Two Poems

For What Binds Us
by Jane Hirschfield

There are names for what binds us:
strong forces, weak forces.
Look around, you can see them:
the skin that forms in a half-empty cup,
nails rusting into the places they join,
joints dovetailed on their own weight.
The way things stay so solidly
wherever they've been set down -
and gravity, scientists say, is weak. 

And see how the flesh grows back
across a wound, with a great vehemence,
more strong
than the simple, untested surface before.
There's a name for it on horses,
when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh,

as all flesh 
is proud of its wounds, wears them
as honors given out after battle,
small triumphs pinned to the chest - 

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Scaffolding
by Seamus Heaney

Masons, when they start upon a building,
Are careful to test out the scaffolding;

Make sure that planks won't slip at busy points,
Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints.

And yet all this comes down when the job's done
Showing off walls of sure and solid stone. 

So if, my dear, there sometimes seem to be 
Old bridges breaking between you and me

Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall
Confident that we have built our wall. 

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- F

All Exclamations, Everything

Like the student protest posters Raise Hell! Not Costs! this discarded book's title grabbed my attention as well:

And not only the legs of a satyr, but "A Bacchus, a Satyr, a Minataur all in one."

- F

Failed Attempts at Flight

While walking back home from the train station late Monday night, I saw this little bugger attempting to take off from the grimy spit and gum-stained cement ground just a few feet from the bottom of the filthy escalator. The butterfly-moth was beautiful, white winged and black speckled, with a body that looked like a meaty cigarette or else some other kind of joint. I filmed as it flailed around, failing to do what it was born to. 

I kept photographing it and filming it and I captured a slow-motion video as well.

Like a heartbeat under enormous anxiety, the butterfly-moth pulsated its wings faster and faster, sadly to no avail. Finally giving up, or perhaps tired of its consciousness from being watched by me, the enormous human, it walked away, gorgeous wings heavy and useless, like a costume just for show. 

What happens when we're born with things that don't do what they are supposed to? What becomes of those defunct appendages of evolution rendered useless? 

Mostly I wonder if my bug friend wandered to its death. I hope it is able to feed and grow and live in its flightless wings, take shelter underneath and find another way. 

The fragile thing.

- F

Philosophy (final state)

This painting has been destroyed. 

In May 1945, the paintings are believed to have been destroyed as retreating German SS forces set fire to the castle to prevent it from falling into enemy hands. However, while the castle was gutted, there is no proof that the paintings were destroyed.^{[citation needed]} As far as is known, all that remains now are preparatory sketches and a few photographs.

"On the left a group of figures, the beginning of life, fruition, decay. On the right, the globe as mystery. Emerging below, a figure of light: knowledge."  - Gustav Klimt

Read more: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Klimt_University_of_Vienna_Ceiling_Paintings

- F

When Aesthetic Dominance Renders Us

At the moment, one of my projects includes "researching" (here meaning reading about and studying) Marc Chagall. One of my favorite works of art includes his America Windows at the Art Institute of Chicago. If you're ever there, make sure to go see them. Here's a picture I took of a detail of it in 2016 - but imagine, there are two more panels on either side, encompassing an entire wall, top to bottom, side to side:

I'll have a CPL blog post up regarding Chagall soon, which can be found at: https://www.chipublib.org/author/felicia-edens/

But I'm writing now because I wanted to share this with you: the transcript of a part of a talk he gave in May of 1963.

"An exceptionally sharp eye might see that a genuine color or texture automatically comprises every possible technique as well as a moral and philosophical content. Any moral crisis is a crisis of color, texture, blood and the elements, of speech, vibration, etc..."

Precisely. And so the point, I think, is this: when art renders us naked (not nude, but naked) then perhaps there is an opening out and a reach for, if not a total grasping of, authenticity. In and on this very rare occasion, I don't think, morally, there is anything wrong, bad, or evil with following, or seizing that moment in whatever way possible, going to its end, or in any case, not letting go. 

Perhaps needless to say: I cannot say goodbye to the manifestations of the self which are dominated aesthetically by a personality, a persona. I'll provide a link, a point of connection.  But more importantly, however, is that I know what true moral and philosophical content consists of (though I cannot say what I know). I know that it assumes a kind of nakedness (a nakedness not to be ashamed of), and I know it is worth fighting for. I know it is precisely when aesthetic dominance renders us.

Anyway, back to Chagall...

- F

P.S. I'm thinking of the Weaver from Perdido Street Station. 

'Cause I've got two, got two

What could've been sleazy, trashy, and cheap... isn't here. Instead it's classy, tasteful, and stylish. And the lyrics... they're really good. 

- F

A long time coming...

A long time coming...

for something, perhaps an event, not an occasion, but an event, that, for some, may never occur. 

(Are these actual thoughts I am having? Or just word play? In any case, I am glad for the time. To think, to write.)

- F

An English Honeymoon: Day 3 (Part II)

Where were we? We were passing St. Paul's Cathedral by happenstance on our way over to Shakespeare's Globe Theater. We had to cross the River Thames via the magnificent Millennium Bridge. We paused for a moment to look across the river towards Tower Bridge. It was a glorious day.

I saw the Tate Modern on my right and the distinctive Globe Theater to my left. There was no way we were going to the Tate on this trip.... but next time, I noted in my head, we have to go. Tourists and others surrounded us and at the end of the bridge there was a really annoying line of people waiting to take a picture with the bridge behind them, St. Paul's peak peeking up at the top. A mindless spectacle. We moved on. 

We entered the Globe Theater and signed up for two tour tickets with a specialized guide. While waiting, we hung out in an expansive room in the basement filled with theater stuff (costumes, a miniature stage, a gallery, masks, etc.) that made me nostalgic for a life that I've never really known. It was peaceful in there, with all the items strewn about waiting to be played with, embodied. Magic waiting to happen. 

We were called in for the tour and an Englishman in a nice brown and worn leather jacket began telling us the history of the theater very matter of factly, just serious enough, excited, but trying not to show it too much, something like that. I liked him. So did Dan. We found out that he was an theater actor there. 

What we learned: the actual Globe Theater of Shakespeare's Time no longer exists. There are several theories as to where it was built, and the people who built this one (urged by a man from Chicago who saw theaters such as this everywhere else but in England) placed it in the spot best known as where Shakespeare held his plays. The architecture is true to the original, thatched with no roof, circular, stage columns, gold paint inside, gallery, balcony, open space at the bottom for those to stand. The only thing different is that the outside would have all been painted one color (I think, white) but for the sake of aesthetics and giving people what "they wanted to see" (in the words of our tour guide), they kept the outside looking like this:

One interesting fact I found particularly funny was that because the place had no roof, Shakespeare had to find a way to let the audience know what time of day or night it was through dialogue. So that's why, our tour guide divulged to us, you'll see a character in his play say a bunch of time "It is night! It is night!", or "It is morning! It is morning!" or "It's really, really dark!" This made me laugh. I think this happens a lot in A Mid-Summer Night's Dream. I've read Othello, Romeo and Juliet, and A Midsummer Night's Dream, but I am in no way a Shakespeare afficionado. One day I hope to come close. 

Dan asked about heckling. It happened a lot, especially by the hands of the people who were standing at the bottom. Those were the people who came in without having to pay a lot of money. It's not like these people were necessarily the intellectual type, said our tour guide, these were people who wanted some entertainment and booze for cheap (I'm paraphrasing him). Many of them of illiterate (i.e. many of the audience members could not even read). But seeing a play by Shakespeare was a fun... and moving thing to do. 

Hmmm. What else? Quite honestly I drifted in and out of listening to our tour guide, and spent a lot of time daydreaming while he spoke. The space is enchanted I tell you! And once you walk into it, with the amazing smell of the wood and the echoes of voices and the sunlight and shadow playing everywhere, it's like stepping into another time in history and you can't help but let your imagination drift.

When we go back I'll make sure we go to see a performance. While we were there, the actors were practicing for performances of The Merry Wives of Windsor. I'd personally like to see A Midsummer Night's Dream. 

Our visit ended with a trip to the gift shop and then a little  restaurant where I ordered the best slice of Victoria Sponge Cake and the best black tea with milk I've ever had in my life.

More to come! 

- F

I Am The (Cleaning) Construct

Some of the most relatable moments of this book thus far have been descriptions of a faulty cleaning construct finally fixed by a repair man. Some excerpts:

Ha! Back to normal. Indeed.

- F

the splinterest difference...

the splinterest difference between 

aint that the truth 

and aint that the fucking truth

(someone wrote that once)

Current state of affairs:

always halfway between comrades and rivals

...

The question is, at least the question I'm interested in, is this:

Is there anything good?

- F