Tuesday, September 09, 2008

Frequencies


The Song

The small, high wailing
that envelops us here,
distant, indistinct,

yet, too, immediate,
we take to be only
the utterances of loose fan

belts in the refrigerating
system, or the shocked hum
that issues from the darkness

of telephone receivers;
but it speaks to us
so deeply we think it

may well be the beseeching
of the stars, the shameless
weeping of coyotes

out on the Mohave
Please.
Please, stop listening

to this sound, which
is actually the terrible
keening of the ones

whose hearts have been broken
by lives spent in search
of its source,

by our lives of failure,
spent looking everywhere
for someone to say these words.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Poem by Denis Johnson
from The Incognito Lounge (1994)


The painting, Solar music, is by Remidios Varo Spanish surrealist (1908-1963) -- Oil on masonite --
Characters she painted have been described as: "These dream-like people, personified psychic fragments possessing purpose but not consciousness."

She died young, at 55, of "excessive tension" , a holistic diagnosis described as:
Tension on these (eyeball) muscles, called the Rectus muscles, creates a condition of farsightedness, and is experienced emotionally as tension in the consciousness, as coming out of one's Self, focusing on Image. It may be experienced as suppressed anger, or anger at one's self (guilt), or a feeling that in some way, the individual is not as important as other Beings.

I am not sure how this condition could do you in ?


Sunday, August 17, 2008

Over There







A road to the mountains over there . . .

Kept from the garden for being self -- once one, now each
off to seek a god

A place high above the ridges to see bright ice cut by sharp-black arete

Patterns shifting like stormy rain on quiet water

Fore to front, front to fore -- pulsing
Not words exactly but a message

Black to white, void to life, time and now

breathing

An easy koan



Thanks Polona for the wonderful
photograph

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Building the New

I wondered what was becoming of all the petrodollars we are so willingly contributing as we encase ourselves in two tons of steel and glass to pick up those consumer goods and move about. . . buildings in the desert!!
This is just one being built in Dubai (on the Persian Gulf) and has rotating floors each containing 12 modules (suites). There will be 80 floors, the top 10 of which will be villas with parking for your car on that floor; a retracting heliport exists in case you need to fly into your abode. The structure will be energy self sufficient with solar panels and wind turbines between floors to provide electric on a "third rail" system to each rotating floor. Efficient plumbing and electrical connections seem iffy to me but will no doubt be worked out during construction along with many other unforseen problems, I suspect.
Design is by David Fisher's Dynamic Architecture firm in Florence, Italy as he contributes to the city of Dubai known as the "playpen for architects" because of the extreme designs being offered by architects from around the world. Each room (suite) is constructed elsewhere as a finished module to be attached at the tower during assembly.
A better description: Is here


Wind turbines for power
(replacing a bearing will be fun!)












This looks like a module graphically being lifted into place.

















I would like to believe that great advances in medicine, agriculture, contributions to art literature and learning are in the offing but it is sparse finding so far!

Sunday, June 22, 2008

CounterPoint


A nasturtium flower (tropaeolum majus) First discovered in the jungles of Peru and Mexico.
Described as having showy edible flowers and pungent seeds




The Bridge at Nasiriya


For a pulsing moment
he cannot remember
whether he came from Georgia
or some place further inward,
a recruiting office,
Captain Tilly congratulating him,
painting murals inside his head,
promises of a noble heart to be saved
for heaven, a good spot there.

They rushed across the bridge like savages,
dark-skinned small enemies, wide-eyed
with fear or hate --
like a suicide bomber.
Captain Tilly hadn't told him
the sound a child makes when she dies,
broken, on a bridge, irrevocably,
like a small turtle, stepped on.

The little girl is maybe five,
in a gold and orange dress,
colors for something special,
for running at a soldier, for lying in a ditch,
a bit of her chest missing,
like his sister's lost earring,
like the missing lid of a coke bottle.
His gun has melted into his fingertips.

A dead girl in a bright dress...
He came here then to kill a child.
A girl rushing across the bridge
running from the sound of helicopters,
running the way danger slams through a paper wall
and he had never shot a bear,
even a rabbit, he who was
promised a proud heart to save for heaven,
and a good spot there.

An hour is made of a thousand crazy instances --
An instance has a life of its own,
tells epics until you fall asleep from boredom.

He had never shot a sick dog
or a rabid skunk
but the child had run toward him,
a crazy instance,
like the frantic urge to tear out his own heart,
slash open the child and give her his,
still beating.

He will not remember this,
will not tell his cousin Billy,
who told him to go kick ass --
He will not remember this,
will not tell his mother who has put up
yellow ribbons --
He will not remember this,
his crazy instant of terror
as a child ran at him.
He will not remember this,
the sound of a soul brushing across one arm.
He will not remember this,
that he, in God's ledger, is the victim.

He who never shot a rabbit
will not remember
which of them soared upward from life,
or
which of them stayed behind.





Words by Lisa Walsh Thomas


Poets against War



I came across this in seeking others' experience of this war.
My experience is limited by the lack of news and reportage of our national corporate media who have more mundane things to report.
I would suppose a soldier walking through a city of Iraq scared shitless that someone will appear out of nowhere to do him harm would be edgy and react to any fast movement. I know that I would be. This is an urban war; over 600,000 civilians killed, by some accounts now.

I just read that the Polish army (such as it was, part of the "Coalition of the Willing") camped on the site where the city of Babylon once stood, south of Baghdad, east of the Euphrates. At least three thousands of years of history trod upon by yet another conquering army. When will it ever end?