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| Red Manhattan by John Held Jr. |
E. B. White and Cat Power on the Literary Jukebox.
Showing posts with label literary jukebox. Show all posts
Showing posts with label literary jukebox. Show all posts
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Pass the potato salad at the Picnic of Chaos
It is almost banal to say so yet it needs to be stressed continually: all is creation, all is change, all is flux, all is metamorphosis.
Henry Miller in Of Art and the Future
Once again, Brain Pickings and Literary Jukebox boil it down to the bones. Flux, we keep meeting like this.
My dreaming last night/this morning was of an estate on a river. At first the river seemed slow and narrow but I walked with dream companions to other points where it was waterfalls, deep still pools and wide expanses with swift currents. I thought about rivers when I woke up. Water - flowing, changing, moving - and the closest I can come to a connection is that the river equals all of this, life as we live it out here in the world and inside, the universe(s) we contain and constant, continual metamorphosis.
I think at least some of our peace comes from letting go of the oars or tiller, acknowledging that we are of and with the flow of things much more vast than we. In looking over our shoulders to be certain that whatever we just left is still there, fixed and unchanging, we find instead that the water is too fast, the point is much too far behind us and even if we could see it, it would be different than we expect.
This is not information I grew up knowing or even imagining. Yet what I suspect is on a level of deeper awareness, this is not really news. I have tried for much of my life to nail everything down, each corner, all the sides. I've held the image of the picnic tablecloth spread on the ground, pegged down every two inches to keep any corner from lifting or the whole thing from taking flight. The combination of denial and wishful thinking that I constructed has been evaporating until now only the memory of it remains, along with the reasonably enjoyable Picnic of Chaos, not really all that bad once you admit it is what we have, it is all we have.
Once again, Brain Pickings and Literary Jukebox boil it down to the bones. Flux, we keep meeting like this.
My dreaming last night/this morning was of an estate on a river. At first the river seemed slow and narrow but I walked with dream companions to other points where it was waterfalls, deep still pools and wide expanses with swift currents. I thought about rivers when I woke up. Water - flowing, changing, moving - and the closest I can come to a connection is that the river equals all of this, life as we live it out here in the world and inside, the universe(s) we contain and constant, continual metamorphosis.
I think at least some of our peace comes from letting go of the oars or tiller, acknowledging that we are of and with the flow of things much more vast than we. In looking over our shoulders to be certain that whatever we just left is still there, fixed and unchanging, we find instead that the water is too fast, the point is much too far behind us and even if we could see it, it would be different than we expect.
This is not information I grew up knowing or even imagining. Yet what I suspect is on a level of deeper awareness, this is not really news. I have tried for much of my life to nail everything down, each corner, all the sides. I've held the image of the picnic tablecloth spread on the ground, pegged down every two inches to keep any corner from lifting or the whole thing from taking flight. The combination of denial and wishful thinking that I constructed has been evaporating until now only the memory of it remains, along with the reasonably enjoyable Picnic of Chaos, not really all that bad once you admit it is what we have, it is all we have.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Lynda Barry and fantasy
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| Art by Lynda Barry |
"There are certain children who are told they are too sensitive, and there are certain adults who believe sensitivity is a problem that can be fixed in the way that crooked teeth can be fixed and made straight. And when these two come together you get a fairytale, a kind of story with hopelessness in it.
"I believe there is something in these old stories that does what singing does to words. They have transformational capabilities, in the way melody can transform mood.
"They can’t transform your actual situation, but they can transform your experience of it. We don’t create a fantasy world to escape reality, we create it to be able to stay. I believe we have always done this, used images to stand and understand what otherwise would be intolerable."
Lynda Barry in WHAT IT IS
Well of course we create a fantasy world to be able to stay. I've said it here before and will surely say it again: Lynda Barry is one of the masters of the universe. Someday I need to make a comprehensive list.
A phrase came to me not long ago that describes why so many of the things on my imaginary list remain undone, why it may take me days to respond to email, why deadlines are unmet, all the whys of what would appear to be avoidance or neglect. I wander off. I leave this place and go somewhere else. Yes, I am lured by shiny things, or more accurately by beautiful things, optimistically resonant ideas, those elements which still and soothe and act as industrial strength Spackle for all the cracks and divots in ordinary life. Beauty may be used as a distraction but it has a strongly medicinal purpose, the tonic for what ails us. What a sweet job that would be, selling it by the bottle from the too-gaudy wagon drawn by a wearied horse, glad to stop for water and feed in another frontier town, hoping with horse-hope that a swift departure will not be necessary. Today let there be satisfied, paying customers.
Well of course we create a fantasy world to be able to stay. I've said it here before and will surely say it again: Lynda Barry is one of the masters of the universe. Someday I need to make a comprehensive list.
A phrase came to me not long ago that describes why so many of the things on my imaginary list remain undone, why it may take me days to respond to email, why deadlines are unmet, all the whys of what would appear to be avoidance or neglect. I wander off. I leave this place and go somewhere else. Yes, I am lured by shiny things, or more accurately by beautiful things, optimistically resonant ideas, those elements which still and soothe and act as industrial strength Spackle for all the cracks and divots in ordinary life. Beauty may be used as a distraction but it has a strongly medicinal purpose, the tonic for what ails us. What a sweet job that would be, selling it by the bottle from the too-gaudy wagon drawn by a wearied horse, glad to stop for water and feed in another frontier town, hoping with horse-hope that a swift departure will not be necessary. Today let there be satisfied, paying customers.
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