Mark Twain
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Pause
"The pause--that impressive silence, that eloquent silence, that geometrically progressive silence, which often achieves a desired effect where no combination of words, howesoever felicitous, could accomplish it. "
Friday, June 19, 2009
Great Poems
Alas, I am sick again. Sigh. Elevated liver titers and lots of pain. So, I was reading some poems and they really helped me feel better for some reason. So I thought I would share them.
The Guest House by Rumi
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
The Man Watching by Rainer Maria Rilke
I can tell by the way the trees beat, after
so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes
that a storm is coming,
and I hear the far off fields say things
I can't bear without a friend,
I can't love without a sister.
The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on
across the woods and across time,
and the world looks as if it it had no age:
and landscape, like a line in the psalm book,
is seriousness and weight and eternity.
What we fight is so small!
What struggles with us is so great!
If only we would let ourselves be dominated
as things do by some immense storm,
we would become strong too, and not need names.
When we win it's with small things,
and the triumph itself makes us small.
What is extraordinary and eternal
does not want to be bent by us.
I mean the angel, who appeared
to the wrestler in the Old Testament:
When the wrestler's sinews
grew long like metal strings,
he felt them under his fingers
like chords of deep music.
Whoever was beaten by the Angel,
(who often simply declined the fight),
went away proud and strengthened
and great from that harsh hand,
that kneaded him as if to change his shape.
Winning does not tempt that one.
This is how he grows: by being defeated,
decisively, by constantly greater beings.
The Guest House by Rumi
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
The Man Watching by Rainer Maria Rilke
I can tell by the way the trees beat, after
so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes
that a storm is coming,
and I hear the far off fields say things
I can't bear without a friend,
I can't love without a sister.
The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on
across the woods and across time,
and the world looks as if it it had no age:
and landscape, like a line in the psalm book,
is seriousness and weight and eternity.
What we fight is so small!
What struggles with us is so great!
If only we would let ourselves be dominated
as things do by some immense storm,
we would become strong too, and not need names.
When we win it's with small things,
and the triumph itself makes us small.
What is extraordinary and eternal
does not want to be bent by us.
I mean the angel, who appeared
to the wrestler in the Old Testament:
When the wrestler's sinews
grew long like metal strings,
he felt them under his fingers
like chords of deep music.
Whoever was beaten by the Angel,
(who often simply declined the fight),
went away proud and strengthened
and great from that harsh hand,
that kneaded him as if to change his shape.
Winning does not tempt that one.
This is how he grows: by being defeated,
decisively, by constantly greater beings.
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Rach Essay
My awesomely talented friends Lee and Tyler, a dynamic couple combining visual artist and pianist, are putting on a recital in August. Each piece will have a visual representation, a verbal representation, and then the audial representation. I was asked to write a short piece on Rachmaninoff's Rhapsody on the Theme of Paganini. It turned into quite a spiritual experience. I have been struggling with my health lately and this essay came as an answer during a brief break in the monsoon rains we have been having lately. Enjoy.
Listening to Rachmaninoff is like walking down a hall of mirrored doors. Each note is an opening to an emotion, one’s life caught in neatly staffed lines on a white page of manuscript. When the door is opened a tidal wave of the actual feeling, the love, the loss, the joy, the hope, the despair hits the listener before there is even a chance to breathe. The notes create a deep jungle of our own experience that must be traversed with a machete, a sense of humor, and plenty of snake bite remedy.
On the surface Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme from Paganini may seem to be
an ardent explosion of love, longing, and lust. A frenetic opus to the disquietude of romance it may well be.
But to me, when heard in the context of the complete movement, the rhapsody is less about romantic love, than the love of survival, of living life, of the heart pulsing in the chest and the throat and the wrist. Each breath, each beat, each pulse building the bittersweet fragility of life. It is the morning dawn soft and smudged across the dark memory of night. The glimpse of genius in a life that seems dull and spent.
The cry of a baby.
The blossoming of a rose.
It is the prayer of longing from one soul to another to be heard, and loved, for who one truly is and not what one seems to be.
The quieting of the inner voices.
The knowing of self.
The shaft of light through the darkening cloud, the sea of calm surrounded by the maelstrom of hurricane. The breathing point between one despairing disaster and the next reversal of life. A flickering candle in a livid tinged nightmare, the ease of somnolence after a sleepless night, the transparent, unbelievable moment of casting aside pain, rejuvenation after chronic illness.
Cliché? It may be, but the reason these are cliché images are because they are common, experienced by all. They will never be trite. As with all of Rachmaninoff’s music,though it holds a promise of respite, it also holds the reality of hardship. This most beloved variation of Paganini’s theme is so beautiful because it occurred to Rachmaninoff to turn the notes upside down on the staff, to invert normalcy and discover the unexpected beauty in a reversal. We wouldn't have the rhapsody if it weren't for a change, a break with what was wanted or expected. Each bright note is paired with darker notes. The dark underpinnings of life, the heartbreak, the hurt, the finality of death may be real, but the rhapsody encapsulates the eternal pulse of life, of breath, of hope.
Listening to Rachmaninoff is like walking down a hall of mirrored doors. Each note is an opening to an emotion, one’s life caught in neatly staffed lines on a white page of manuscript. When the door is opened a tidal wave of the actual feeling, the love, the loss, the joy, the hope, the despair hits the listener before there is even a chance to breathe. The notes create a deep jungle of our own experience that must be traversed with a machete, a sense of humor, and plenty of snake bite remedy.
On the surface Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme from Paganini may seem to be
an ardent explosion of love, longing, and lust. A frenetic opus to the disquietude of romance it may well be.
But to me, when heard in the context of the complete movement, the rhapsody is less about romantic love, than the love of survival, of living life, of the heart pulsing in the chest and the throat and the wrist. Each breath, each beat, each pulse building the bittersweet fragility of life. It is the morning dawn soft and smudged across the dark memory of night. The glimpse of genius in a life that seems dull and spent.
The cry of a baby.
The blossoming of a rose.
It is the prayer of longing from one soul to another to be heard, and loved, for who one truly is and not what one seems to be.
The quieting of the inner voices.
The knowing of self.
The shaft of light through the darkening cloud, the sea of calm surrounded by the maelstrom of hurricane. The breathing point between one despairing disaster and the next reversal of life. A flickering candle in a livid tinged nightmare, the ease of somnolence after a sleepless night, the transparent, unbelievable moment of casting aside pain, rejuvenation after chronic illness.
Cliché? It may be, but the reason these are cliché images are because they are common, experienced by all. They will never be trite. As with all of Rachmaninoff’s music,though it holds a promise of respite, it also holds the reality of hardship. This most beloved variation of Paganini’s theme is so beautiful because it occurred to Rachmaninoff to turn the notes upside down on the staff, to invert normalcy and discover the unexpected beauty in a reversal. We wouldn't have the rhapsody if it weren't for a change, a break with what was wanted or expected. Each bright note is paired with darker notes. The dark underpinnings of life, the heartbreak, the hurt, the finality of death may be real, but the rhapsody encapsulates the eternal pulse of life, of breath, of hope.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
The Beatles: One Artist Game
Using only the song titles of a SINGLE artist or band, answer the following questions. Avoid using the same title twice.
Your artist: The Beatles
Your are a(n) ______________man/woman: Girl
Describe yourself: Paperback Writer
Describe where you are currently living: Yellow Submarine
Your current thoughts on yourself: I Will
Your best friend(s) is/are: Polythene Pam, Dear Prudence, Martha My Dear, Michelle, Elenor Rigby, Julia
Describe the weather: Good Day, Sunshine
Your favorite time of the day: Golden Slumbers
If your life were a television series, it would be titled: In My Life
The best advice to give: All You Need is Love
If you could change your name, it would be: Hey Jude
Your favorite food is: Honey Pie
Thought of the day: Think for Yourself
How you would like to die: I'm so Tired
Your current spiritual state: I'll Follow the Sun
Your motto: Let It Be
Your artist: The Beatles
Your are a(n) ______________man/woman: Girl
Describe yourself: Paperback Writer
Describe where you are currently living: Yellow Submarine
Your current thoughts on yourself: I Will
Your best friend(s) is/are: Polythene Pam, Dear Prudence, Martha My Dear, Michelle, Elenor Rigby, Julia
Describe the weather: Good Day, Sunshine
Your favorite time of the day: Golden Slumbers
If your life were a television series, it would be titled: In My Life
The best advice to give: All You Need is Love
If you could change your name, it would be: Hey Jude
Your favorite food is: Honey Pie
Thought of the day: Think for Yourself
How you would like to die: I'm so Tired
Your current spiritual state: I'll Follow the Sun
Your motto: Let It Be
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