Row Row Row Your Boat
How bravely we rise to face each new day
As the golden sun chases black night away.
From one unknown into another without hesitation we leap -
Headlong into consciousness from the misty shores of sleep.
Awake, the world is just what it seems,
Solid and distant from the province of dreams.
But the dreamer knows behind closed eyes
What the waker, at angles, can only surmise:
Life, as the author of the old round wrote
Is a trip downstream in a tiny boat.
Richard Cody, 2002, 2014
Monday, May 27, 2002
Thursday, May 23, 2002
"Ask not what you can do for your country
what's your country been doing to you"
- from The American in Me by The Avengers -
Read this. . .
Thanks to Stavros the wonderchicken for the linkage.
what's your country been doing to you"
- from The American in Me by The Avengers -
Read this. . .
Thanks to Stavros the wonderchicken for the linkage.
Monday, May 20, 2002
Stop.
Feel the breath in your body.
Give thanks for what you have right now.
As Jim says:
"Well, I woke up this morning, I got myself a beer
The future's uncertain, the end is always near"
As for me, If I must enjoy a beverage that rhymes with near, I would prefer orange juice.
Feel the breath in your body.
Give thanks for what you have right now.
As Jim says:
"Well, I woke up this morning, I got myself a beer
The future's uncertain, the end is always near"
As for me, If I must enjoy a beverage that rhymes with near, I would prefer orange juice.
Friday, May 17, 2002
Below is my poem for the week ending 5/19/02. The title, Original Sin, was suggested by Sarah - it is appropriate if a bit more generic than I would like. The original title was going to be Adam's Complaint but, after a quick Google search I learned that Denise Levertov had already penned a poem with that title. Plagiarism is not the issue here as I conceived the title and the poem prior to learning about Ms. Levertov's piece. Still I felt compelled to change the title - despite the fact that anything I have ever written and subsequently stuck a title on likely has any number of identically titled pieces belonging to other authors all over the world and throughout time, all unknown to me.
In any case, as the poem is essentially a dialogue between Adam & Eve, I have left Adam's Complaint in the body of the piece itself to distinguish between the "speaking" parties.
Original Sin
Adam's Complaint:
Wasn't it enough to know
We were who we were?
Unadorned, unashamed,
Ignorant of sin
We walked with Yahweh in a world of green.
It was enough for me, at least,
To feel the sun on my skin
And to see the stars shining in the night sky.
Now I cannot see them burn
Without wondering how
And, worse yet, why.
I choked on the flesh of the fruit you plucked
And am choking still.
How could you make a friend of that worm -
He whom I curse and kill
A thousand times daily?
These garments chafe my skin.
My hands by toil are bruised sore.
Eve's Reply:
The fruit which catches in your throat
Is to me pure delight.
I can yet taste upon my lips
The sweetness of that first bite.
I have not had enough.
I want more.
As for the serpent you so revile,
He is innocent of any crime.
Bless his lost legs,
He was merely in the wrong place
At the wrong time.
Your tender hands, your troubled mind
Are no fault of his or mine.
The garden was a gilded prison,
The fruit in your throat the key -
Swallow it, dear boy,
and know what it means to be free.
Copyright (of course) Richard Cody, 2002
In any case, as the poem is essentially a dialogue between Adam & Eve, I have left Adam's Complaint in the body of the piece itself to distinguish between the "speaking" parties.
Original Sin
Adam's Complaint:
Wasn't it enough to know
We were who we were?
Unadorned, unashamed,
Ignorant of sin
We walked with Yahweh in a world of green.
It was enough for me, at least,
To feel the sun on my skin
And to see the stars shining in the night sky.
Now I cannot see them burn
Without wondering how
And, worse yet, why.
I choked on the flesh of the fruit you plucked
And am choking still.
How could you make a friend of that worm -
He whom I curse and kill
A thousand times daily?
These garments chafe my skin.
My hands by toil are bruised sore.
Eve's Reply:
The fruit which catches in your throat
Is to me pure delight.
I can yet taste upon my lips
The sweetness of that first bite.
I have not had enough.
I want more.
As for the serpent you so revile,
He is innocent of any crime.
Bless his lost legs,
He was merely in the wrong place
At the wrong time.
Your tender hands, your troubled mind
Are no fault of his or mine.
The garden was a gilded prison,
The fruit in your throat the key -
Swallow it, dear boy,
and know what it means to be free.
Copyright (of course) Richard Cody, 2002
Wednesday, May 15, 2002
Terra Incognita
There are vast realms of consciousness still undreamed of
vast ranges of experience, like the humming of unseen harps,
we know nothing of, within us.
Oh when man has escaped from the barbed-wire entanglement
of his own ideas and his own mechanical devices
there is a marvellous rich world of contact and sheer fluid
beauty
and fearless face-to-face awareness of now-naked life
and me, and you, and other men and women
and grapes, and ghouls, and ghosts and green moonlight
and ruddy-orange limbs stirring the limbo
of the unknown air, and eyes so soft
softer than the space between the stars,
and all things, and nothing, and being and not-being
alternately palpitant,
when at last we escape the barbed-wire enclosure
of Know Thyself, knowing we can never know,
we can but touch, and wonder, and ponder, and make our
effort
and dangle in a last fastidious fine delight
as the fuchsia does, dangling her reckless drop
of purple after so much putting forth
and slow mounting marvel of a little tree.
- D.H. Lawrence-
I have only recently discovered the writing of D.H. Lawrence. Until reading a collection of poems (edited by Kenneth Rexroth), Lawrence was nothing to me but a name with heavy literary baggage attached to it. It was a joy to find pieces like the one above shredding my ignorance and revealing to me a mind not unlike my own.
I don't know why I should be surprised to find in Lawrence a kindred spirit. We are both, after all, poets. Is it a stretch to assert that all poets, indeed all artists, share some measure of common ground beyond that shared by all human beings? I don't think so. The artist is a seeker, a peeker into the nature of things, a translator of the ineffable. As such, he/she is participating in something larger than themselves, entering a realm of creation which is the province of the Divine. We are all, of course, a part of the Divine, but we are not all participating.
"I worship Christ, I worship Jehovah, I worship Pan, I worship Aphrodite. But I do not worship hands nailed and running with blood upon a cross, nor licentiousness, nor lust. I want them all, all the gods. They are all God. But I must serve in real love. If I take my whole passionate, spiritual and physical love to a woman who in turn loves me, that is how I serve God. And my hymn and my game of joy is my work."
- D.H. Lawrence -
I hardly know where to begin with this 1912 quote. The rejection of the death image which Christianity has focused the Western world's eyes upon? The realization that all deities are mere aspects of one God? Or, perhaps, the assertion that to live life in love and joy is what Lawrence considers his work to be? Yes, this last, I think, is what I would like to focus on for a moment. This is a concept I have pondered before - the notion that any person who lives a conscious life is, in fact, an artist. This may (or may not) stretch our definition of art but it rings true to me that in fashioning a life of love one is participating fundamentally in the creative realm I mentioned above. Never mind his poetry and the hundreds of thousands of other words he spilled, Lawrence's real work was to love and be loved.
What greater work is there, after all?
There are vast realms of consciousness still undreamed of
vast ranges of experience, like the humming of unseen harps,
we know nothing of, within us.
Oh when man has escaped from the barbed-wire entanglement
of his own ideas and his own mechanical devices
there is a marvellous rich world of contact and sheer fluid
beauty
and fearless face-to-face awareness of now-naked life
and me, and you, and other men and women
and grapes, and ghouls, and ghosts and green moonlight
and ruddy-orange limbs stirring the limbo
of the unknown air, and eyes so soft
softer than the space between the stars,
and all things, and nothing, and being and not-being
alternately palpitant,
when at last we escape the barbed-wire enclosure
of Know Thyself, knowing we can never know,
we can but touch, and wonder, and ponder, and make our
effort
and dangle in a last fastidious fine delight
as the fuchsia does, dangling her reckless drop
of purple after so much putting forth
and slow mounting marvel of a little tree.
- D.H. Lawrence-
I have only recently discovered the writing of D.H. Lawrence. Until reading a collection of poems (edited by Kenneth Rexroth), Lawrence was nothing to me but a name with heavy literary baggage attached to it. It was a joy to find pieces like the one above shredding my ignorance and revealing to me a mind not unlike my own.
I don't know why I should be surprised to find in Lawrence a kindred spirit. We are both, after all, poets. Is it a stretch to assert that all poets, indeed all artists, share some measure of common ground beyond that shared by all human beings? I don't think so. The artist is a seeker, a peeker into the nature of things, a translator of the ineffable. As such, he/she is participating in something larger than themselves, entering a realm of creation which is the province of the Divine. We are all, of course, a part of the Divine, but we are not all participating.
"I worship Christ, I worship Jehovah, I worship Pan, I worship Aphrodite. But I do not worship hands nailed and running with blood upon a cross, nor licentiousness, nor lust. I want them all, all the gods. They are all God. But I must serve in real love. If I take my whole passionate, spiritual and physical love to a woman who in turn loves me, that is how I serve God. And my hymn and my game of joy is my work."
- D.H. Lawrence -
I hardly know where to begin with this 1912 quote. The rejection of the death image which Christianity has focused the Western world's eyes upon? The realization that all deities are mere aspects of one God? Or, perhaps, the assertion that to live life in love and joy is what Lawrence considers his work to be? Yes, this last, I think, is what I would like to focus on for a moment. This is a concept I have pondered before - the notion that any person who lives a conscious life is, in fact, an artist. This may (or may not) stretch our definition of art but it rings true to me that in fashioning a life of love one is participating fundamentally in the creative realm I mentioned above. Never mind his poetry and the hundreds of thousands of other words he spilled, Lawrence's real work was to love and be loved.
What greater work is there, after all?
Monday, May 13, 2002
Shake one time for me
I was just submitting the blog below when the earth moved. First quake since we've been back, rattled the glass in our new Ikea wall unit, moved the walls a bit or seemed to at least.
All too often, I think, we forget that The Earth is always turning, a living planet. Tectonic reminders put us face to foot with the fact that we are living on a dynamic world still in the process of forming itself.
I was just submitting the blog below when the earth moved. First quake since we've been back, rattled the glass in our new Ikea wall unit, moved the walls a bit or seemed to at least.
All too often, I think, we forget that The Earth is always turning, a living planet. Tectonic reminders put us face to foot with the fact that we are living on a dynamic world still in the process of forming itself.
". . .The hills, of course, were a paler shade in those days. . ." Aunt Maggie smiled a distant smile and rested her hands on the smooth veranda.
I gazed at her long nails and lost myself in the lines of her curved fingers. Those hands, I knew, had once been capable of marvelous things. I recalled from my youth the first time I heard about Maggie's hands. She had revived a litter of spaniel pups smothered blue by a jealous breeder simply by touching them, one after the other, with a single outstretched finger. According to father, the air sizzled where puppy and finger met. There were other stories, of course, and more dramatic, but this one lodges in my mind. I had never seen the magic myself and I wondered. . .
"Also," Maggie continued, "there were more trees. . ."
I followed her gaze to the hills that rolled away from us beyond the veranda. The sun was lowering and long shadows were stirring there.
"When the sun goes down" Maggie closed her eyes, "you can't see anything."
She brought her hands to her face, slowly, and in the gathering gloom I thought I saw a faint glimmer pulsing near her fingertips.
From my head to yours - a piece of a dream picked from the stream of my ever flowing mind.
I gazed at her long nails and lost myself in the lines of her curved fingers. Those hands, I knew, had once been capable of marvelous things. I recalled from my youth the first time I heard about Maggie's hands. She had revived a litter of spaniel pups smothered blue by a jealous breeder simply by touching them, one after the other, with a single outstretched finger. According to father, the air sizzled where puppy and finger met. There were other stories, of course, and more dramatic, but this one lodges in my mind. I had never seen the magic myself and I wondered. . .
"Also," Maggie continued, "there were more trees. . ."
I followed her gaze to the hills that rolled away from us beyond the veranda. The sun was lowering and long shadows were stirring there.
"When the sun goes down" Maggie closed her eyes, "you can't see anything."
She brought her hands to her face, slowly, and in the gathering gloom I thought I saw a faint glimmer pulsing near her fingertips.
From my head to yours - a piece of a dream picked from the stream of my ever flowing mind.
Wednesday, May 08, 2002
It seems "funny" at times how bloggers that I read regularly will post a blog about something that has been on my mind. I have recorded such an occurrence once in this space and it has happened on other occasions that I have not bothered to note. All of this synchronicity reminds me of Alan Moore's notions of Idea Space which I touched upon here.
This time around Anita has blogged on the subject of personal discipline, an idea which has not only been on my mind of late but one that has been realized (to some small extent) within my life in the last two weeks.
The discipline of which I speak is one of writing - not blog entries but poetry. I have set myself the task of penning at least one poem per week. This modest weekly goal has been set to keep the creative pump primed, so to speak, and to maintain my mental and spiritual health in general. I have discovered over the years that writing is excellent therapy for the mind and soul. The creative process is a link to the Divine and, so long as the creator does not let ego blind him/her (easier writ than done!), a path to the truest and most liberating insights. For all of this, however, I am a lazy bastard and simply do not write as much as I ought to. Hence my new found discipline.
Thus far I have been successful, making my first deadline with the short and (I hope) sweet note I posted to Louis Armstrong a few days back. My second success was the completion of the difficult poem some of you may recall reading about (which I may post here at some point when I can bear to look at it). Will I be capable of maintaining this discipline?
I can only say that I hope so.
This time around Anita has blogged on the subject of personal discipline, an idea which has not only been on my mind of late but one that has been realized (to some small extent) within my life in the last two weeks.
The discipline of which I speak is one of writing - not blog entries but poetry. I have set myself the task of penning at least one poem per week. This modest weekly goal has been set to keep the creative pump primed, so to speak, and to maintain my mental and spiritual health in general. I have discovered over the years that writing is excellent therapy for the mind and soul. The creative process is a link to the Divine and, so long as the creator does not let ego blind him/her (easier writ than done!), a path to the truest and most liberating insights. For all of this, however, I am a lazy bastard and simply do not write as much as I ought to. Hence my new found discipline.
Thus far I have been successful, making my first deadline with the short and (I hope) sweet note I posted to Louis Armstrong a few days back. My second success was the completion of the difficult poem some of you may recall reading about (which I may post here at some point when I can bear to look at it). Will I be capable of maintaining this discipline?
I can only say that I hope so.
Monday, May 06, 2002
. . .the only thing we have to fear is fear itself. . .
- Franklin Delano Roosevelt, 32nd President of the U.S -
. . . Especially when that fear is being used by our "elected" leaders to perpetuate war never ending
- Franklin Delano Roosevelt, 32nd President of the U.S -
. . . Especially when that fear is being used by our "elected" leaders to perpetuate war never ending
Sunday, May 05, 2002
There have been a number of animal rights issues blipping across my RADAR screen of late - issues that I feel bear not only mentioning but examination. Unfortunately, I am too tired at the moment to do anything but the former. I simply don't have the gumption to climb up on my soapbox and sell my notions about remote control rats, the question of legal rights for chimpanzees and other primates, or the apparent expansion of McDonald's animal welfare policy .
I have maintained a vegetarian diet ( I do ingest sea food and dairy products) for a few years now, motivated by the need to wash my hands of the degradation and disrespect perpetrated upon animals by the food industry, so you will perhaps believe me when I assure you that these issues are important to me.
Not really very important at all but slightly amusing is Bert's weird/bad art page . I linked to this site a while back from I know not where (a blog, perhaps? Was it yours?) and entered one of the caption contests. It seems my effort has been awarded first place. The prize, 15 seconds of fame, is appropriate and a logical extrapolation of Andy Warhol's 15 minute theory given the increasing speed with which time is passing these days. However, since the author of the winning captions is not credited it is really the winning caption itself that enjoys basking in the 15 second limelight and not the writer. Oh well, you will just have to take my word that the winning caption for this picture is mine.
Speaking of writing. . . I have finally finished that poem. I have no idea if anybody reading this is interested in the resolution of the two month struggle that this piece gave me but I proclaim it here for the universe to hear if nobody else: the poem has found it's form.
I will rest tonight without those same tiresome lines running through my head.
I have maintained a vegetarian diet ( I do ingest sea food and dairy products) for a few years now, motivated by the need to wash my hands of the degradation and disrespect perpetrated upon animals by the food industry, so you will perhaps believe me when I assure you that these issues are important to me.
Not really very important at all but slightly amusing is Bert's weird/bad art page . I linked to this site a while back from I know not where (a blog, perhaps? Was it yours?) and entered one of the caption contests. It seems my effort has been awarded first place. The prize, 15 seconds of fame, is appropriate and a logical extrapolation of Andy Warhol's 15 minute theory given the increasing speed with which time is passing these days. However, since the author of the winning captions is not credited it is really the winning caption itself that enjoys basking in the 15 second limelight and not the writer. Oh well, you will just have to take my word that the winning caption for this picture is mine.
Speaking of writing. . . I have finally finished that poem. I have no idea if anybody reading this is interested in the resolution of the two month struggle that this piece gave me but I proclaim it here for the universe to hear if nobody else: the poem has found it's form.
I will rest tonight without those same tiresome lines running through my head.
Monday, April 29, 2002
I am walking on office errands somewhere between The Embarcadero and The Financial District just a few minutes before these words are typed. My head is full, mulling over that same troublesome poem while simultaneously pondering a blog update when, passing through the cool shade beneath the AC Transit Bay Bridge overpass, I see a figure curled up on the asphalt in a tattered and stained sleeping bag, presumably sleeping there amid the pigeon droppings and unidentifiable puddles.
This is not an unusual sight for anybody who spends much time in San Francisco. "The Homeless" are a presence here and are often first page news . As just two words on your compter screen, "The Homeless" are rather an anonymous population. As a person huddled at your feet on the cold ground the homeless become very individual. Suddenly the struggling poem in my head and the working out of a blog seemed somehow irrelevant and necessary.
Newspaper piled high
in Winter doorways, alleys -
nests of the homeless.
One of my haiku inspired forms from a few years back (is haiku actually haiku if it is written in English? Tune in later for my opinion!) and, perhaps, an appropriate end to this.
This is not an unusual sight for anybody who spends much time in San Francisco. "The Homeless" are a presence here and are often first page news . As just two words on your compter screen, "The Homeless" are rather an anonymous population. As a person huddled at your feet on the cold ground the homeless become very individual. Suddenly the struggling poem in my head and the working out of a blog seemed somehow irrelevant and necessary.
Newspaper piled high
in Winter doorways, alleys -
nests of the homeless.
One of my haiku inspired forms from a few years back (is haiku actually haiku if it is written in English? Tune in later for my opinion!) and, perhaps, an appropriate end to this.
Wednesday, April 24, 2002
To: Louis Armstrong
You broke my heart
sad
sweet
song
West End Blues 1928
Your trumpet was made of gold
(while you played, at least)
I'll bet the shoes you wore
never touched the ground
while your lips
were on
the horn
1928 West End Blues
Louis, you broke my heart
40 years before I was born
From: Richard Cody , 2002
You broke my heart
sad
sweet
song
West End Blues 1928
Your trumpet was made of gold
(while you played, at least)
I'll bet the shoes you wore
never touched the ground
while your lips
were on
the horn
1928 West End Blues
Louis, you broke my heart
40 years before I was born
From: Richard Cody , 2002
Monday, April 22, 2002
The following appeared in my in-box late last night and I was unsure what to make of it until I turned this up with a Google search . At first I had no idea if it was a genuine offer, a piece of mutant spam, a simple hoax or a cunning scam.
Turns out it is all of the above.
Being unemployed, I was tempted for a moment by the lure of easy money. Fortunately, reason and a moral sense which forbids me to profit from the spoils of tyranny made that moment of temptation a very brief one.
Now, without further ado, Barrister Soulman Hassan will perform for you the great Nigerian Hustle:
Dear sir,
I am Barrister Soulman Hassan ( SAN ), Lawyer to Mrs. Maryam Abacha ( the Wife of Late
Military Head of States
General Sani Abacha) who died 1998 where in service. However, it is particularly important
to mention here that
before the death of her husband he was able to accumulate enough money through oil
proceeds during his tenure in
the office, it was discover after his death that he worth over US$4.5Billion (Four Billion, Five
Hundren Milion United
States Dollars). And some of this money were retrieved after his death while some was
recovered from the officials
that served under him during his reign as the President of Nigeria. Having said all this, there
was a twist in his
Wealth, The Present Government of Chief Olusegun Obansajo probe his Wealth, most of
his account where
frozen both Local and International.
My client has been able to Move US$45,000,000.00 through diplomatic means to a
Security Company in
Canada , marked as personal effect. Morealso, Bank to Bank transfer of the Fund can be
traced, hence the Money
was stamped with a security code so as to beat the security at the Airport and we do not
want what happen to her
late Husband's billion's of dollars to repeat itself.
My client is under house arrest, the eldest son Mohammed Abacha is in Prison and the
second son Abba Abacha is
under my custody and she is soliciting for a honest Foreign partner who will clear the funds
from the security
Company and invest part of the fund on any profitable venture.
Proposed Sharing Partern (%):
1. 70% for my client
2. 25% for you as a partner/fronting for us.
3. 5% for expenses that may be incurred by both parties during the cause of this
transacton.
Due to the present condition of my client. I shall be very grateful if you keep it confidential
and response as soon as
possible via email.
Do send your private phone number and private fax number , also the name you wish to
use as the beneficiary .
I urgently await your response.
Yours Faithfully,
Soulman Hassan ( SAN )
Turns out it is all of the above.
Being unemployed, I was tempted for a moment by the lure of easy money. Fortunately, reason and a moral sense which forbids me to profit from the spoils of tyranny made that moment of temptation a very brief one.
Now, without further ado, Barrister Soulman Hassan will perform for you the great Nigerian Hustle:
Dear sir,
I am Barrister Soulman Hassan ( SAN ), Lawyer to Mrs. Maryam Abacha ( the Wife of Late
Military Head of States
General Sani Abacha) who died 1998 where in service. However, it is particularly important
to mention here that
before the death of her husband he was able to accumulate enough money through oil
proceeds during his tenure in
the office, it was discover after his death that he worth over US$4.5Billion (Four Billion, Five
Hundren Milion United
States Dollars). And some of this money were retrieved after his death while some was
recovered from the officials
that served under him during his reign as the President of Nigeria. Having said all this, there
was a twist in his
Wealth, The Present Government of Chief Olusegun Obansajo probe his Wealth, most of
his account where
frozen both Local and International.
My client has been able to Move US$45,000,000.00 through diplomatic means to a
Security Company in
Canada , marked as personal effect. Morealso, Bank to Bank transfer of the Fund can be
traced, hence the Money
was stamped with a security code so as to beat the security at the Airport and we do not
want what happen to her
late Husband's billion's of dollars to repeat itself.
My client is under house arrest, the eldest son Mohammed Abacha is in Prison and the
second son Abba Abacha is
under my custody and she is soliciting for a honest Foreign partner who will clear the funds
from the security
Company and invest part of the fund on any profitable venture.
Proposed Sharing Partern (%):
1. 70% for my client
2. 25% for you as a partner/fronting for us.
3. 5% for expenses that may be incurred by both parties during the cause of this
transacton.
Due to the present condition of my client. I shall be very grateful if you keep it confidential
and response as soon as
possible via email.
Do send your private phone number and private fax number , also the name you wish to
use as the beneficiary .
I urgently await your response.
Yours Faithfully,
Soulman Hassan ( SAN )
Friday, April 19, 2002
It seems a trading card manufacturer in Florida is producing trading cards titled Heroes of the World Trade Center which will feature photos and biographical information about those who died in the tragedy of 9/11- or those whose families are willing to participate, at least.
According to the S. F. Chronicle article , "Some families believe the idea is tasteless and the commercial enterprise exploits a national tragedy".
True enough, perhaps, but I wonder if this particular enterprise is any more exploitive than the commodification of the American flag that occurred immediately after the twin towers tumbled, or the opportunistic zeal with which George W. latched on to the attack as a means to increase his popularity with a dubious public and to push his own political agenda forward.
Yes, indeed, I wonder. . .
According to the S. F. Chronicle article , "Some families believe the idea is tasteless and the commercial enterprise exploits a national tragedy".
True enough, perhaps, but I wonder if this particular enterprise is any more exploitive than the commodification of the American flag that occurred immediately after the twin towers tumbled, or the opportunistic zeal with which George W. latched on to the attack as a means to increase his popularity with a dubious public and to push his own political agenda forward.
Yes, indeed, I wonder. . .
Thursday, April 18, 2002
Trembling beneath the gaze of saints, Emily strained her pale blue eyes in an effort to reciprocate that Holy vision, that sacred sight. She had traveled long and far to arrive at this moment and now that it was upon her she found herself lacking, unable to meet the eyes of those who stood before her, haloed and emanating sheer white light. Squinting, she realized suddenly that her failure was not one of chastity - as she had feared it might be ever since that distant, torrid night in Sao Paulo - but one of endorsement. Her sanctity had not been validated by anybody but herself and Marco. He was dead now, swallowed by the insurrection which had indirectly liberated her from the thrall of the Texas papists, and she alone was not consensus enough to breech the much loved and hallowed ranks she had strived so diligently to join. Or was she? Did she really require anyone else to believe in her? As she had learned through one hard lesson after another, everything is relative. The faith she had in herself might be bright enough to outshine this saintly crowd and more if she could only find it.
Marco had been the one to find that spark in the middle of her darkness, the one to protect it and feed it with bits of his own tattered soul, to fan it until it was a righteous blaze simultaneously consuming and regenerating her heart. She felt that heat even now, rising from the center of herself, illumining her eyes, sending sparks from the tips of her fingers and the ends of her blonde hair. . .
- excerpt from the unwritten novel, The Transfiguration of Emily Clean, not written by Richard Cody in the year of someone's lord 2002 -
Marco had been the one to find that spark in the middle of her darkness, the one to protect it and feed it with bits of his own tattered soul, to fan it until it was a righteous blaze simultaneously consuming and regenerating her heart. She felt that heat even now, rising from the center of herself, illumining her eyes, sending sparks from the tips of her fingers and the ends of her blonde hair. . .
- excerpt from the unwritten novel, The Transfiguration of Emily Clean, not written by Richard Cody in the year of someone's lord 2002 -
Thursday, April 11, 2002
So we get back to California with a sense of joy and relief, unload, unpack and set up house only to have one of us head right back to Orlando. Yes, it's true, our second week home has actually been just my second week home as Sarah was required to return to Orlando for business meetings. She tells me she feels like someone trapped in a dream, thinking she is clear and free of danger only to find herself back in the black room with the shadowy man creeping closer and closer, only the dull white of file like teeth visible in the gloom. Actually, Orlando isn't that bad - more like a shadowy puppy, perhaps.
I have been working the last couple of days - temp work for my former employer in San Francisco (hereafter referred to as The City). I won't bore you or myself with the details. It is good, though, to have some income to keep up with the outgo.
With Sarah away I have amused myself the last two nights with videos rented from one of the many places we missed in Orlando - Reel, the real world incarnation of the on-line movie site.
The videos in question were Guy Maddin's, Careful
and Roman Polanski's, The Tenant
.
I am not going to offer up any movie reviews or opinions here save to say that both of these are movies worth a look if you like your cinema challenging, strange and/or surreal.
The reason I bring these videos to your attention is not to discourse upon their cinematic qualities but to muse a moment on the coincidence in which they participated. Actually the latest in a series of coincidences involving video rentals. A coincidence flap , if you will.
We usually leave the video shop with two or three videos minimum, typically selected at random. Recently it seems we are exhibiting a tendency to "randomly" select videos that upon viewing reveal a demonstrable connection in regards to plot, subject matter, cast or crew, as many as three videos sharing the same thread on one occasion. This has happened a number of times of late, five or six including this latest example.
I picked each of these videos from the cult shelf (organized alphabetically by title) and that was the only connection I could make between them prior to viewing. Now that I have seen them I can tell you that they share a plot element.
Careful takes place in the alpine village of Tolzbad, where towering mountains, dreamy white snow and the constant threat of avalanche have shaped a cautious way of life and made a dark virtue of silence.
The Tenant sees Roman Polanski as the timorous Trelkovsky inhabiting an apartment in Paris whose last tenant broke the window if not her lease when she threw herself through the glass to the concrete three floors below. As soon as he moves in circumstances and neighbors force him to adopt a hushed mode of life.
See the connection?
It may or may not seem like much depending on your views regarding coincidence and statistics.
I have been working the last couple of days - temp work for my former employer in San Francisco (hereafter referred to as The City). I won't bore you or myself with the details. It is good, though, to have some income to keep up with the outgo.
With Sarah away I have amused myself the last two nights with videos rented from one of the many places we missed in Orlando - Reel, the real world incarnation of the on-line movie site.
The videos in question were Guy Maddin's, Careful
and Roman Polanski's, The Tenant
.
I am not going to offer up any movie reviews or opinions here save to say that both of these are movies worth a look if you like your cinema challenging, strange and/or surreal.
The reason I bring these videos to your attention is not to discourse upon their cinematic qualities but to muse a moment on the coincidence in which they participated. Actually the latest in a series of coincidences involving video rentals. A coincidence flap , if you will.
We usually leave the video shop with two or three videos minimum, typically selected at random. Recently it seems we are exhibiting a tendency to "randomly" select videos that upon viewing reveal a demonstrable connection in regards to plot, subject matter, cast or crew, as many as three videos sharing the same thread on one occasion. This has happened a number of times of late, five or six including this latest example.
I picked each of these videos from the cult shelf (organized alphabetically by title) and that was the only connection I could make between them prior to viewing. Now that I have seen them I can tell you that they share a plot element.
Careful takes place in the alpine village of Tolzbad, where towering mountains, dreamy white snow and the constant threat of avalanche have shaped a cautious way of life and made a dark virtue of silence.
The Tenant sees Roman Polanski as the timorous Trelkovsky inhabiting an apartment in Paris whose last tenant broke the window if not her lease when she threw herself through the glass to the concrete three floors below. As soon as he moves in circumstances and neighbors force him to adopt a hushed mode of life.
See the connection?
It may or may not seem like much depending on your views regarding coincidence and statistics.
Wednesday, April 10, 2002
Monday, April 08, 2002
Seize it
This moment
could be the axis
around which the whole of your life is turning.
The beat of a heart, the blink of an eye,
the time it takes to complete a breath.
What is a moment?
Merriam-Webster states, among other things, that a moment is:
1 a : a minute portion or point of time : INSTANT b : a comparatively brief period of time
2 a : present time b : a time of excellence or conspicuousness
Accurate but lacking.
This moment is NOW .
A place outside of time, neither ticked nor tocked.
Present and accountable as HERE and NOW but lost even as it is realized.
This moment is momentous, perhaps.
More so than your first, or last, kiss?
Or the instant you knew, as a child,
that Death was in the world?
Maybe.
Possibly not.
There are occurrences of obvious consequence
which we pin to the maps of our lives (here
I learned the truth about Santa, here I learned to drive)
and there are moments like this,
passing unobserved (mainly) into a life in progress.
This moment
could be the axis
around which the whole of your life is turning.
The beat of a heart, the blink of an eye,
the time it takes to complete a breath.
What is a moment?
Merriam-Webster states, among other things, that a moment is:
1 a : a minute portion or point of time : INSTANT b : a comparatively brief period of time
2 a : present time
Accurate but lacking.
This moment is NOW .
A place outside of time, neither ticked nor tocked.
Present and accountable as HERE and NOW but lost even as it is realized.
This moment is momentous, perhaps.
More so than your first, or last, kiss?
Or the instant you knew, as a child,
that Death was in the world?
Maybe.
Possibly not.
There are occurrences of obvious consequence
which we pin to the maps of our lives (here
I learned the truth about Santa, here I learned to drive)
and there are moments like this,
passing unobserved (mainly) into a life in progress.
Friday, April 05, 2002
As the first week in our new home passes into personal history I find myself with an idle moment for reflection and musing in general.
This is the first real idle moment I have had for some time. Most of my moments from the entry below until now have been filled with the details of settling in to our new place. These details include the usual activities of any move - unpacking and setting up house (a small challenge as we have moved into a smaller space which requires careful planning and placement of furniture and objects for a harmonious home - fortunately, Sarah is a natural born Feng Shui master who has found just the right place for all our stuff, including our small library) and, most importantly at this point, looking for work.
Being unemployed is a condition that, while worrisome the longer it endures, has allowed me to absorb the atmosphere of our new home. The days spent inside seeking employment via the internet ( J. Boragine & Associates , BayAreaHelpWanted.com and Craigslist.org ) have given me the opportunity to soak the place up much quicker and sooner than would have been possible had I been rushing out to the old 9 to 5 from the moment we arrived.
Aside from establishing myself in a job it has not been a difficult transition from Orlando to Oakland. In fact, it hasn't been a transition at all, really. Even while we were in Orlando our hearts were here in California (as those of you who have been reading for a while know).
We rented the apartment I am typing these words from sight unseen (save a few digital photos), performing the necessary transactions via e-mail, fax and USPS. This entailed certain risks, of course, but we are pure of heart and have not been disappointed. In fact, just a day or so back it occurred to Sarah and myself more or less simultaneoulsy that this simple one bedroom space, in this 8 unit 1930's era apartment building near Lake Merrit and downtown Oakland feels comfortable and strangely familiar. It's almost as if we have walked between these walls, become acquainted with the creaky spots in the hardwood floors, turned the rumbling dyspeptic hot water tap in the bathroom and gazed at the buildings and greenery beyond our windows before. It feels like home.
The neighborhood around us is also quickly assimilating into the mythology of our lives:
The hum and buzz of traffic along Park Boulevard.
The faceless man across the street who is known to us only by the loud and painful coughing which punctuates the day. Already and, perhaps predictably, he has assumed the moniker of "The Coughing Man".
The grand old buildings from the 20's and 30's which loom above the busy thoroughfare of Park Blvd., many accessible only via steep and winding stairs which creep up from the cracked and uneven sidewalks.
The rainbow of black, white and Asian humanity which occupies those buildings and the small shops which litter the neighborhood.
The debris which lingers in the gutters between weekly street cleanings, consisting usually of empty Home Run Pie wrappers and scattered shreds of newspaper .
The Parkway Theater , bringing food, drink and first run, foreign and cult movies to hungry film goers.
All of these things and more are like scenes and players in a tale that has always been, a portion of our story that was put on hold while we dallied inexplicably in the margins of Orlando. Well, we have turned the page now and the narrative of our lives is resuming.
Read on. . .
This is the first real idle moment I have had for some time. Most of my moments from the entry below until now have been filled with the details of settling in to our new place. These details include the usual activities of any move - unpacking and setting up house (a small challenge as we have moved into a smaller space which requires careful planning and placement of furniture and objects for a harmonious home - fortunately, Sarah is a natural born Feng Shui master who has found just the right place for all our stuff, including our small library) and, most importantly at this point, looking for work.
Being unemployed is a condition that, while worrisome the longer it endures, has allowed me to absorb the atmosphere of our new home. The days spent inside seeking employment via the internet ( J. Boragine & Associates , BayAreaHelpWanted.com and Craigslist.org ) have given me the opportunity to soak the place up much quicker and sooner than would have been possible had I been rushing out to the old 9 to 5 from the moment we arrived.
Aside from establishing myself in a job it has not been a difficult transition from Orlando to Oakland. In fact, it hasn't been a transition at all, really. Even while we were in Orlando our hearts were here in California (as those of you who have been reading for a while know).
We rented the apartment I am typing these words from sight unseen (save a few digital photos), performing the necessary transactions via e-mail, fax and USPS. This entailed certain risks, of course, but we are pure of heart and have not been disappointed. In fact, just a day or so back it occurred to Sarah and myself more or less simultaneoulsy that this simple one bedroom space, in this 8 unit 1930's era apartment building near Lake Merrit and downtown Oakland feels comfortable and strangely familiar. It's almost as if we have walked between these walls, become acquainted with the creaky spots in the hardwood floors, turned the rumbling dyspeptic hot water tap in the bathroom and gazed at the buildings and greenery beyond our windows before. It feels like home.
The neighborhood around us is also quickly assimilating into the mythology of our lives:
The hum and buzz of traffic along Park Boulevard.
The faceless man across the street who is known to us only by the loud and painful coughing which punctuates the day. Already and, perhaps predictably, he has assumed the moniker of "The Coughing Man".
The grand old buildings from the 20's and 30's which loom above the busy thoroughfare of Park Blvd., many accessible only via steep and winding stairs which creep up from the cracked and uneven sidewalks.
The rainbow of black, white and Asian humanity which occupies those buildings and the small shops which litter the neighborhood.
The debris which lingers in the gutters between weekly street cleanings, consisting usually of empty Home Run Pie wrappers and scattered shreds of newspaper .
The Parkway Theater , bringing food, drink and first run, foreign and cult movies to hungry film goers.
All of these things and more are like scenes and players in a tale that has always been, a portion of our story that was put on hold while we dallied inexplicably in the margins of Orlando. Well, we have turned the page now and the narrative of our lives is resuming.
Read on. . .
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