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Into the storm winds

Sunday, August 21st, 2016

[ by Charles Cameron — Peter Thiel, Rainer Maria Rilke, and the importance of unheard voices ]
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Noting Peter Thiel‘s comment below, I was reminded of the opening of Rilke‘s Duino Elegies — Himalayas of the human spirit.

SPEC DQ Thiel Rilke

**

Stephen Mitchell‘s version of the Elegies is the one I like best, and lends itself well to the speaking voice. Mitchell’s opening lines read thus:

Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels’ hierarchies?
and even if one of them pressed me suddenly against his heart:
I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we are still just able to endure,
and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Every angel is terrifying.

**

My own version, which I’ve placed in the lower panel of the DoubleQuote above, alludes to Rilke’s storm-driven physical environment at the time the beginning of the poem came to him at Schloss Buino. In the words of Princess Marie von Thurn und Taxis:

Rilke climbed down to the bastions which, jutting to the east and west, were connected to the foot of the castle by a narrow path along the cliffs. These cliffs fall steeply, for about two hundred feet, into the sea. Rilke paced back and forth, deep in thought, since the reply to the letter so concerned him. Then, all at once, in the midst of his brooding, he halted suddenly, for it seemed to him that in the raging of the storm a voice bad called to him: “Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angelic orders?” (Wer, wenn ich schriee, hörte mich denn aus der Engel Ordnungen?)… He took out his notebook, which he always carried with him, and wrote down these words, together with a few lines that formed themselves without his intervention … Very calmly he climbed back up to his room, set his notebook aside, and replied to the difficult letter. By that evening the entire elegy had been written down.

In that instant, as I understand the matter, Rilke shouts into the wind, into the heedless world, into the angelic immensity..

**

Whether it’s a still small voice that goes unheard, a voice hurled into the tumultuous storm, heedless void, or transcomprehensible angelic choirs, or a voice crying from desert or wilderness, it is always the unattended, the unlistened voice which carries the note unnoticed — the truth we’d find in the blindspot if we took it for a mirror, the seed and germination of those so-often catastrophic unanticipated consequences that trend-based analysis and front-view vision so regularly miss.

Triangulation: Hoboken, Ramesses II, Ozymandias

Thursday, August 11th, 2016

[ by Charles Cameron — from sand he came, to sand he shall return ]
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The two images below — the upper image from Wm Benzon‘s New Savanna blog today, the lower from Wikipedia‘s article on Ramesses II

Tablet DQ 600 Ozymandias

— between them evoke Percy Bysshe Shelley‘s celebrated poem Ozymandias.

I was going to call Shelley’s poem “longstanding” — but given the erosion to which both images and the poem itself testify, it seems plausible that Shelley’s poem — like Shelley himself — may soon be dust.

**

Mark you, if I were DoubleQuoting the poem, I’d do it thus:

Tablet DQ 600 Ozymandias 02

More details fit — the shattered visage, the trunkless legs of stone — but the image is by the same token further from Benzon’s photo, my starting point for this now quadrangular voyage.

**

Sources:

  • Wikipedia, Pi-Ramesses
  • Wm Benzon, Here stood a pillar of the community

  • PB Shelley, Ozymandias
  • Dave Foreman, The Anthropocene and Ozymandias
  • To be exact, the lower image in the second DoubleQuote came from the DeskTop Nexus site, but a version of Foreman’s article is where I found it, and I tracked it to Foreman’s original pamphlet from there.

    On the topology of dreams

    Saturday, August 6th, 2016

    [ by Charles Cameron — a poem that’s far too philosophical to work as poetry, Laramée’s Apparatus, and Alyce Santoro’s philosoprops ]
    .

    The logic of poetry is, más o menos, dream logic, and so I’ve been pondering the logic of dreams and recently wrote this not terribly poetic poem:

    The egg at the conjuror’s table

    There is a topology of dreams.
    Out beyond Riemann and names I have yet to learn,
    there are configurations of space:
    past Boole, dreams have their logics.

    *

    Take an egg.
    With a tap of the wand, crack it open,
    let it fall apart so precisely
    the two half-shells could again fit together,
    ovoid, seamlessly,
    almost an egg.
    Catch white and yolk in a glass.
    Toss up and catch the half shell in your left hand
    holding the right steady,
    bring them together, there’s a fit,
    a logic to it, a topology, one
    to one, across many thousands of facets
    of fragile, broken shell.
    Break another egg so preciely
    the left half of ts shell would match exactly
    the right half of the first,
    bring them together,
    the fit is exact by definition,
    brown shell with speckled,
    but there is loss of logic, the thing is surreal,
    an egg not an egg at all.
    Holding the half-shell in your right hand
    face upwards, pour into it
    yolk and white of the same egg,
    the heart of the egg filling its own shell,
    the fit ovoid, but better:
    the original yolk united with its familiar shell.
    Cover shell and all with a handkerchief,
    red, green, blue,
    whisk it away, and the egg vanishes —
    or appears, whole.

    **

    There are logics, topologies,
    affinities beyond the exact match
    of shell and shell,
    and so between times, places,
    people in dreams –
    the half hovel, half cathedral
    with its walkways among lily ponds, the koi,
    dusk in one century dawn in another,
    her youth your old age your youth again, time
    cracked open so precisely,
    its yolk, meaning,
    its moments an exact match across centuries,
    its half-shell a perch for Venus,
    its wholeness Fabergé,
    its yolk, tempera mixed by Giotto,
    meaning, tempera, Assisi,
    gesso, the chalk cliffs of Dover, the sea..
    There is a harmony of the whole,
    of the broken unbroken,
    named yet unnameable, unspeakable,
    there is a logic.
    there is a topology of the sundries of dreams,
    a mathematics to this matching
    of thou with i,
    of words, asleep, awake, of dusk to dawn, with all.

    Recognising that it belongs in a category she might call philosopoetry, I sent it to my friend, the artist Alyce Santoro, author of the remarkable Philosoprops: A Unified Field Guide>

    **

    I’m a lucky fellow.

    Today, via 3 Quarks Daily, I ran across this quote from Walter Bejamin:

    I had suffered very much from the din in my room. Last night the dream retained this. I found myself in front of a map and, at the same time, in the landscape which was depicted on it. The landscape was incredibly gloomy and bleak, and it wasn’t possible to say whether its desolation was merely a craggy wasteland or empty grey ground populated only by capital letters. These letters drifted curvily on their base, just as if they were following the mountain range; the words formed from these letters were more or less remote from each other. I knew, or came to know, that I was in the labyrinth of the ear canal. The map was at the same time a map of hell.

    There’s something darkly Borgesian about that quote, eh? But it certainly illuminates dream topology, and even moreso, the topology of the relationship of dream to waking, itself worth comparing with the relationship of map to territory, word to referent, and indeed moon to finger with which Count Korzybski, Lao Tzu, and the Zen poets are each so notably concerned.

    **

    Tunneling on through, I find myself contemplating one of Alyce’s inspirations — Eve Andrée Laramée’s Apparatus for the Distillation of Vague Intuitions, shown in Mass MoCA‘s 2000-2001 exhibition Unnatural Science, from 2000 – 2001:

    laramee

    A detail from that work illustrates the etching of certain phrases into the glass — in this case, the words polysemy and misconception:

    7. Eve Andree Laramee_polysemy-misconception

    The display is characterized in this piece from Art & Science Jounral:

    Apparatus for the Distillation of Vague Intuitions by American artist Eve Andrée Laramée consists of an array of tall metal stands, clamps, PVC tubings, glass beakers, flasks and vials. Although much of the equipment looks standard from afar, the installation is a dysfunctional and mythological sort of laboratory that highlights the inherent but often unnoticed subjectivity in scientific inquiry. [ .. ]

    In this fantastical and visually dazzling Apparatus, many of the glassware are hand-blown with various cloudy or luminous turquoise solutions and copper wires attached to large exotic flowers contributing to the spectacle of a giant chemistry experiment gone amok.

    Upon close inspection, a second level of complexity is revealed by the seemingly unscientific words and phrases such as “HANDFULS”, “LEAP IN THE DARK” and “UNNECESSARY EXPLANATORY PRINCIPLES” delicately etched into the glass, exposing a sense of insecurity and imprecision behind the process of science.

    **

    My Egg at the conjuror’s table is really more a philosoprop, to use Alyce’s coinage, than what many expect a poem to be, and likewise Laramée’s Apparatus more a philosoprop than what many expect an artwork to be.

    Philosoprops:

    The word philosoprop is a portmanteau of philosophy (love of wisdom) and either prop (theatrical property) or propaganda (influential communication), depending. A philosoprop is a device, implement, or illustration – crafted or discovered ready-made – that can be used for the purpose of demonstrating a concept or sparking a dialog.

    Let’s talk..

    Contemplative Fire

    Thursday, August 4th, 2016

    [ by Charles Cameron — two poems, one from Thomas Merton, one from today ]
    .

    About an hour ago I posted Economics as if spirit matters most, with a DoubleQuote drawing a parallel between Zen Buddhist monastic tradition and that of the Desert Fathers of the Church.

    Here’s another Buddhist / Christian juxtaposition, this time in the form of excerpts from two longer poems about fires — one of which, the Soberanes wildfire between Carmel and Big Sur, is still raging as we speak:

    SPEC DQ contemplative fire

    **

    Anam Thubten is a Tibetan Buddhist teacher, and it is his Sweetwater Sanctuary retreat that was destroyed in the Soberanes fire. Thomas Merton was a Catholic Trappist monk, and the barn that burned was at his home monastery, the Abbey of Our Lady of Gethsamani in Kentucky.

    Both poems are worth readong in full.

    Sources:

  • Anam Thubten, Dancing With Nature’s Wrath
  • Thomas Merton, Elegy for the Monastery Barn
  • Recep Tayyip Erdogan and the poetry of names

    Tuesday, July 26th, 2016

    [ by Charles Cameron — a bridge & burial ground in Turkey, an Oregon creek & road, all named for death ]
    .

    There’s a certain power to names. Ursula LeGuin described it best, perhaps, when she wrote:

    He saw that in this dusty and fathomless matter of learning the true name of every place, thing, and being, the power he wanted lay like a jewel at the bottom of a dry well. For magic consists in this, the true naming of a thing.

    **

    I included that quote in my post Indistinguishable from magic? six days ago, little realizing I would need it again so soon, but here we are: a dark magical DoubleTweet:

    That’s the more positive of the pair — less so, I think, is this:

    **

    A couple of other notes from the poster of that second tweet:

  • The term “traitor” is still very loosely used in Turkey; some day may come, all those accusing eachother of treason might lie side by side..

  • Istanbul Metropolitan Mayor had announced the will to construct the Traitors’ Cemetary some days ago “for all to spit on when passing by”
  • **

    When my Lakota mentor, Wallace Black Elk, came to teach a class in the building and ceremonial use of the stone people’s lodge (“sweat lodge”) at what was then Southern Oregon State College in Ashland, Oregon, the route to the site where we performed the rituals on Dead Indian Creek went along the clearly marked Dead Indian Road. Wallace always got a chuckle out of that.

    But then, Wallace was glad Columbus told Queen Isabella he was en route for India, not Turkey — “Full-Blooded Turkey I’d be,” he’d say, “Native Turkey Movement, Bureau of Turkey Affairs..”

    The road, though not perhaps the creek, has now been renamed:

    Dead Indian Road


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