Party Time Again
posted by jm at 9:26 AM
Thursday, July 18, 2013
About Me
- Name: jm
I am a brilliant creation of the universe formed from the cosmic protoplasm sailing into eternity. I have two hands, two feet, a couple of great ears, and I'm clipping through life at a moderate pace; minding my p*s and q*s, crossing my t*s, dotting every i.
Previous Posts
- Taming the Human
- A Lively Undertaking
- The Soul of America
- Sound Advice
- Gifts and Song
- Sound
- The Philosophy Of Cherries
- Nourishment
- Blasting Into the Past and the Future
- What a World
51 Comments:
Ha! perfect!! And a good birthday morning to you!
XOXO
Thanks so much Sticky! And thanks to B who has renamed me on this birthday.
Big hugs and kisses to my movie lovin' buddies.
The artist keeps emerging. It's going to be an interesting challenge to stay on track in the midst of the growing chaos around us. The descent can't be stopped, but our artists can alleviate the fear and discomfort as always.
Asa is part of a new crop of politically engaged artists who message through the pop vein. Some of them are outstanding. The African ones speak truth about the problems with multiculturalism in view of the forced contrived togetherness that has gained popularity lately. Cultural separation will probably always prevail even within tolerant groups. I think we should celebrate the distinctions while we strive to create the one big happy family of man. Territorial struggles for dominance have not evolved out of us yet.
The artist is in a good position since she can stay somewhat detached and participate in a positive way. These new poets can sing from deep knowledge about the colonial experience. Their oppression is real and vivid. But what of ours? Where do we go to get free being part of the privileged overseeing group. I suppose we can just open ourselves to the ones trying to teach us. Maybe we need a real teacher's union.
Man if I could still move like that!
Wonder where Joe is, I'd like to know how this sounds to his "new ears"
Just hoping you're high and dry, and that your basement spiders are all safe.
XXOO
Ha! The spiders are doing great and they said to tell you they appreciate the interest. The basement is the driest and safest spot.
I, however, am high and wet. The roof is leaking but people are dying. My misery is relative and acceptable. Oddly, I live right above a flood plain. Just high enough. So far.
It rained for three days straight and I usually love the sounds and smells, but with the growing spots on the ceiling, I couldn't relax and fully merge with the experience. I still hate these mundane intrusions. The only time I didn't have a porous roof was when I lived on the 2nd floor of a 3 story apartment building. But I had Godzilla stomping about upstairs and one drunk whose bath tub overflowed into my apartment. So the minor spills from heaven are OK right now. These are weird times.
It brings back memories of the worst roof I had when I lived in Santa Fe. The house was magical, an adobe funky Victorian style, one of a kind. A bargain at $100/month except when it rained and chunks of the ceiling came crashing down. I was young and in love, though, so I could deal with just about anything.
I've never had a new car or a roof that didn't leak. But I'm sheltered enough. And I'm not motoring much these days so my old clunkers are sufficient for my limited needs. My 1970 Ford van is finally gone and that one had a leaky roof, too. Oh well. That's enough nostalgia for the night.
I'm with the spiders. Thanks for enquiring St.B.
More rain is on the way.
Thank you so much JM, I was worrying about you! CO looks unbelievably bad with not a lot of time before winter to recover.
Maybe we will have to dust odd Gene Kelly, "Singing in the Rain" and tap dance through it all.
Over here we got hit about a week and half ago with a deluge, nothing of your magnitude but the unstable weather caused some small clones. One of which hit my house and ripped off part of the roof. The torn metal flashing danced over the rest of the roof lifting shingles in it's wake so, like you rain poured in through the roof for a couple of storms. now, we wait for the sun to dry it all out, then up to the roof to repair.
Nature is so darned amazing!
Honestly, your dad's, "Enoough is too much" has been running around in mt head for months.
Sigh, typing on a tablet which spell corrects. Missed the odd which was of course old...love that scene of Kelly dancing in the rain.,,
Cyclone NOT clone, you probably guessed.
Grr, now it's odd ...OFF.
Off.
OFF
Three times for the charm
Oh no!!! A roofless home in California. How profoundly awful. That would have scared the living daylights out of me.
Tap dancing is a great idea. We could do it to Pennies From Heaven and make it profitable.
I've been thinking about Jupiter in Cancer and the swell of water and feeling.
I've been watching sad movies. During the deluge I watched Brokeback Mountain again and cried for two days. It's interesting. The first time saw it I was consciously working on keeping my heartstrings from being pulled out of their sockets, but this time, I let it go and noticed things I missed the first time, especially the amazing performance of Heath Ledger and the unbearable longing and intimacy that not only pulls the strings, but devastates the heart. You know. The longing for human embrace. The mother thing that always escapes us. I wish this Cancer country could find it.
Homeland Security. Now there's a novel idea.
So I checked it out and Ang Lee, the director has Jupiter and Uranus in Cancer. Sun in Libra. Heath had Moon and Jupiter in Cancer and the emotion struck me hard and made me think about letting that overemotional Cancer with Moon/Joop be an acceptable part of my expression. A respected part actually, without getting mawkish, which can be challenging.
Anyway, Joop in Cancer with Saturn in Scorpio and Neptune in Pisces kind of opens the door to merging and sorrow, with Jupiter's joy in the mix, fortunately. Jupiter in Cancer is the stuff of laughter. Cancers often laugh easily. And they make others laugh even when not trying.
Love and loss are full nourishment for the poet, and in these days, as I get further away from the live scene, I realize that some never do really feel personal love, and I was lucky to have had it. So that's that. Not that I'd want it again. The muses would get jealous, so I'll stick with them.
I'm discovering that there are other artists out there doing good work and that is a source of comfort.
Tap dancing collecting pennies from heaven great plan!
You always bring a smile Jam, and provoke some real thinking too, such a gift you are.
Ah, so no dusting of folk, odd or not, dancing or not. So much for rumors of dusting powders preceding unusual behavior!
"Love and loss are full nourishment for the poet, and in these days, as I get further away from the live scene, I realize that some never do really feel personal love, and I was lucky to have had it. So that's that. Not that I'd want it again. The muses would get jealous, so I'll stick with them."
Yikes, Brokeback Mountain. An acquaintance of mine wanted to go see it when it was released, and asked me to accompany her. I hesitated, not usually inclined to tragic dramas. Having a linear mind, she found the cutaway flashes of death scene confusing; was it supposed to be real or imagined, she wondered, troubled by ambiguity. I said, Well, it could be both, or either.
Though herself a veteran of several affairs, she found the outburst of insuppressable sobbing from the man, after the mountain affair, to be unexpected to her and (perhaps thus) of surprising intensity. It is not so uncommon, I informed her. But we often do not recognize what we see even when it confronts us plainly.
"Who has known heights and depths," I thought, recalling a line from a poem, by Mary Brent Whiteside, I had read as a child.
Who has known heights and depths shall not again
Know peace—not as the calm heart knows
Low, ivied walls; a garden close;
An though he tread the humble ways of men
He shall not speak the common tongue again.
Who has known heights shall bear forevermore
An incommunicable thing
That hurts his heart, as if a wing
Beat at the portal, challenging;
And yet—lured by the gleam his vision wore—
Who once has trodden stars seeks peace no more.
Gulfs or chasms of experience lie between some and some, as the movie so clearly attests; perhaps there is a bridge that can only be trod with foot unshod, I mused. Is the movie such a bridge for some of us?
I wonder whether my acquaintance had ever walked barefoot into snow outside her house. But I think I will not trouble her too much over such a small thing.
"I'm discovering that there are other artists out there doing good work and that is a source of comfort."
Art is, I think, more than people know or recognize. It is real beyond the physical medium, although that is part of it. Speaking of bridges, art is one bridge between dimensions of being; though emerging into earthly experience, it is born also of air, water and fire, so to speak, and conveys spirit.
Oh my word. That is beautiful. Thank you Kadimiros.
I'm finally coming down from my five day crying spell and the flights of my heart and crashes to the depths hour after hour as I experience the emotion of this film. I also read the book for the first time.
Gulfs or chasms of experience lie between some and some, as the movie so clearly attests; perhaps there is a bridge that can only be trod with foot unshod, I mused. Is the movie such a bridge for some of us
Without any doubt. A bridge for most of us. Many will not admit to their response, but most everyone feels the horrific ache of longing and the dream that is Brokeback Mountain.
I saw the film several years ago and I liked it, but this time I was was devastated by the force of emotion. I released a lot of pent up grief and studied the movie very carefully once I got my bearings.
I read the reviews and discovered that there is a cult that's still active around Brokeback. Many many people responded with the same mysterious breadth of feeling. It actually seems to "break" us down to reach for one another.
People wanted so much to be included in the relationship that they made their own videoes, inserting themselves via their favorite sad songs. Very interesting. Then the torrent of comments about how much they love the movie always follows.
The interviews with Ang Lee are also interesting. He's a serious Buddhist apparently and I felt that the character, Ennis, was a classic mystic living by the river looking to the mountain and translating spiritual love into physical ecstasy and simple intimacy. Everyone wanted to merge with him, but on his mystic's path, it couldn't happen. We have to walk the path solo.
"I don't get you, Ennis Del Mar", they say.
I was trying not to get carried away with the tragic drama aspect, as you point out. But this time, I had no choice. It's a larger than life thing and I'm still thinking about its impact and why it came when it did like a tidal wave. I think a revival of interest is coming as the social situation changes and homosexuality marches onward from the closet.
On the Brokeback forums, the conversations are engaging as they analyze every scene and quarrel about Jack and Ennis and why they favor either one of them.
Heath Ledger burst all the confines of Hollywood acting in his straightforward delivery and portrayal of such a guileless man. I was astonished.
The project touched universal human themes and sensations and in the end it was a great collaboration among the original writer, the screenplay writers, the director, and the audience. An inspired piece of work. The cinematographer was in on the love obviously.
Lee said he cried when he read the story and was psychologically taut hoping he could relay those feelings to the audience. He was in awe of Annie's skill and power and when she wrote him a letter saying how much she liked the film, he had the letter framed, saying it was one of the happiest moments of his life. No wonder we weep. Male sensitivity is especially appealing and macho buckaroo weepiness is even more so.
So Mary's poem hit the spot. The kind of perfect selection I know to expect from you.
If your friend is still confused you can tell her that the book makes it clear. Jack was murdered. But you're right. The line between reality and fantasy need not even be drawn.
Though herself a veteran of several affairs, she found the outburst of insuppressable sobbing from the man, after the mountain affair, to be unexpected to her and (perhaps thus) of surprising intensity.
Yes. So many reacted that way. If people have loved deeply, I think they feel the loss and sorrow as intensely as your friend. She seems good. It must have been an interesting addition to the event. Brokeback Mountain with a linear veteran of heartbreak. Also interesting that you were selected to be the one to partner with her through the treacherous emotional territory.
Who has known heights shall bear forevermore
An incommunicable thing
So true. And therein lies the sorrow.
And yet—lured by the gleam his vision wore—
Who once has trodden stars seeks peace no more.
I think I'd like to resign myself to that little fact.
But we often do not recognize what we see even when it confronts us plainly.
That covers just about everything and I think we rarely recognize what we see. The ambiguity always confuses, some more than others maybe. I see ambiguity as the predominate characteristic of reality. Our conflicted selves all chime in on the interpretations, so we know not, nor should we.
Babies peer at faces struggling to find recognition, be they on strangers or on Mommy. I guess familiarity, thus safety, lies in familiar patterns.
I noticed where some people were terribly conflicted about the sad ending of Brokeback, wondering if that was right or not. And the confusion your friend felt in trying to recognize the manner of death speaks of the triumphant ambiguity. Perhaps the ambiguity keeps us from making judgments helping us to experience a modicum of freedom. There is no logical conclusion. The continuum pulls us further into not-knowing. Or knowing in some vague traditional sense.
I recently wrote this...
Maybe those who love this film so much are mature and wise enough to accept less than happy endings. I swing both ways, but I generally find that tragic outcomes are sort of a relief in that I can refrain from waiting for the ax to fall. My real preference is for ambiguity, the defining characteristic of reality as I perceive it.
Adding to our own muddled selves trying to figure it out are the voices of others so many of us adopt as authority figures and interpreters of our experience.
What a pickle. I guess it's best to just relax and let it sort itself out. I can contemplate some sort of structured reality in my spare time when I get bored. Answers are unnecessary unless it's a pop quiz.
'Everyone wanted to merge with him, but on his mystic's path, it couldn't happen. We have to walk the path solo. "I don't get you, Ennis Del Mar", they say.'
Authentic, unborrowed experience -- each personality follows a course that belongs to itself, yet personal and transpersonal at once.
With the character Ennis, the greatest strain comes in force fitting himself to the shape of others' designs.
Those who by nature walk a different path may seem to come and go, eschewing the stable bounds of conventional society, but from another perspective it is the rest of the world that repeatedly rises into awareness and falls away, shifting like weather or like dreams. There are larger and deeper rhythms of existence and being, obscured by the daily to and fro, and sometimes those who walk apart, by choice or circumstance, find them.
"On the Brokeback forums, the conversations are engaging as they analyze every scene and quarrel about Jack and Ennis and why they favor either one of them."
Ha ha, well, those arbiters of taste should be secretly glad that Jack favored Ennis but Ennis favored Jack, or they would not have such fine arguments to enjoy!
My acquaintance asked me recently to recommend some music to her; she said that she had read somewhere that music makes people happier and healthier.
I had been listening to a copy of The Other Flute, which I find wonderfully experimental and unconventional. Then I remembered her taste in men -- clean cut models in business suits! Taste in music, like taste in romantic partners, I warned her, can be very personal.
"The project touched universal human themes and sensations and in the end it was a great collaboration among the original writer, the screenplay writers, the director, and the audience. An inspired piece of work. The cinematographer was in on the love obviously."
People have felt rather compartmentalized and fragmented by poorly constructed ways of life. The natural backgrounds expand the range of feeling, which can lead to expanding the range of external experiences, the latter arising out of the former.
"Maybe those who love this film so much are mature and wise enough to accept less than happy endings. I swing both ways, but I generally find that tragic outcomes are sort of a relief in that I can refrain from waiting for the ax to fall."
I think that the author knows what's best for her story. There are other stories for those who need happy endings.
That reminds me that folk tales didn't used to always end with "they lived happily ever after." Sometimes it was more like "they lived as happily as they could" or "they lived happily until they died".
"My real preference is for ambiguity, the defining characteristic of reality as I perceive it."
From one viewpoint, it appears that reality is always incompletely expressed, and ever transforming, always deepening. From that viewpoint, a completely unambiguous universe could not thrive, would be a dead universe, for it would have exhausted all of its potential.
In music, the brain senses structural predictability as well as subtle violations of it. Through the unexpected enters emotion.
"Adding to our own muddled selves trying to figure it out are the voices of others so many of us adopt as authority figures and interpreters of our experience."
I know that some thinkers picture "true" reality as changeless and enduring; things that pass away are considered less "real" in some sense. Others picture reality as ever changing and always in process, such that nothing individual persists through time. This leads some to suppose that spiritual enlightenment is a condition of sudden realization, while others believe that it can be achieved, perhaps gradually, through a series of efforts.
The two camps tend to assume that enduring presence and the transformational process of life are at odds, or at least in tension. It may be that they need to let their perceptions step outside the mental Pandora's box of time. The associative aspects of consciousness, and divergent thinking, may be more fundamental.
"What a pickle. I guess it's best to just relax and let it sort itself out. I can contemplate some sort of structured reality in my spare time when I get bored. Answers are unnecessary unless it's a pop quiz."
I have sometimes thought that not all answers can come to us as words. Perhaps some answers can only be expressed as living. Or perhaps as pickles.
Or even as kettles of fish.
I have sometimes thought that not all answers can come to us as words
I think precious few of them do. Words obscure the picture, I think. They can be a crutch as we grope for something called understanding. Answers are question specific. As far as broad answers, I'm a believer in tangents. I think they hold keys. Then there's the synapse. I have often thought that the gap holds answers. Outside that box of time and into free form consciousness. The synapse could be an alternate dimension that conveys information that can't be accessed through ordinary conscious means.
It may be that they need to let their perceptions step outside the mental Pandora's box of time. The associative aspects of consciousness, and divergent thinking, may be more fundamental.
They may also be more accurate.
Frankly, I think keyboard conversation impedes that associative flow. Internet conversation has ruined my mind, I fear. The urge toward logic and tidy conclusions has interfered as well as the compulsion to make myself clear to others for some frightfully odd reason. I used to engage in free association with live human specimens and sometimes we'd find ourselves on the border of surprisingly enlightened places. My cosmic fellow travelers are free floating in the universe so replacements might be called for. I need to announce a casting call soon.
I know that some thinkers picture "true" reality as changeless and enduring; things that pass away are considered less "real" in some sense. Others picture reality as ever changing and always in process, such that nothing individual persists through time. This leads some to suppose that spiritual enlightenment is a condition of sudden realization, while others believe that it can be achieved, perhaps gradually, through a series of efforts.
I usually find the things that pass away are more real. The idea of changelessness is preposterous, in my view. Too many spinning parts and shifting axes.
Maybe the speed of enlightenment comes according to personal rhythms and patience levels. Or maybe some are genetically wired for it and the connection to live events comes as one proceeds. What is it anyway?
In music, the brain senses structural predictability as well as subtle violations of it. Through the unexpected enters emotion.
The violations are the exciting parts. And the ideal in music is to allow the variations to wander off the reservation into new territory to delight the senses. Good point.
Or one might say, through the unexpected enters life.
People like the happy endings because they don't mimic life as they know it. There is a stigma surrounding fairy tales actually, as if believers are simple minded in some way. I find as soon as I start believing that a situation is there, something happens immediately to reroute me. So I refrain from waxing poetically these days about the idealistic nature of events as if my inner realist, or even cynic, won't allow it. I always keep the fairy tale option open, however. One never knows.
Authentic, unborrowed experience -- each personality follows a course that belongs to itself, yet personal and transpersonal at once.
Well said.
With the character Ennis, the greatest strain comes in force fitting himself to the shape of others' designs.
Absolutely. Like his silence. They wouldn't have it as they chattered semi-mindlessly on. And that was one of his strongest traits for me.
I guess that was one of the tragedies. That the path to freedom for the others was rejected.
The crowd usually likes Jack Twist but they have a very hard time with Ennis. The interpret his gruffness as meanness, where I thought he was fantastically articulate.
"Ennis, where ya been?"
Says Ennis, "Here and there". Perfectly said. Cassie thinks he's being rude, but Ennis merely answered her question. Did she really want a detailed map of his previous whereabouts?
People have felt rather compartmentalized and fragmented by poorly constructed ways of life. The natural backgrounds expand the range of feeling, which can lead to expanding the range of external experiences, the latter arising out of the former.
That is an observant comment. I found an interview with Ang Lee on this subject and I'll post it later.
Those who by nature walk a different path may seem to come and go, eschewing the stable bounds of conventional society, but from another perspective it is the rest of the world that repeatedly rises into awareness and falls away, shifting like weather or like dreams. There are larger and deeper rhythms of existence and being, obscured by the daily to and fro, and sometimes those who walk apart, by choice or circumstance, find them.
Beautiful.
I guess that's why some hate Ennis, because he reminds them of what they are missing and he won't let them follow. They know not how to separate enough to discover the uncarved path.
"I think a revival of interest is coming as the social situation changes and homosexuality marches onward from the closet."
I think that many heterosexual men and women in recent decades must have been letting go of cultural overlays, and to their benefit on many levels. A study of nearly five thousand individuals found that gender variance -- some so-called "femininity" in men and some so-called "masculinity" in women -- correlated with having more opposite-sex partners and therefore reproductive success. (Would-be Casanovas, take note!)
Contrary to simplistic categories and falsely dichotomous choices, we simply have individuals with clusters of traits, and variations in every person.
Even hormones are in for reappraisal. Formerly, testosterone was thought of as a "male" hormone responsible for the sexual drive in men, and strong, masculine musculature. Estrogen was the "female" hormone, responsible for curvaceous hips and breast development. Of course, it has been known that both hormones exist in varying amounts in both sexes, and that a small amount of testosterone in men is converted to estrogen. But in a study of 198 young healthy men, reported this month in The New England Journal of Medicine, loss of estrogen also surprisingly contributed to flabbier physique, libido reduction, and sexual dysfunction.
I suspect that the species is ultimately capable of remarkable self-transformation through changed perceptions. From this, we may cautiously take heart.
I thought it was the cluster of hormones along with testosterone and estrogen that created the dichotomy.
Apparently the adrenal glands of women produce estrogen after menopause, but still the androgen levels rise. So women's voices deepen and they often get adventurous, taking off to worlds unknown or furthering their interrupted educations, while men get squeaky voiced and stay home doing dishes and such.
They say that estrogen levels are rising in men. If the androgens diminish, then maybe they won't die of heart attacks so much, which I thought was related to testosterone. Now that population levels are in flux, some think dangerously, could this be part of the adjustment?
Hormones are in the driver's seat, so I trust them to do the right thing.
As for femininity and masculinity, I don't focus on that so much in my advanced age. Potency comes through either side, and the curves are not what they should be anymore.
Speaking of transformation, I wonder what evolutionary purpose is satisfied by the flabbier physique so popular these days.
The most amazing flab I ever witnessed was on the Russians by the Black Sea years ago.
"The crowd usually likes Jack Twist but they have a very hard time with Ennis. The interpret his gruffness as meanness, where I thought he was fantastically articulate."
How interesting that they did not split evenly. I find Ennis to be the more powerfully limned character.
"Frankly, I think keyboard conversation impedes that associative flow. Internet conversation has ruined my mind, I fear. The urge toward logic and tidy conclusions has interfered as well as the compulsion to make myself clear to others for some frightfully odd reason. I used to engage in free association with live human specimens and sometimes we'd find ourselves on the border of surprisingly enlightened places. My cosmic fellow travelers are free floating in the universe so replacements might be called for. I need to announce a casting call soon."
Yes, speech is older, and has many advantages over, the written form. Its memory is deeper rooted.
Here's a crisp word-portrait of the author:
http://articles.latimes.com/print/2008/oct/18/entertainment/et-proulx18
According to the article, "Proulx believes the computer is 'the enemy of careful writing.' She prefers to write by hand, using the computer as 'a joinery device.' 'There's something about the rhythm of writing on the page with a pen,' she says, 'that is richly fulfilling -- like drawing a picture.'"
In contrast, I would say that I write both more carelessly and more effortfully on paper. The pen is too slow for my mind. When I studied drawing from life models, I drew rapidly, the charcoal racing over the grain of the paper as if to emulate the brilliant flash of perception. Stage conjurors claim that the hand is quicker than the eye, but it is not so even for them.
I find that I can write intuitively by keyboard, but sometimes it works best if, as with speech, I allow short phrases to emerge and to almost arrange themselves after the fact.
It is like intuitive reading, writing poetry, or crafting a dream. Fragmented impressions enter awareness, and one almost catches them in the act of emerging from layers of psyche, actors walking onto the stage.
A poetic verse form that allows one to rearrange fragments of thoughts, like a collage of dancers, can be surprisingly pleasing, and much more than a predetermined course would produce.
Translating the nonverbal to the verbal is a messy process. It does help to leave contextual space, and gaps whose rhythms can carry sense beyond words.
Thanks so much for the article. Good choice.
Translating the verbal to the nonverbal is also a challenge which is what Ang Lee did in the movie. A close listen to the music is fascinating. I've had the chance to watch how he wove the music into the scenes. There were a lot of those gaps you mentioned.
Yes. Stringing up fragmented impressions is high art. I think they have their own magnetism which determines how they line up.
My favorite form of literature is the short story. My favorite writers are so good at poetic prose that they bring tears with the ease and flow of the words that free me from stilted discomfort. I glide through from the first sentence. I find that great short story writers have a potent and unique kind of confidence.
Conversely, tears of pain have visited me while reading the literary attempts of the internet crowd. I so often read the first sentence of a paragraph, then skip the rest. Then a nagging sensation draws me back just in case. Pleasure eludes me.
The comments are like Friday night fights.
"I find that great short story writers have a potent and unique kind of confidence."
The shorts are often more indelible. In some respects, they can be closer to life. Novels usually have a kind of ordering of events to permit narrative progression, but real life is not like that.
"Conversely, tears of pain have visited me while reading the literary attempts of the internet crowd."
It is true of most fields. A craftless society is full of stumblers. Rarely, a few will have the inner poise to exceed themselves.
Well, I suppose I am being slow, but I am now reminded: Years and years and years ago, I had an acquaintance, a friend of a friend, who participated in one of these amateur fan-fiction groups, based around television adventure shows derived from Greek mythology.
One day, he suggested to me that his writing club was full of "Mary Sues" which he explained meant persons of limited scope who in fantasy inflated their poorly disguised selves. Hearing him out, I may have hid a smirk.
He thought that I could do far better. I am usually not keen on such things, but after a few such encouragements, and hearing more of the ludicrous horrors of Mary Sue-ism, I consented to write a short piece for his enjoyment (and maybe his edification). It would not be a complete short story, but simply a few scenes to illustrate how I thought such things could be handled better.
Quickly, wordless feeling formed scenes that, like small paintings, intimated vastly more than could ever be seen within the frame. Words then sketched them and inner dialogue for the two characters immersed in them.
A few sentences gave glimpses into a complicated emotional history, the dark despair of a young man who had lost both his kingdom and his heart, and the confusion of an older man trapped by his own strengths. I made the younger man the bond servant of the solar "hero" of the fan-fiction club, the roughly treated water boy for him and his fellows, and I alluded to the earlier slaying of his father at the hands of the hero.
I was writing the death of Hylas, the young man who heard voices in the sound of water.
My acquaintance was delighted to read, and stunned by, the piece.
But he wanted me to continue the story, perhaps "saving" the young man in some way from his doom. He wanted, I think, a happy conclusion. I frowned at the suggestion, and said that the vision had ended there for me. I don't have the least idea how to continue it, I demurred. Anything more was beyond my modest gifts. In truth, I felt that I had touched something not of my personal imagination alone, and I was unwilling to force its direction.
I did not feel much interest in the television shows, and I wondered if I had fictionalized my sense of someone's real life history. Perhaps it had some connection to my acquaintance's own life and my sense of a troubled relationship with his father. I have done something similar in the few poems I wrote, too, where the poem may be cast in the first person but is a blend of various people I have known, avoiding the trap of Mary Sue-ism.
I thought, well, that was an interesting experiment, and went on to other things in the way that I do.
Many years later, long after our acquaintanceship had lapsed, I was taken aback to learn that there exists a variant of the legend. In the variant, Hylas was not the son of Herakles, but a prince whose father was killed by a warrior, Herakles, who then took him into keeping.
I could not recall ever knowing those details; perhaps I had read them in passing somewhere, but by that point in my life there had been a few other instances of impossible knowledge cloaked in imagination -- so who knows.
I do believe that many great artists and writers -- though they may consciously cull the details, used in their work, from the lives around them -- are well-informed by the psyche's inner connections. That, through their work, one catches a glimpse of the authentic, which some call soul.
It is true of most fields. A craftless society is full of stumblers. Rarely, a few will have the inner poise to exceed themselves.
I like that very much. Inner poise is it.
One day, he suggested to me that his writing club was full of "Mary Sues" which he explained meant persons of limited scope who in fantasy inflated their poorly disguised selves. Hearing him out, I may have hid a smirk.
Perhaps your inner poise was responsible for the successfully hidden smirk.
I do believe that many great artists and writers -- though they may consciously cull the details, used in their work, from the lives around them -- are well-informed by the psyche's inner connections. That, through their work, one catches a glimpse of the authentic, which some call soul.
I agree of course. The derivation of psyche means breath and so I'd say that authentic artists and writers breathe life into life as it were, whereas the ordinary mimics snuff it out.
A sort of suffocation of spirit seems to be the norm.
"Perhaps your inner poise was responsible for the successfully hidden smirk."
Well, that's an interesting thought.
There are people who can sometimes lift images from my mind -- but some things still remain hidden even from them, maybe harder to see than a deer in a thicket, good eyes or not.
At the other extreme, one can wave a large poster board sign in the air but many will see without comprehension. The author Proulx has commented that those who send her rewrites to improve on the ending to her story, "don't get the message that if you can't fix it you've got to stand it." You would expect that readers would recognize the importance of it -- if only from that the message appears in the middle of the story, and is repeated again at the very end. She bluntly said that "how different readers take the story is a reflection of their own personal values, attitudes, hang-ups."
Sometimes I think that life is much like that, subject to many interpretations, being woven from many threads to begin with.
"I'd say that authentic artists and writers breathe life into life as it were, whereas the ordinary mimics snuff it out. A sort of suffocation of spirit seems to be the norm."
The idiomatic phrase that titles one of Ang Lee's earlier films, "Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon", is from an ancient poem and refers to a place where talented and extraordinary people are hidden. The story is that a hermit farmer refused twice entreaties for him to enter government service, but relented at last out of compassion for the people of the land.
I said earlier that a craftless society is full of stumblers. Few people will stir themselves to travel to and from the hidden places of excellence within themselves, but they will be wistful and marvel at those who do. My acquaintance who played at fan-fiction and in on-line game worlds was like that, wishing for romance and opportunity, yet passing by better chances for less suitable ones. It could be that his stronger desire was to be left alone, and drink long from the Seven of Cups -- the image that comes to my mind for those who tarry too long in faerie realms, their role reduced to that of consumers of products provided as if magically. I note though, the Eight of Cups awaits beyond the Seven, the traveler leaving the cups behind him as he continues on his long journey to the Nine of fulfillment.
The author Proulx has commented that those who send her rewrites to improve on the ending to her story, "don't get the message that if you can't fix it you've got to stand it." You would expect that readers would recognize the importance of it -- if only from that the message appears in the middle of the story, and is repeated again at the very end. She bluntly said that "how different readers take the story is a reflection of their own personal values, attitudes, hang-ups."
You'd expect so, but due to the power of the characters and the intimacy created, the people just didn't want to let them go. Thus the message so clearly stated could not be accepted. It was repeated in one of the most important passages. The last time they are together they reach new frontiers of magic with Ennis's arms around Jack singing him a lullaby. The last words are "Let be, let be."
Later, that dozy embrace solidified in his memory as the single moment of artless charmed happiness in their separate and difficult lives. Nothing marred it, even the knowledge that Ennis would not then embrace him face to face because he did not want to see nor feel that it was Jack he held. And maybe, he thought, they'd never get much further than that. Let be, let be.
So who is the real idealist in all of this? I wonder who was more responsible for creating characters that people did not want to let be. And here again is the difficulty in accepting the tragic ending. Some sort of fatalistic reality intruding on the dream.
My sense was that the separation ensured the continuation of the love. If they had gone off to the cattle ranch I think they would have ruined it.
The fan rewrites are an attempt to interact with the creators and the story even more, just like the videos they make.
I said earlier that a craftless society is full of stumblers. Few people will stir themselves to travel to and from the hidden places of excellence within themselves, but they will be wistful and marvel at those who do
True. Maybe because the journey to the hidden places is solo and possibly fraught with perils so the easy way is to go vicariously and be spared the difficulties, not realizing that the joys in these places often far surpass expectations.
That's interesting about Crouching Tiger. Lee is a serious and apparently educated man. Scholarship was paramount in his household, yet I've heard him say that he didn't think he was a highly educated man.
So I got to thinking that Brokeback could have been breakthrough for him since he made it right after his father died and the movie is not intellectual and doesn't demand ponderous contemplation from the audience. This down to earth emotional work might be a turning point for him so I'll be waiting to see what he does next.
He still is very very precise and mental when he works, but the end result of Brokeback didn't reflect that overtly, although it was obviously carefully crafted. But the fellows didn't discuss great literature or physics or such things by the fire. The viewers can always ponder things philosophically if they so chose.
"So who is the real idealist in all of this? I wonder who was more responsible for creating characters that people did not want to let be. And here again is the difficulty in accepting the tragic ending. Some sort of fatalistic reality intruding on the dream."
Hmm, so many angles from which to look at this. And conversation like this is no doubt why my gamer acquaintance said that sometimes it seems like I'm from another plane of existence. Perhaps I should design a badge -- "Beware of Artist" or something like that.
My natural response is to feel compassion for the Ennis character; Jack I do not worry about.
Even so, I am inclined to see the tragedy as an integral part of that particular dream. I know that there will be other dreams, if dreams are what one wants.
"My sense was that the separation ensured the continuation of the love. If they had gone off to the cattle ranch I think they would have ruined it."
Well, that may be. They have known only very restrictive conditions, so change is a gamble. The alchemy of love is fiddly stuff.
If I were to want a story with a different ending, it really would be a different story with different characters.
To me, there is also the possibility of living both within and outside of the narratives that most people tell themselves about their lives. Sometimes people feel at a loss how to continue a broken narrative, such as when infidelity troubles a relationship. To continue past that point, they must step out of that narrative, perhaps into a new, or renewed, one. Sometimes it is discovered that the broken narrative was originally written by others, and a truer narrative (re-)emerges.
Shakespeare wrote that "Love is not love / Which alters when it alteration finds, / Or bends with the remover to remove."
A living continuity, like the authentic spirit, ultimately travels where fixity of form cannot follow.
I respect the characters and their choices, and the author and her choices. Perhaps this attitude was foreshadowed in my, as a child, without irony telling my aunt that I liked the novel "A Separate Peace" immediately after I had finished reading it and not a moment before! Before adulthood, I wrote, "In dreams, I'm other people / living other lives. / I walk through worlds not quite my own / where memories reside."
"So I got to thinking that Brokeback could have been breakthrough for him since he made it right after his father died and the movie is not intellectual and doesn't demand ponderous contemplation from the audience. This down to earth emotional work might be a turning point for him so I'll be waiting to see what he does next."
I think that you've astutely gleaned something of his nature. He said in a Timeout interview, "I want to learn different kinds of filmmaking. I want to explore the world and myself. I can’t verbalise it. It’s emotional, something that matters to me. I think I always search for something to believe. I want that security, but I never really find it. So that subject – the loss of innocence, finding yourself, the realisation that there’s no such thing as security, I think I portray those things a lot. But at the end I always try to find a balance, like a true Eastern person."
He deals adroitly with complex themes. To him, "what we call God...is our attachment to the unknown. We want to know, we want to connect, but you cannot prove it." Interesting, Proulx's short story ends with the gap between knowledge and belief, in its final line: "There was some open space between what he knew and what he tried to believe, but nothing could be done about it, and if you can't fix it you've got to stand it."
Ha Ha! "Beware of artist!"
Good idea.
I didn't worry about Jack either since I thought he was a hopeless alcoholic with no way to be repaired. His tragic flaw ran too deep and strong.
To me, Ennis was innocent and pure, traveling a spiritual path without conscious intention. That made it all the more poignant and ultimately left me hopeful for him. I considered him fortunate to be free of Jack. He lived in the moment, much to others' chagrin. A gay Nowist. Despite his absence of consciousness, I think he knew from contact with those deeper psychic levels the facts about Jack and the impossibility of the dream. He was caught in hopeless situations, but in keeping with his philosophy, he was destined to stand it. So it ended on an optimistic note for me. He had his daughters' love to enjoy, and I think Jack provided an initiation into relationship for Ennis that was set to improve his life. Maybe he got hold of the hidden dragon. Or he was it.
I want to learn different kinds of filmmaking. I want to explore the world and myself. I can’t verbalise it. It’s emotional, something that matters to me. I think I always search for something to believe. I want thatSo security, but I never really find it. So that subject – the loss of innocence, finding yourself, the realisation that there’s no such thing as security, I think I portray those things a lot. But at the end I always try to find a balance, like a true Eastern person.
I get that.
I saw some of Lee's films before but I never felt compelled to get to know him until this time. The spiritual longing was the gist of the story to me and his character illuminates this. I was overwhelmed by the spiritual factor and how it entwined with the emotional, yet it was in no way learned or pendantic. So it was an unpretentious tale of spiritual pursuit. My kind of thing.
I mentioned his father who was once his high school principal and I concluded that Lee might have been restricted under his influence, and hopefully he'll fly out and realize his need for exploration while finding his identity eventually. I know the excitement along with fear that an artist feels since he or she has access to these universal characteristics of the human condition. The translation helps people live more fully in the material realm while releasing them from forcing these unattainable ideals on their lives, and most of all, on others.
I find it interesting that Ang Lee knew the moment in his life that he wanted to be a serious artist and it was all on account of Ingmar Bergman.
http://youtu.be/vfUzWn_R7jE">http://youtu.be/vfUzWn_R7jE
"Despite his absence of consciousness, I think he knew from contact with those deeper psychic levels the facts about Jack and the impossibility of the dream. He was caught in hopeless situations, but in keeping with his philosophy, he was destined to stand it. So it ended on an optimistic note for me."
That's an interesting interpretation. The father was harsh, and blunt in his comments, but that doesn't mean the father didn't correctly see Jack's tendency to incomplete schemes, too.
Besides his safety concerns, Ennis had to financially support his children. A failed economic venture with Jack would harm Ennis' children and his relationship to them. And Ennis could not trust his ex-wife to maintain discretion were he to incur her ire.
On Jack, my thought was that, as soon as he strayed too far from his own wife and child, he became entirely expendable to those who wished him permanently gone, and of course, his death saves the cost of buying him off. So, while he could simply have been the victim of random violence, it could have been that his choice to legally separate from his wife sealed his fate. Jack needed to psychically establish himself in himself before inviting another to join him in partnership, but he lost that opportunity once his sexual adventures produced a child with someone he didn't really love. He didn't fully see the trap, and not seeing it was unable to find a way forward. His stuck narrative ended in one way, but arguably was freed to continue in other ways.
I am mindful that the short fiction was set in the sixties into the eighties in Wyoming, underscoring the risk of violence like that actually reported for that very state in 1998, only a year after the short fiction's first publication.
I remember that, for whatever reasons, that particular real death in 1998 was cause for days or weeks of tears for those most keenly aware of it, as horror and grief resonated across intervening space and time. There was something about the timing and the magnitude of the event, multiplied by the shock to the communal field after many years of its advocacy for social justice. In my favorite cathedral here, the priest deftly stroked into existence, from ringing bowls, penetrating tones and vibrations to cleanse the huge gathering's hearts and ease breathing, but it was barely enough to make endurable the sorrow over the fallen Episcopal youth. The country, conflicted as it has been, was still more of a living whole than its people know or want to know.
"I mentioned his father who was once his high school principal and I concluded that Lee might have been restricted under his influence, and hopefully he'll fly out and realize his need for exploration while finding his identity eventually. I know the excitement along with fear that an artist feels since he or she has access to these universal characteristics of the human condition. The translation helps people live more fully in the material realm while releasing them from forcing these unattainable ideals on their lives, and most of all, on others."
Excellent, excellent points.
The East is prone to put tradition and its learning first. Many will be hidebound but it is understood by a few that the artist who has mastery is in the best position to free the self and exceed boundaries. The West usually puts experimentation and individualism first but those who, being too externalized in focus, prepare themselves poorly can wander indefinitely without a breakthrough. In either cultural milieu, the optimal blend of spontaneity and discipline will produce superior results. Just so, I think, for the art of living. The artful society will know this instinctively.
"I find it interesting that Ang Lee knew the moment in his life that he wanted to be a serious artist and it was all on account of Ingmar Bergman."
The call to create great art; messages that surpass cultural barriers; Ingmar Bergman's visionary power; the transience of life, search for redemption and other perennial themes -- how apropos and intriguing. It is wonderful that Ang Lee can articulate his experience. When I studied the visual arts as a youth, I fear that my teachers tended to emphasize technique and cleverness at the expense of purpose and significance. Most knew not how to elucidate the connections between the inner and the outer that underpin good art; even those who intuitively knew what to do could at best indirectly coach it. The poor questing students were not only unwarned but misdirected. The better teachers, though, were those who pushed their students to perceive, and then to creatively interpret. It involves emotive dimensions of creative vitality that are much more than physical production, and for that our artists must be prepared to feel, strengthen and stretch their selves.
The West usually puts experimentation and individualism first but those who, being too externalized in focus, prepare themselves poorly can wander indefinitely without a breakthrough. In either cultural milieu, the optimal blend of spontaneity and discipline will produce superior results. Just so, I think, for the art of living. The artful society will know this instinctively.
Mostly for the art of living.
The better teachers, though, were those who pushed their students to perceive, and then to creatively interpret. It involves emotive dimensions of creative vitality that are much more than physical production, and for that our artists must be prepared to feel, strengthen and stretch their selves.
I agree that perception is the key. Sometimes I think that this ability is wired in and maybe good teachers just point out the value of the artists' perceptions.
I noticed when developing my piano skills that I sometimes felt like I was blind and feeling for melodies and phrases since I don't like reading music. I strayed from others' compositions and believed that music was in the air in a kind of code that could be accessed. I believe that my musical perception is top notch so it can be trusted. Voices of doubt can interfere, though, so I agree that teachers should reinforce the growing artists' perceptions and ideally should be able to recognize those who have it. Talent, I guess you could call it.
Technique and cleverness are over valued in our society and that's partly why I think the so called art that dominates is not doing the job of healing and uplifting and providing a path away from mundane burdens. The bridge from the inner to the outer.
If I may repeat from your statement...
It involves emotive dimensions of creative vitality that are much more than physical production, and for that our artists must be prepared to feel, strengthen and stretch their selves.
They are always on a path to self awareness. I'm thinking maybe psychology, sociology, philosophy, and other such branches of learning should be included in artists' training. Along with mind altering substances and practices. However the altered state is arrived at, maybe a large part of the training is learning how to ride and utilize these states of being. Or to live with heightened awareness successfully without being overwhelmed by sensory experience. The tendency is to close off the perception as one goes forth, but I think that's ultimately impossible.
"I strayed from others' compositions and believed that music was in the air in a kind of code that could be accessed. I believe that my musical perception is top notch so it can be trusted. Voices of doubt can interfere, though, so I agree that teachers should reinforce the growing artists' perceptions and ideally should be able to recognize those who have it. Talent, I guess you could call it."
That's much like how I think of it. The air almost hums with possibilities. We are swimming in it. To a few will it occur to disentangle themselves from themselves, and to course the great currents of existence.
"I'm thinking maybe psychology, sociology, philosophy, and other such branches of learning should be included in artists' training. Along with mind altering substances and practices."
After a sweat lodge ceremony, I heard a young artist comment that her school faculty would never discuss such things. I believe she was speaking of indigenous rituals incorporating psychoactive plants.
Although, with certain of my bohemian acquaintances, who are perhaps misled by my "calm" exterior, I sometimes laughingly argue that if I really wanted to radically alter my state of consciousness, I would just do it, without external aid. Internal aid is another matter. One of them commented on my wavy hair once, and I joked that if her mind worked like mine, it would curl her hair, too!
"a large part of the training is learning how to ride and utilize these states of being. Or to live with heightened awareness successfully without being overwhelmed by sensory experience. The tendency is to close off the perception as one goes forth, but I think that's ultimately impossible."
Exactly.
I suspect that the bounds of our self-identity are partly due to perceptual focus, are adjustable and permeable, graduated and extending well past the surfaces of our skin.
An article just came to my attention, arriving in a most timely way with respect to our conversation.
A mere few minutes spent reading literary fiction boosts the capacity to understand other people, whereas popular fiction makes no difference to that.
From "I know how you're feeling, I read Chekhov": "After reading — or in some cases reading nothing — the participants took computerized tests that measure people’s ability to decode emotions or predict a person’s expectations or beliefs in a particular scenario. In one test, called 'Reading the Mind in the Eyes,' subjects did just that: they studied 36 photographs of pairs of eyes and chose which of four adjectives best described the emotion each showed. ...People who read literary fiction scored better than those who read popular fiction. This was true even though, when asked, subjects said they did not enjoy literary fiction as much. Literary fiction readers also scored better than nonfiction readers — and popular fiction readers made as many mistakes as people who read nothing."
Reportedly, the group of researchers have conducted five experiments with similar results. It will be interesting to see how well other research groups can replicate or extend their findings.
The implications are that high art can effectively tune the perceptual filters. It is a gateway to fresh perceptions, and the benefits, on many levels, to our species ought not be undervalued.
The air almost hums with possibilities. We are swimming in it. To a few will it occur to disentangle themselves from themselves, and to course the great currents of existence.
Yep. The hum can be heard when one is disentangled and listening. Electronic musicians get to feel it through the fingertips and the entire body. That's one of the perks of being a musician. Acoustic pianos do the same.
A mere few minutes spent reading literary fiction boosts the capacity to understand other people, whereas popular fiction makes no difference to that.
Interesting point. It seems to me that literary fiction concerns itself with psychology and character study, whereas pop fiction is about what people are doing to and with one another, where, when, and how. Sort of cause and effect among humans rather than human cause and effect with destiny, fate, and what not. Character interactions serve the purpose of leading protagonists to self awareness.
Understanding of others is in short supply these days. Perhaps more emphasis on classic literature in the schools would be beneficial.
People who read literary fiction scored better than those who read popular fiction. This was true even though, when asked, subjects said they did not enjoy literary fiction as much.
That's particularly interesting.
"Yep. The hum can be heard when one is disentangled and listening. Electronic musicians get to feel it through the fingertips and the entire body. That's one of the perks of being a musician. Acoustic pianos do the same."
Some people hear melodies emerging out of noise. And the hum of life! One can hear all sorts of things in it -- things long forgotten, or things never heard before by anyone in the history of the world. Heady stuff.
"Understanding of others is in short supply these days. Perhaps more emphasis on classic literature in the schools would be beneficial."
And more films that heighten the audience's awareness that sometimes what is left unsaid is underscored by its absence.
I received a "push poll" phone call recently, which made me laugh at its obviousness and fearful hyperbole. "This is so over-the-top!", I told the pollster. It was such a blunt instrument that I am sure that the client who paid for it has entirely wasted his money. I suppose in some people's view, the drama is realistic. But, somehow, when read aloud with grim determination by a hardworking phone pollster, it became ridiculous.
In some reactive spheres of activity, it seems that almost everything is seen in its worst light. There is a cramped, strained reaction to even natural ambiguities of existence. But maybe these hint at overlaps between modes of existence, at pivot points for course adjustment.
I am reminded now that "strains" is a word related to the sound of music, vibrational stress being the physical mechanism of sound.
Hmm, just now I listened to several recordings that tend to induce auditory illusions -- mostly in right-handed people, left-handers having more diversity of response.
Somewhat disappointingly, the illusions failed to work on me! I am not left-handed when writing (although I touch type with both hands). Possibly the illusions were rendered ineffective by the relative balance of my brain hemispheres. And I wonder about the effect of learned languages.
Speaking of music.....
Or listening to noise/sounds.
My ears are open vessels.
"My ears are open vessels."
Well, that's an interesting image!
I was thinking that, in some, ears seem nearly vestigial, hah.
But then again, in others, and in many ways, they are indeed like open sailing vessels, transported by wandering currents of air and water, to lands known and unknown.
Let's hear for the ear, for how marvelous it is that the solid is so greatly moved by the unsolid.
I mentioned "wandering currents" but perhaps I should say wanderlust currents. :-)
I just listened to the video bit you have linked in your latest blog post, the video that opens sublimely with "Song to the Siren".
I was thinking that, in some, ears seem nearly vestigial, hah.
I agree. There's been little to nurture their maintenance and development of late.
It's common knowledge among musicians that the songwriting in the middle of last century was of exceptional quality. Many of them converged at Woodstock, of course, but the glue to hold the group together has dissolved. I've noticed some emerging artists that are quite good, however, and the new global trend is highly promising with merging of styles out of Africa and India combined with Western. Many of these musicians were raised in the West but have returned to their roots and the results are quite satisfying in many cases.
Since our vision is limited in scope, I always thought our ears were like eyes to complete the 360. They are essential in establishing our position in space and time and for ensuring our safety. They see in the dark.
It's fascinating about Song to the Siren. In recent years a whole bunch of singers have recorded it. Amazing how a 40 year old song can return and also bring ancient mythology along. I'll post a version with lyrics so you can get the full effect.
"It's fascinating about Song to the Siren. In recent years a whole bunch of singers have recorded it. Amazing how a 40 year old song can return and also bring ancient mythology along. I'll post a version with lyrics so you can get the full effect."
Thank you!
Yes, the Song to the Siren is evocative on many levels; it is many layered and many dimensioned. A wonderful song.
Our individual moods and longings are, in a sense, infectious by way of innate empathy. The clear expression of emotional energy will elicit similar emotions in those who respond to it; it helps them to articulate the wordless longings of which they have been unconscious, bringing them a step closer to shaping the quality and conditions of experience.
The creative force of the song impels, almost demands, its more gifted hearers to interpret it freshly, adding to its life, adapting to new generations of listeners. The power of the song is such that it births new versions, so to speak, which live through their hearers. They will sense more in the song than ears alone can hear. Though the hearers may remain silent, their emotions sing in response.
Music particularly abounds with excellent examples of the life of the work being more than lyrics on the page, more than particular tones, more than melody, more than a particular performance. For all of its structure and discipline, there is inherent openness which invites novelty and fresh vitality. From the podcast on the page of auditory illusions that I listened to earlier, I learned that a machine-generated chorale performed with mathematical precision by a computer can sound atrocious and repellent, whereas the same composition (albeit composed by a machine rather than by a human) as performed by a group of human singers becomes magnificient. Like all life, the song must be more the sum of the parts, and can only be incompletely expressed at any given time. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, it must interact; it must be shared.
The musician Rodriguez is an intriguing figure in part for the incomplete expression of his genius. Perhaps it is not unlike a work of art that implies more than can be seen within the bounds of the picture frame, or heard during the duration of the song.
It occurs to me now that, in its blend of structure and openness to novelty, through preparation and expectation, art demonstrates an almost magical effect more than effort of will and strength of desire can achieve. Sort of like a really good therapist or educator, ha. Bad therapists and poor educators, of course, have missed the point! In fact, today, some math educators are beginning to learn from the methods of theater, because of the remarkable results achieved by a volunteer weekend math tutor whose main work and primary income is in playwriting. If I may borrow from mythological metaphor, at some point, we must make room for the gods to step in.
In mythology, the muses were said to be born of earth and sky, which hints at the origins of much inspiration in natural sources of awe and beauty. Music especially has accompanied humans throughout its long evolution, preceding the invention of words. In the podcast, it is mentioned that there are common melodic patterns used by parents throughout the world, regardless of their native languages and cultures, to communicate meaning and guidance to their infants. Remove the words and leave the tones, say, by substituting a flute or violin for the human voice, and the warnings and encouragements will still communicate as such.
What might we as a species be "saying" to ourselves through the nonverbal aspects of our communications, in our private lives, and in shared mass events and experiences? I can only wonder whether the renewed popularity of specific works and themes could be indicative.
"Since our vision is limited in scope, I always thought our ears were like eyes to complete the 360. They are essential in establishing our position in space and time and for ensuring our safety. They see in the dark."
Seeing in the dark, hearing in the silence. This is an interesting clue. A kind of synesthesia underlies much perception, I suspect.
In mythology, the muses were said to be born of earth and sky, which hints at the origins of much inspiration in natural sources of awe and beauty. Music especially has accompanied humans throughout its long evolution, preceding the invention of words. In the podcast, it is mentioned that there are common melodic patterns used by parents throughout the world, regardless of their native languages and cultures, to communicate meaning and guidance to their infants. Remove the words and leave the tones, say, by substituting a flute or violin for the human voice, and the warnings and encouragements will still communicate as such.
Yes. I've heard those patterns everywhere in the world.
Music is a fluid accompaniment in our mundane lives. A river that carries us to the sea and keeps us moving preventing too much stagnation.
I think music originally developed as humans imitated the sounds of nature probably partly to keep a conversation going to make sure we were all with the program and attempting to communicate and cooperate with the beasts and the gods, since annihilation was always a possibility from every angle.
I think music originally developed as humans imitated the sounds of nature probably partlto keep a conversation going to make sure we were all with the program and attempting to communicate and cooperate with the beasts and the gods, since annihilation was always a possibility from every angle. The idea that music soothes the savage beast seems to be accurate.
I think music originally developed as humans imitated the sounds of nature probably partly to keep a conversation going to make sure we were all with the program and attempting to communicate and cooperate with the beasts and the gods, since annihilation was always a possibility from every angle.
What might we as a species be "saying" to ourselves through the nonverbal aspects of our communications, in our private lives, and in shared mass events and experiences? I can only wonder whether the renewed popularity of specific works and themes could be indicative.
I'm sure they are indicative. These days satellite radio is the tool of delivery which means that the same songs are played everywhere. I listen carefully for the clues. It goes in thematic cycles and right now they are in a soft classic rock cycle -- Eagles and what-not. sometimes the sounds are tense and aggressive, but now they are more gentle. So what is that saying?
Perhaps people are seeking relief from the obscene combative discourse that is dominating the other airwaves. Now the Xmas songs will take over which carves the association of the holiday with consumerism ever more deeply. Jesus, birth, and money. Quite a trio. In the bosom of fulfillment and security.
The screaming pole dancers have quieted down lately and one song that has emerged in a big way from the past is.....
Stuck in the Middle
Well I don't know why I came here tonight,
I got the feeling that something ain't right,
I'm so scared in case I fall off my chair,
And I'm wondering how I'll get down the stairs,
Clowns to the left of me,
Jokers to the right, here I am,
Stuck in the middle with you.
Stuck in the middle, indeed! So true in so many ways.
I am reminded of that saying, "Balance doesn't mean stuck in the middle!" May be important to remember at this time. Interestingly, if one considers the movement arts, then optimal balance has a quality of unstuckness -- being able to move in a variety of directions from a given point. The irrepressible music of the movement emerges again.
It's now 2014, a "7 year" according to those who like number mysticism. Like fashion forecasters whose work is to "predict" (some may say determine) color trends, I expect that they have been busily broadcasting to their peers what they think it signifies. Perhaps it's all about expectations, really.
A 7 year, according to an older text refreshingly untainted with the ambiguous abstractions of more contemporary New Age jargon, is a good year for continued financial improvement unless the previous year initiated a war. Internal disputes are more likely. It is associated with perfecting, polishing, repairs and review, and with the element of water. And, I like to think that it goes well with the circular and the spiral as a reminder of the ungraspable and uncontrollable. But in any case...
"Sometimes the sounds are tense and aggressive, but now they are more gentle. So what is that saying? Perhaps people are seeking relief from the obscene combative discourse that is dominating the other airwaves. Now the Xmas songs will take over which carves the association of the holiday with consumerism ever more deeply. Jesus, birth, and money. Quite a trio. In the bosom of fulfillment and security."
Perhaps we can detect from newsworthy and from private events a bit of an inward turn in the mass consciousness, making it a good time to weigh what's important to oneself, in light of one's core values. Jupiter in the water sign of Cancer could be a natural amplifier, for those attuned to that.
Some astrologers seem to be in a tizzy over the current Grand Cross but, as always, symbols don't well convey magnitude, and there are factors outside astrological spheres that have a say in how events unfold. And, of course, there's usually quite a bit of wiggle room for how one plays the hand one's been dealt.
Indeed, there seems to be a reminder to not allow perceived scarcity of time or of resources panic one into rash actions and poor planning, for that would naturally impact later events and set the tone for quite a while: I read earlier today that poor farmers make better decisions with better outcomes when they are less worried about the future, when they feel more secure. Worry causes them to make decisions that bring short-term gains but it also consumes cognitive resources, causing them to neglect important things that they could have easily done and knew they were supposed to do all along. It then becomes a cycle. Jupiter in Cancer could offer a key to breaking that cycle.
So that reminder, and the internal review, are two salient points emerging from the apparent noise as I contemplate it today.
It does not seem a time for inaction, however. There is also that contrast between empathy and egotism, and the broad array of choices between poles. How to act is a question posed by uncertain times: What to do when the right answer looks wrong, and the wrong answer looks right?
As I muse on, the Cardinal Grand Cross -- being in Aries, Cancer, Libra, and Capricorn -- in the context of the 7 year, brings to my mind the cards labelled with that same number in the Minor Arcana of the Tarot, and the four suits associated with the same elements as the signs of the Grand Cross.
Seven of Wands -- fire -- In this card, those who emphasize fire embroil themselves in the struggle for uncertain outcomes against opposing factors. Uranus in Aries is explosively compatible here.
Seven of Cups -- water -- In this card, those who emphasize water face a range of dreams and creative choices from which they may cull much of value if they do not forget themselves, say, in excess. This seems to go amiably well with Jupiter in Cancer.
Seven of Swords -- air -- In this card, the cleverness of air emphasizes initiative and expedience, but this may undermine the integrity of one's larger mission and one's own long-term potential. Perhaps we can relate this tension between utilitarian means and ideal ends to the lessons of Mars in Libra.
Seven of Pentacles -- earth -- In this card, perhaps we see one of the poor farmers we mentioned earlier, needing a sense of security to be able to make calculated risks more wisely. In the illustration, he patiently awaits the fruits of labor, knowing from experience that the alignment with intangible forces is crucial to success. A hint on time and how the miraculous seems to slip into existence between the moments, often when we cease to measure them -- as long as we've properly prepared the ground, weeded, sowed, watered and so on. There seems to be a little cabal (or more likely competing cabals as well as uncabals) of planets in Capricorn at present; we shall see what they have to show, for good or ill, from their best-laid plans and schemes.
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