted in front of the television, I would be racked with hollow sobs as I contemplated the utter futility of my existence. Then one day a friend at work mentioned this wonderful, quirky group of people she had met online, and told me how much their virtual presence in her life made her look forward to getting out of bed each morning. She encouraged me to start my own weblog, and wow, am I ever glad I did! I had no idea how incredibly therapeutic it could be to share thoughts and feelings I never knew I had with friends I will never have to actually meet.

Hey, you should start your own blog! It would be so much more creative than just sitting there with a sign all day long. You could even put a little Paypal link in the sidebar and make some money.

Sign me –

Other Brother Darrell

Image hosting by PhotobucketYo, Bro,

Let me ask you something. If committing mind-farts to the ether and chattering all day long with other people doing the same thing was enough to lift you out of your sad state, how can you possibly think you had it so bad? Do you have any idea how many hundreds of millions of people around the world have to work fifteen-hour days and live in apalling conditions just to make enough money to feed their families? Do you ever think of the effect that your mindless consumer lifestyle has upon the rapidly hemorrhaging global support systems on which all life depends? It seems to me that you have not solved anything, but have simply avoided asking the tough questions. How do you know that the misgivings you are trying to bury under a flood of egocentric distraction were not, in fact, based in reality – that your life really isn’t an utter wasteland?

Diogenes

***

Image hosting by PhotobucketDear Diogenes,

I was a physical wreck: overweight, always tired, stressed out. Then one day I happened to catch an ad for Jazzercise and something clicked. I sent away for the tapes. I figured I had nothing to lose – if I wasn’t completely satisfied, I could simply return them in less than thirty days and I would owe nothing. Boy, am I glad I took that one small step – it put me on the road to self-recovery! I lost ten pounds right off the bat, and started craving healthier foods, too. I know it might sound counter-intuitive, but exercising more actually makes you feel a lot less tired! I’m full of energy now at work, too. And it’s not just a physical thing: I feel better about myself. The other day, my boss hinted that I might qualify for a promotion! Talk about a self-esteem boost! You should try getting some exercise, too.

Fit and Happy

Image hosting by PhotobucketDear Fit-happy,

Do you care nothing for the fate of your immortal soul? What manner of a thing is this “self” you claim to have recovered? Do you have a single shred of evidence to suggest that the “work” that so dominates your waking life has anything in common with the true Work for which your destiny was shaped in the womb of beginningless time?

Just askin’.

Diogenes

***

Image hosting by PhotobucketDear Diogenes,

O.K., I’ll admit it – I’m a whore. I have frequent, unprotected sex with crack dealers to feed my habit. I haven’t seen my child in three years, since the social workers came and put him in a foster home. He’s five, now – I’m sure he doesn’t even remember me. You’re out here on the street, too, I’m sure nothing shocks you anymore. I don’t know why I’m telling you this – I guess you seem dispassionate, and sort of wise somehow… though I gotta tell you, you could use a bath!

I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I feel terrible. Here I am just trying to use you the way I use everybody else – and the way they use me in return. But that’s how it is. Everyone’s a user. The only difference between me and the assholes running the show is, they started life with a bigger chunk of the pie. Oh, and they snort powder rather than smoking rock.

I just want to tell you how glad I am that you’re here. Sometimes when things get really bad, I think about killing myself, but then I remember how you sit out here, rain or shine, sleet, snow – whatever – offering yourself up for the derision of every passerby, but still somehow managing to hold your head high. Strange as it sounds, you’re an inspiration to me. I think you should find someone to look up to, too – everyone should have a hero. All we need is love!

Dolores

Image hosting by PhotobucketAy, Dolores!

Let’s maintain the pretense for a little longer: you are not a comic book character, and I am not a cartoon. Let’s ignore the fact that this city is filled with comic-book characters, very few of whom will ever learn to draw for themselves.

If you want a true hero – as opposed to an enabler – don’t you think you’re talking to exactly the wrong person? Shouldn’t your child be the one who inspires you? Are you prepared for the hard work and occasional heartbreak that real love entails? Or would you rather continue to wallow in the ecstasy-seeker’s empyrean of commitment-free sentimentality? Your call.

Diogenes

_________

If you have some good advice you’d like to share, drop us a line. Emails to bontasaurus (at) yahoo (dot) com with “Advice for the Bum” in the subject line will be forwarded to Diogenes for possible interrogation in future editions of this feature. Your identity and situations are reality-optional.

Wake

This entry is part 36 of 42 in the series Antiphony: Paul Zweig

 

I’ve been reading Paul Zweig, and responding to his poems with poems of my own. This is the twentieth poem in the third (“Eternity’s Woods”) section of Zweig’s Selected and Last Poems, followed by my response. See here for details on this experiment in responsive reading. I’ll remove Zweig’s poems after a week or two to prevent egregious copyright infringement.

Early Waking
by Paul Zweig

Again the ashen light,
A tiny spider swinging on its pendulum thread
Against the pane.
[…]

* * * *

Waking Up Dead

Lost the letter I in a card game
& wake up still a little drunk.
The sky looks like the proverbial world
of hurt, scarred by contrails that fade slowly,
much too slowly.
Laundry flaps on the line, & I can make out
every word: Red. Black.
Blue.
The dark wash.

But where is everybody?
This old light bulb is fresh out of ideas,
even bad ones.
This body wants to be thumbed through
like someone’s bedtime reading.
The kind with covers of broken-down leather,
dog-eared pages edged
in ineradicable gilt –
the sun through closed eyelids.

Jesus.
This would be a damn sight easier
if I still made sense.

Graduated

To my knowledge, I am the only person in the hundred-and-fifty-year history of Penn State ever to graduate without knowing it. That was back in 1987. I had just settled into a new sublet in the West End, and after four years of college, I was beginning to get comfortable with my career as a student. My older brother had been in college off and on for six years at that point, and showed no signs of imminent graduation.* We even had a class together – a senior seminar in comparative literature, which we were both majoring in. Things were going smoothly. My only concern was the looming deadline for dropping classes: I couldn’t decide which class to drop. None of them seemed really very strenuous.

One day about three weeks into the spring semester I stopped by my Dad’s office in the university library for some reason. “Guess what?” he said. “You graduated in December!”

“That’s impossible,” I said. “I still need at least three credits in comp lit and a bunch more baccalaureate degree requirements. There must be some mistake.” He dialed the number he’d written down on a little slip of paper. “My son says that’s impossible,” he said into the phone. “It’s the Bursar,” he told me. “He says he has your diploma right in front of him.”

This was already one revelation too many. It had never occurred to me that the Office of the Bursar might contain an actual individual called the Bursar. I had always vaguely assumed “bursar” must be some kind of abstract noun, or at best an omnipotent computer. Picture Maimonides being informed by the angel of death that God was, in fact, an old guy with a beard. It was very disillusioning. In Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary, the third definition of “graduate” is “to change gradually.” This was much too sudden.

Over the next couple of days, we pieced it together. It turned out I must’ve checked the wrong box when I sent in the tuition form in August, indicating a desire to graduate that semester. That, combined with the fact that I was nominally an honors student (despite never having taken an honors class, much less signaling any intention to write an honor’s thesis), had set in motion a bureaucratic machinery that proved unstoppable.

A compassionate administrator in the College of Liberal Arts had taken it upon himself to do some creative moving around of credits in order to make up for the missing requirements. Form letters had been sent regarding the December graduation ceremony, but I had pitched them out, assuming it was a slip-up. And of course, unbeknownst to me, a diploma had been generated. On the day I walked into my Dad’s office, he had called about a bill from the university that we had assumed must be erroneous, because it didn’t include the three-quarters tuition break available to all offspring of faculty members.

Dear old State! They were happy to keep processing our checks, but insisted that I must now pay full tuition, as a Continuing Education student. In the process of clearing up the confusion and canceling my classes, I actually got to meet the Bursar, which was pretty exciting, and involved passing through three sets of increasingly more imposing doors guarded by three successively less nervous-looking secretaries. I remember an affable, older gentlemen (no beard), who said he just wanted to meet me, since he was pretty sure this was an unprecedented occurrence. I don’t recall any other specifics of our brief conversation, but I do remember feeling pleased at the attention, and not at all embarrassed. Having satisfied himself that I really existed and that I was going to go quietly, the Bursar extracted my diploma from the bottom drawer of his desk and shook my hand.

It was a mile walk back into the center of campus on a cold afternoon in late January. I headed for the coffee shop in the basement of the Student Union building. I figured I might play video games for a while.
__________

*In fact, he would spend another couple of years as an undergraduate, and over a decade more as a graduate student. Lately he’s been making noises about going back for a law degree.

On the other hand

The wind had blown hard out of the east throughout the late-morning snow squall, plastering a half-inch of snow on the east side of every tree trunk. From the driveway at 1:00 p.m. the western ridge shone white, while all the woods on the other side appeared brown.

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I think of this the following morning, around 6:15. I’m coming down through the field after a long, rambling walk in the moonlight. The full moon is still well above the trees, but shadows are beginning to fade. The eastern sky has just begun to lighten beyond the spreading crown of an old white oak at the woods’ edge. I think to myself: a crow or two right now would be nice. But of course it’s too early for that – the owls are still out. Besides, the universe has better things to do than satisfy one man’s dilettantish craving for an aesthetic experience. Which makes me love it all the more, that it continually so confounds my expectations and challenges me to accept whatever happens. I think of all the creatures whose lives are hidden from me, except for the occasional glimpse or a rustle in the walls. I think of brief moments of joy and eternities of needless suffering. These thoughts pass through my mind on well-worn trails, much more quickly than it takes to tell it. Then comes their shadow: But what if it really isn’t like that at all?

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Conditioned by the love of order or an aesthetic impulse, our minds rarely make room for more than one source of light at a time. As I watch the eastern horizon grow slowly more distinct, enough stars remain visible overhead to remind me that, regardless of where the spark originally came from, every being shines for a while on its own. I look around at the weeds and tufts of grass, each with its shadow. But what if it really isn’t like this at all? And I feel the hair stand up on the back of my neck, a moving forest.

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Foreign matter

This entry is part 35 of 42 in the series Antiphony: Paul Zweig

 

I’ve been reading Paul Zweig, and responding to his poems with poems of my own. This is the nineteenth poem in the third (“Eternity’s Woods”) section of Zweig’s Selected and Last Poems, followed by my response. See here for details on this experiment in responsive reading. I’ll remove Zweig’s poems after a week or two to prevent egregious copyright infringement.

Wasps
by Paul Zweig

This morning I thumbed the spray-can,
And they stumbled from the rafters,
From the cheap rippled glass of the kitchen pane […]

* * * *

Vacuuming the beetles

Hundreds of ladybugs huddle together
in clumps in the corners where wall
& ceiling meet. I point the black tube
like a magic wand, a reverse rifle,
& the beetles disappear with the briefest of rattles
down the vacuum’s plastic throat.
This is nothing like hunting, no meditative wait,
no tense silence or rush of adrenaline.
Snuffing out these house invaders, I feel nothing.
I am alone with the sound of the cleaner,
which cancels out every competing thought.
If there were sound in space, a star
would howl like this when it collapsed into itself:
detritus from the ceiling, meet the detritus from the floor.
Bright clot of color, flame,
here’s a sackful of dust in which to gutter.
The acrid stench of alarm pheromones
grows stronger & stronger, & my stomach heaves
with sudden nausea, the body’s impulse to rid
itself of itself,
starting with the most recent foreign matter.

Above the Frey

In response to people who wonder why an anarchist would refuse to shoplift, I’m fond of saying that no one demonstrates greater subservience to the concept of private property than a thief. In fact, I agree with Proudhon that, in a certain sense, all property is theft – but never mind that now. I’m more interested in a parallel insight suggested by the James Frey case: that no one depends more upon the strict adherence to a literal concept of truth telling than a liar.

I know y’all are probably sick of hearing about Frey’s fiasco, but I want to call everyone’s attention to two excellent blog posts that together say just about everything that needs to be said about it. Siona writes from her perspective as a recovering addict:

I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt – his path was not mine, nor could mine possibly be anyone else’s – but the fact that he so virulently rejected AA and the 12-step program in favor of ‘will-power’ seemed a little unbelievable to me. No one recovers alone, and it’s irresponsible and cruel to tell other addicts that it’s merely a lack of will-power that’s destroying them. It’s not will-power that saves, but love, and this seems so sadly absent from both Frey’s book and his situation now. It might be true that not every addict ‘finds God,’ but every addict does and must surrender to something greater than his or her own ego. Frey never does.

Patry Francis tackles the issue from the perspective of a soon-to-be-published novelist. In a masterful post entitled Why I Write Fiction, she says, in part:

For the same reason that no one would watch a show about a bunch of college kids sitting around in their underwear whining or twenty-five women competing for a limp rose on THE BACHELOR if they thought (knew?) it was scripted, no one would have been willing to hold Frey’s hand through 438 pages of vomit and bathos and teary redemption if they didn’t believe it really happened.

As a fiction writer, I’m rather proud that a book with no claims to factual accuracy is held to a higher standard. If it’s not “true,” then it damn well better be well written – and believable. Kind of ironic, isn’t it?

But in another way, I think that this new hunger for an ever more elusive “truth” insults fiction. Surely, many people who are flocking to memoirs and reality TV are missing the essential secret about fiction. It’s truer than the truth.

Shakespeare may never have been a king, but he taught us more about power and betrayal than any memoirist ever could have. Why? Because he knew more than the narrow facts of his life allowed. More than most kings or scheming underlings or thwarted lovers who ever lived.

*

On an unrelated note, be sure to check out the second edition of the fledgling Progressive Faith Bloggers Carnival. The first edition of this projected weekly carnival – which I gather will shortly have a home base and rotating hosts – was here. (I guess it’s a mark of just how open-minded they are that they can make room for a “religious agnostic” like me!)

The enlightenment

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Where does power come from? According to the traditional belief-system of the Piaroa, a largely nonviolent, egalitarian people of the upper Orinoco basin in Venezuela, it could come either from the sun or the moon. But the power granted by the sun was destructive and poisonous, and had to be carefully controlled. The unrestrained life of the senses led to arrogance, competition, greed, violence, madness and tyranny. Only the moon could grant the healing power wielded by sages (ruwang) and implicated in the ideal life of the mind. “It was the clear yet moderate light of the moon, in contrast to the strong light of the sun, that was described as ‘the precious light of wizardry,'” writes anthropologist Joanna Overing (“The Aesthetics of Production: The Sense of Community Among the Cubeo and Piaroa,” Dialectical Anthropology 14:3, 159-174, 1989).

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The light of the moon, its clear, fresh light without color, was the light of the words of the ruwang‘s life-giving and life-protective powers, or his productive capabilities. The moon-lit water within the crystal boxes of song and wizardry owned by the gods was clean, clear and fresh, and it was with this water that the ruwang each night cleansed and beautified the words of his chants. All of the contents of the crystal boxes of the gods remained beautiful because these ethereal beings, through a pure “life of thoughts” (ta’kwaru), continually cleansed their powers…. Beauty (a’kwakwa), thoughts (ta’kwaru) and the products of work (a’kwa) were linguistically linked….

[A]ll productive powers were potentially evil in use. The creator god of these productive forces during mythic time was physically ugly, mad, evil and foolish in action. The source of his capabilities to use and transform resources of the earth – to garden, to hunt, to cook – were the poisonous hallucinogens given to him by the supreme deity under the earth. He also used the poisonous powers of the sun to increase the force of his capabilities. The tremendous powers he created constantly poisoned his desires (his “life of the senses”)…

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Mythic time was a time of rapid technological development, when the means for using the earth’s resources were created, and because of the poison of the forces that allowed for this creation, it was also a period that increasingly became characterized by the violent competition over the ownership of the new technology and the resources which it made use of. While at first the gods were more or less peacefully able to acquire such resources and the forces for productive activity through marriage and exchange, these forces became too multiple and strong for the gods to master… and slowly they poisoned the wills and desires of those who received them. As time went on, the characteristics of greed, arrogance, anger and lust made impossible the maintenance of peaceful community and intercommunity relationships. All of the creator gods began to steal and then murder for access and ownership of ever more powerful forces for transforming the resources of the earth; and then they began to murder and cannibalize for the ownership and the control of the domains themselves. All relationships developed into those of predator and prey, and… peaceful community life became impossible. This creative period of history ended when all transformational forces for production were thrown out of this world into a new and stable home in celestial space: these powers are those that are housed today in the safety of the crystal boxes of the present-day gods described above.

It is highly significant that the ethereal, celestial gods who today own these productive forces have no “life of the senses” to be so poisoned.

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For more on the Piaroa, including another paper by Dr. Overing, see here.

Color-blind

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Primates are rare among mammals in being able to see in color, as birds do. I guess it has something to do with living in trees. It’s too bad we can’t see ultraviolet light, as birds and insects do, or polarization-like patterns caused by the earth’s magnetic field, as some migratory birds apparently can.

On the other hand, having a relatively narrow range of perception can aid the hunter to find his prey. Ethnobotanist Gary Nabhan, who is red-green color-blind, has written (in Cross-Pollinations: The Marriage of Science and Poetry) about how his “handicap” gives folks like him a competitive advantage in some situations, for example in detecting the presence of otherwise well-camouflaged objects.

He actually tested this theory once in a search for night-blooming cereus, a cactus native to the Sonoran Desert that often grows intermingled with ironwood and creosote bush, and is therefore very hard to locate. He assembled two teams to search adjacent knolls, the first made up entirely of color-blind botanists, the second of color-normal botanists. After two hours, the first team had found over five times as many cacti as the second. Subsequent searching of both knolls by everybody together showed that they harbored roughly equal numbers of the cactus. During World War II, Nabhan notes, some color-normal fighter pilots relied upon color-blind co-pilots to spot antiaircraft guns hidden in forest vegetation below. He wonders

if those ancient human populations that remained heterogeneous in their color perception had greater chances of survival than their neighbors. Were they better able to spot cryptically colored poisonous snakes? Could they more quickly detect warriors whose faces and bodies were mottled with muds and vegetable dyes as part of a sit-and-wait-then-strike ambush strategy?

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Some people claim to dream in black and white. Do they? According to one online source,

researchers agree that most dreams are in color. However, because the dream fades so quickly after we awake, our memories of the dream are often recalled in gray tones. Studies show that those who are in tune with color in waking life tend to remember more color in dreams as well. I have also noticed that those of us who grew up with black & white TV have more black and white dreams. I haven’t properly researched this yet, it’s just an observation.

When I was a kid, I heard someone talking about black & white vs color dreams. I felt bad because I recalled most of my dreams in b & w. That night I dreamt of thousands of iridescent lizards running along by my room. I was really delighted and tried to collect as many a possible, commenting the whole time about the color. This dream indicates satisfactorily to me that there is color *in* the dream and it’s not just added afterwards.

“In the United States, the rise and fall of the opinion that we dream in black and white coincided with the rise and fall of black and white film media over the course of the twentieth century,” states the abstract from a cross-cultural study of beliefs about dreaming.

The world seen by moonlight is overwhelmingly black and white, so there’s a certain poetic appeal to the suggestion that our dreams might be equally drained of color. But night belongs to the true hunters. We are daylight creatures, scavengers uniquely suited by our strange, upright manner of walking to go about in the heat of the day when our ancient predatory enemies were sleeping, or sheltering in a cave or dense patch of shade to shield their eyes from the inhospitable glare of noon.

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For some really fine black-and-white photography, accompanied by highly evocative prose and poetry, be sure to visit Teju Cole’s one-month Nigerian travel blog, due to disappear at the end of January. His latest post, about visiting the National Museum in Lagos, is especially searing.

Stone-blue winter

This entry is part 34 of 42 in the series Antiphony: Paul Zweig

 

I’ve been reading Paul Zweig, and responding to his poems with poems of my own. This is the eighteenth poem in the third (“Eternity’s Woods”) section of Zweig’s Selected and Last Poems, followed by my response. See here for details on this experiment in responsive reading. I’ll remove Zweig’s poems after a week or two to prevent egregious copyright infringement.

I’ve had a difficult time resuming this exercise in the New Year, and not for lack of trying. In fact, several of my most successful posts began as responses to this poem, but quickly turned into something else.

The Question
by Paul Zweig

Stone-blue winter;
The upswept brush of winter oak
Vibrates in the wind, expectant, bridelike.

Who am I?
An insect, startled, still sleeping
By the fire.

A bird clings to the telephone wire
Behind the house; an exultant questioning
Booms at its feet. When we die,
We hug the living to us as we never did;
We notice their creased skin, their quick eyes
That slide away, seeing more than they intended.

Who is that moving beside you,
So at ease, so colorless?
What can that dark flutter
Of his say to you, his voice thinned
To pass death’s membrane?

* * * *

Axe

Sein Sinn ist Zwiesplat. An der Kreuzung zweier
Herzwege steht kein Tempel für Apoll.

Rilke

It was late. The lamplight gelled around you
like pine sap thickening into amber.
You were forgetting how to read, losing words
in the exact reverse order of how you learned them decades before,
until the book open on your lap seemed
as blankly comforting as a glass of milk.

Death had come, but not for the reasons usually alleged.
He found himself enchanted by your bones,
which were light as piccolos, & your skull’s smile
faintly visible under the skin
like a subliminal advertisement for eternal spring.
The clock stopped in mid-tick.
Your eyes took on a faraway look.

Was I supposed to run after you? I was tired.
My trademark guitar had long since gone electric –
an axe, as they say.
The kind with back-to-back blades:
one for the kindling, one for the icy air.