The 'avant garde', 'experimentalism' in poetry, all that stuff: waste of time, yes?
Not at all. My own inclination would be that the avant-garde is where interesting stuff happens and then in due course filters back into the mainstream. Media and literature are fickle things and what is derided at the time often turns up later to surprise us: see, for instance cut-ups and collage and the 90’s phenomenon of mash-ups in music.
But the people who care about experiments in language, they don't matter, do they, in a wider society?
Who is to say what affects society? I don't know anyone who is out to ‘change the world,’ more that they are interested in language. On a personal level I've learnt that being able to be approachable and talk about my work in plain English wins over audiences.
So who actually matters when it comes to reading poetry? Why?
Anyone who is pushing boundaries. We all need amusing and entertaining, but the things that change the world are films/music/poems/novels that challenge us and make people think. On the poetry front, I for one am tired of shaggy-dog poems with a punch line. I'm far more intrigued by the big projects of Rachel Blau DuPlessis, Tony Lopez and Charles Olson.
There is an implication in some circles that without experimentation coming from the margins into wider society, society would stagnate. (Well, it's an idea I put forward in classes for debate.) But a common criticism of the avant garde is that it has sometimes (e.g. Eliot, Pound, et al, pre-World War 2, or Mottram, Griffiths, et al, 1970s) taken disproportionate control of mainstream channels in order to promote minority interests, to the detriment of wider readerships. You say, "Who is to say what affects society?" but this is an example of someone taking the reins and controlling. This is bad, yes?
If people understand how language (or paint, or photography, whatever) works then they can understand a wide variety of art forms. Postmodernism suggests linear narratives & histories are an outdated construct and that lots happens simultaneously and in a network. I would agree with this notion.
I would also argue that we live in an age of more and more diversity and smaller and smaller audiences. We can do what we want and probably find an audience for it. I don't know many poets, avant-garde or not, chasing fame and fortune. They, and I count myself in this, simply want their work read – and, in the main, the internet now facilitates that process.
Society and the media manipulate and are manipulated. That seems the way of things to me. I'm inclined towards democratic anarchy and individual responsibility – the latter means I would encourage people to think for themselves and engage with life in the fullest sense, including the arts.
I don't really want to get into a Mottram and Griffiths debate again. I think the Poetry Society saga they were involved in has been blown out of all proportion by both sides. I am on record elsewhere, and am happy to be so again, saying that actually in the late 70s and early 80s the exciting poetry stuff was happening elsewhere in London anyway. I didn't expect the Poetry Society to be relevant or exciting, there was too much improvised music & film, performance poetry, postpunk music, and exciting visual arts and dance/performance theatre going on to worry about damp rooms in Earls Court, or who was controlling the duplicator in the basement.
You say "the avant garde is where the interesting stuff happens", but this is relative. If the “interesting stuff” is only interesting to a minority, then surely it is merely “stuff that interests geeks”? You point out that some stuff does cross over, like cut up and collage techniques, which implies that the geeks get left behind. Do you think geeks deserve more recognition for what they do, or should they continue to work in obscurity and let people with a better understanding of the mainstream carry their ideas across to society? And why?
Who you calling a geek? As I said in my last answer, the world has more and more small networks. I'm happy in my network[s] of readers, colleagues, friends, publishers, students and fellow writers. Human beings all have different tastes, and that's fine.
We all need entertaining at times – so sometimes I watch TV and sometimes I like funny rhyming poetry – but I can't abide people telling me they are writers when they don't understand how language works and what it can do. You don't have to like Jackson Mac Low or Charles Bernstein's poetry, but it's not incomprehensible: if you move beyond content, the poems work in the same ways that mainstream poets do. That is the work is constructed with language, with words, deliberately organised and arranged for the viewer (even if a chance procedure has been used in the writing process).
I always get my students to approach a poem with that in mind, to accept it as finished work the way the author wanted it – and to engage with how it has been made and what it might be doing, then on to content and what it says, and lastly whether or not they like it (which I'm not that interested in anyway; we're usually looking at poems to find out about poems, not the students' tastes).
And to close, a two part question about “shaggy dog poems with a punch line”: Why are you tired of them? And, given the prevalence of this kind of work in current publishing, doesn't this suggest that it has more importance to poetry's readership than you give credit for? [I'm thinking partly of Pound's loathing of 'How to write' manuals, but his feeling that there was something a student of language and writing could learn from them - but what?]
I'm confused that you think marketing and mainstream publishing has anything to do with readership? We all know the 'big' publishers don't sell a lot of poetry books apart from a few authors (Carol Ann Duffy, Roger McGough, Ted Hughes, etc). It's fashion and marketing, and I don't worry about it.
I've played some of those games in the past as a publisher, sometimes to good effect, but basically they absorb a lot of time and effort that can be better used actually publishing work and getting readers. More than ever, with print-on-demand and the internet, and the current state of the mainstream book trade, it's easier than ever to sell books and find readers. However, it's harder than ever to break the financial and fashionable strangleholds of the publishers who cling to the outdated publishing model of warehousing long print runs, and investing huge amounts of money supporting teams of staff and wining & dining competition judges. Those days are gone. Salt and Shearsman prove it – they are currently where the poetry powerhouses are.
As for why I don't like poems that are shaggy dog stories… I don't want to know answers, I want more questions. I don't want to empathise with an author, I want to be told something new. I don't want confession, polemic, opinions, wise thoughts or epiphanies. I think there are more interesting things to be said and more interesting ways to say them. That probably makes me a geek in your reference terms above, but I can honestly say I want poems to challenge, excite, confuse and astound me. Small-minded narrative squibs usually don't do any of that. I like poems I can return to time and time again; that continue to befuddle and confound, amuse and irritate me.
I really do think that works, such as The Waste Land and The Cantos, Berryman's Dream Songs, The Maximus Poems and others, last because they can't be pinned down, however many books get written about them. They continue to intrigue, because of their very ambition, complexity and language. We need more ambitious writers – whether they are revitalising a traditional form (there seems to be a spate of sonneteers around at the moment) or creating their own projects. Rachel Blau DuPlessis's Drafts project is just such an intriguing and ambitious work; Robert Sheppard's Twentieth Century Blues project also.
===
Rupert Loydell's latest collection of poetry, An Experiment in Navigation, will be published by Shearsman in April 2008. See also Stride Books, Stride Magazine
Saturday, 19 January 2008
Tuesday, 15 January 2008
Emily Hasler - What Should an Anthology Be?
No Other City: The Ethos Anthology of Urban Poetry. ed. Alvin Pang and Aaron Lee. Singapore: Ethos Books, 2000.
“Don’t say anything at all,” was my first response, since I had nothing nice to say about this collection. And anyway, what could I have to say about Singaporean poetry as I sat reading this anthology of urban poetry, an attempt to render the city-state of Singapore, while I was holed up in a cottage in Snowdonia. The poems are by professional and amateur poets, commissioned by the editors as a communal project, a building and cementing process.
The foreword describes the peculiarity of living in Singapore, its claustrophobia, and the need for a special poetry that addresses this, what the introduction describes as “a handle on life”. This is actually best depicted in some beautiful prose that makes up the afterword, rendering what rests between these two bookends – that is the poems – pointless since the poems themselves don’t have much to offer. There are good poems here, but overall the quality left me feeling frustrated as I trudged from one end to the other.
I decided what went wrong here was the decision to make such an anthology in the first place. It is hard to criticise what strikes me as an essentially worthy idea, to promote Singaporean poetry and raise awareness of established poets and give amateurs encouragement. However, when I pick up an anthology I do so for a particular reason. I want to be able to flick to any page and find a poem that is interesting on its own and also in the context of the collection.
Readers expect an anthology to contain the cream, the very best. If they enjoy what they are presented with in the anthology they are then persuaded to approach other poems. If an anthology that claims to contain the poetry of a certain place, culture or group doesn’t display consistently engaging and well-crafted poetry then it risks putting a reader off from the moment of initial contact, ultimately alienating them altogether. Perhaps the only way of avoiding this is to collect finished poems rather than commissioning. This not only ensures the quality will be high but means that the falsity inherent in a planned out project for poetry – an approach that becomes wish-fulfilment rather than a true reflection of the poetic scene – is evaded. An anthology of urban poetry from Singapore along these lines would convey the vibrant and varying nature of the city and its poetry far better.
“Don’t say anything at all,” was my first response, since I had nothing nice to say about this collection. And anyway, what could I have to say about Singaporean poetry as I sat reading this anthology of urban poetry, an attempt to render the city-state of Singapore, while I was holed up in a cottage in Snowdonia. The poems are by professional and amateur poets, commissioned by the editors as a communal project, a building and cementing process.
The foreword describes the peculiarity of living in Singapore, its claustrophobia, and the need for a special poetry that addresses this, what the introduction describes as “a handle on life”. This is actually best depicted in some beautiful prose that makes up the afterword, rendering what rests between these two bookends – that is the poems – pointless since the poems themselves don’t have much to offer. There are good poems here, but overall the quality left me feeling frustrated as I trudged from one end to the other.
I decided what went wrong here was the decision to make such an anthology in the first place. It is hard to criticise what strikes me as an essentially worthy idea, to promote Singaporean poetry and raise awareness of established poets and give amateurs encouragement. However, when I pick up an anthology I do so for a particular reason. I want to be able to flick to any page and find a poem that is interesting on its own and also in the context of the collection.
Readers expect an anthology to contain the cream, the very best. If they enjoy what they are presented with in the anthology they are then persuaded to approach other poems. If an anthology that claims to contain the poetry of a certain place, culture or group doesn’t display consistently engaging and well-crafted poetry then it risks putting a reader off from the moment of initial contact, ultimately alienating them altogether. Perhaps the only way of avoiding this is to collect finished poems rather than commissioning. This not only ensures the quality will be high but means that the falsity inherent in a planned out project for poetry – an approach that becomes wish-fulfilment rather than a true reflection of the poetic scene – is evaded. An anthology of urban poetry from Singapore along these lines would convey the vibrant and varying nature of the city and its poetry far better.
Sunday, 13 January 2008
Simon Turner - Marginal Notes (3)
The only time where language has failed me completely was when my grandfather died, and I was writing – or attempting to write – a letter to my grandmother, telling her how sorry I was, how much I would miss him. No words seemed appropriate to the emotions I wanted to express, and I spent a solid hour in the library staring at a blank page before writing a few terse sentences, no doubt identical to what people are always reduced to when faced with the blunt facts of death: I’m so sorry, I will miss him so much.
*
I wrote the first poem I was ever truly satisfied with at that same desk, or one very like it, but certainly on the same floor of the university library. I cannot remember now what the poem was about, though I can recall that one of the images – hands compared to starfish clinging to a rock (was that the exact phrasing?) – was stolen from the Odyssey, which I was studying at the time. I no longer have a copy of the poem, and I suspect if I were to read it now, at such a distance from the originating emotions that went into its production, I would be embarrassed at its gaucheness, its lack of form or rigour. At the time, however, it meant a lot to me: I spent three uninterrupted days writing that poem, skipping meals and lectures, and only stopped when I was sure it was absolutely right.
*
At college, I had the opportunity to go on a writing weekend in Aberystwyth. I very nearly missed out on this chance, as I had put my name down late in the term, and was only on the reserve list, but luckily someone dropped out and I weaselled my way in. Aberystwyth, I remember, was hilly, or, no, it was built partially on a hill. I remember, too, taking a trip along the coast by rail with all the other students on the course to a desolate strip of shingle beach. Very Welsh: mist over everything, and the waves galumphing up the shore. I did get a couple of poems out of it, one of them in a loosely mystical mode (shot-through with apocalyptic undercurrents), the other revolving around a protracted – and, I now know, clichéd – comparison between the movements of the tide and sexual desire. I knew nothing about sexual desire, fulfilled or otherwise, but I enjoyed the sound the words made when I wrote them down, and the tutors seemed to like it, so the authenticity of the material was not really an issue to me. Now, however, I can see things differently, more clearly, and I recognise that my ocean-sex poem represented a false start, a bum note. Maybe I should have written a poem about getting drunk in an Aberystwyth pub instead – at least it would have been true – but I’ll make up for my lapse in judgement by writing about it now. I’d never really been drunk before, and found myself saying things I wouldn’t normally say – such as arguing that the legalisation of heroin was preferable, purely from the perspective of medical health, to keeping it classified as illegal – and behaving in ways that were quite out of character. Towards the end of the evening, I stumbled outside for some fresh air, and noticed that the rain falling through the streetlights looked like insects dancing. I tried to tell one of the tutors about this, but they just smiled or laughed, I don’t remember which, thinking I was drunk, which I was, a little, but missing, I think, the essential point of what I was trying to say. I walked back through the rain to the university accommodation where we’d been housed for the weekend, arm in arm with another lad whose name I can’t now remember, singing Queen songs at the top of our lungs.
*
I wrote the first poem I was ever truly satisfied with at that same desk, or one very like it, but certainly on the same floor of the university library. I cannot remember now what the poem was about, though I can recall that one of the images – hands compared to starfish clinging to a rock (was that the exact phrasing?) – was stolen from the Odyssey, which I was studying at the time. I no longer have a copy of the poem, and I suspect if I were to read it now, at such a distance from the originating emotions that went into its production, I would be embarrassed at its gaucheness, its lack of form or rigour. At the time, however, it meant a lot to me: I spent three uninterrupted days writing that poem, skipping meals and lectures, and only stopped when I was sure it was absolutely right.
*
At college, I had the opportunity to go on a writing weekend in Aberystwyth. I very nearly missed out on this chance, as I had put my name down late in the term, and was only on the reserve list, but luckily someone dropped out and I weaselled my way in. Aberystwyth, I remember, was hilly, or, no, it was built partially on a hill. I remember, too, taking a trip along the coast by rail with all the other students on the course to a desolate strip of shingle beach. Very Welsh: mist over everything, and the waves galumphing up the shore. I did get a couple of poems out of it, one of them in a loosely mystical mode (shot-through with apocalyptic undercurrents), the other revolving around a protracted – and, I now know, clichéd – comparison between the movements of the tide and sexual desire. I knew nothing about sexual desire, fulfilled or otherwise, but I enjoyed the sound the words made when I wrote them down, and the tutors seemed to like it, so the authenticity of the material was not really an issue to me. Now, however, I can see things differently, more clearly, and I recognise that my ocean-sex poem represented a false start, a bum note. Maybe I should have written a poem about getting drunk in an Aberystwyth pub instead – at least it would have been true – but I’ll make up for my lapse in judgement by writing about it now. I’d never really been drunk before, and found myself saying things I wouldn’t normally say – such as arguing that the legalisation of heroin was preferable, purely from the perspective of medical health, to keeping it classified as illegal – and behaving in ways that were quite out of character. Towards the end of the evening, I stumbled outside for some fresh air, and noticed that the rain falling through the streetlights looked like insects dancing. I tried to tell one of the tutors about this, but they just smiled or laughed, I don’t remember which, thinking I was drunk, which I was, a little, but missing, I think, the essential point of what I was trying to say. I walked back through the rain to the university accommodation where we’d been housed for the weekend, arm in arm with another lad whose name I can’t now remember, singing Queen songs at the top of our lungs.
Saturday, 12 January 2008
Shearsman Reading Series
Just picked up the first notice of this year's Shearsman events in London. Tony Frazer, who runs Shearsman, put on some fantastic readers last year, not least of which was an exclusive event with Christopher Middleton (who is also published by Enitharmon).
I'm very disappointed I can't make this one, mainly because of Elisabeth Bletsoe. I first stumbled on her work through Tony's guest editing of Poetry International Web (which also featured Frances Presley and Peter Riley). I was blown away.
If you get there, let us know what you think...
The first in Shearsman's 2008 Reading Series takes place on Wednesday, 16 January at 7:30 pm, featuring Elisabeth Bletsoe & Peter Robinson.
Swedenborg Hall
Swedenborg House
20/21 Bloomsbury Way
London WC1A 2TH
Admission free.
The entrance is around the corner on Barter Street.
Closest Tube Stations: Holborn (Central & Piccadilly Lines : 4 minutes' walk), Tottenham Court Road (Central & Northern Lines: 6 minutes), Covent Garden (Piccadilly Line: 10 minutes). Several buses stop a few yards from the Hall. There is an underground carpark close by, underneath Bloomsbury Square. Disabled access is available, but please let us know in advance if it is required.
Further details here of the venue:www.shearsman.com/pages/editorial/readings.html
I'm very disappointed I can't make this one, mainly because of Elisabeth Bletsoe. I first stumbled on her work through Tony's guest editing of Poetry International Web (which also featured Frances Presley and Peter Riley). I was blown away.
If you get there, let us know what you think...
The first in Shearsman's 2008 Reading Series takes place on Wednesday, 16 January at 7:30 pm, featuring Elisabeth Bletsoe & Peter Robinson.
Swedenborg Hall
Swedenborg House
20/21 Bloomsbury Way
London WC1A 2TH
Admission free.
The entrance is around the corner on Barter Street.
Closest Tube Stations: Holborn (Central & Piccadilly Lines : 4 minutes' walk), Tottenham Court Road (Central & Northern Lines: 6 minutes), Covent Garden (Piccadilly Line: 10 minutes). Several buses stop a few yards from the Hall. There is an underground carpark close by, underneath Bloomsbury Square. Disabled access is available, but please let us know in advance if it is required.
Further details here of the venue:www.shearsman.com/pages/editorial/readings.html
Friday, 21 December 2007
Three Poems by Annie Katchinska
Healer
You pulled me through scabby streets
into a lift where drawings of fleshy girls
peeled from the walls. I was to be healed.
The apartment of cats breathing dust, cut-outs of kittens
and roses and shining blue eyes was meant to be a kind of heaven.
Black-draped, she gripped my hands and whispered, "Yes, yes.
Yes, yes" as you prodded the craters in my skin, said my face in home video
shurt you. – I imagined you, piously trembling as I ate lollies, ran
down a beach caked in salt and sand. – There were thousands
of eyes then, and fur against my legs as she slurped
holy water, scratched airy crosses, spat
in my face and moaned at the floor,
you hovering like the cruellest flower.
I tried to speak to you but my mouth seemed full
of roses, the light was smothered by cats,
her fingers lashing at my red marks and blisters
as far off somewhere you pressed yourself
against a wall and yowled at me to pray.
These days I remember the itch on my elbow
as we came home, you sniffing and cooking me bland potatoes,
running me endless baths, making a mental note:
things will always be wrong. We send you photos you dislike,
and you sit in your dressing gown skimming
the scraps of alien things, our wonky grins;
we think of your living room full of flawed children,
faces slammed down, chewing dust. How sick we are, you wheeze,
how sick we are.
French Politics
They stand on scraps of broadsheet leaves, behind
this red-brick building; he’s been talking since
they left; the alley’s dim, his speech unwinds,
unwinds, unwinds, newspapered fingerprints
smudge over her; he throws out figures, names,
analysis, statistics, sparkling things
economists have said, “it’s all a game”
he laughs; her neck is cold; he clings and clings
to her; the calculations crumble, she
tastes like a broken wine glass as he smears
her lips with numbers, begging her to see;
knowing, of course, he will not find it here
he presses her against the dark red bricks.
He knows she doesn’t get French politics.
Summer in the City
This afternoon postcards with the Queen's head on them
have been quietly disappearing from the soggy racks, as dozens
of us have scrawled I MISS YOU IT'S AWFUL on the back
not knowing where to send them. Or so I like to think.
Though perhaps there are others whose knees buckle on buses
crashing through Catford, sometimes, when Crazy Bus Lady, a local
celebrity, throws back her head to howl Amazing Grace
at us, the rattling cattle. There must be others who notice
rain-beaten cafe tables and secluded spots in parks
where someone is missing, who pass through a square remembering
its Legoland equivalent. By the way, the woman we saw
in her black and white silks and painted misery
is still there, sobbing on the street corner as if all her bones
are breaking to pieces, the hat by her feet glinting toothily
with pound coins. Everywhere I go I hear brass bands.
Annie Katchinska is originally from Moscow and currently lives in London, where she's in her final year of school. She has won the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award twice and in 2007 came second in the Christopher Tower poetry competition. Annie is part of the editorial team of Pomegranate (www.pomegranate.me.uk), an online zine that publishes young poets. She also rambles a bit at murielmatters.blogspot.com.
You pulled me through scabby streets
into a lift where drawings of fleshy girls
peeled from the walls. I was to be healed.
The apartment of cats breathing dust, cut-outs of kittens
and roses and shining blue eyes was meant to be a kind of heaven.
Black-draped, she gripped my hands and whispered, "Yes, yes.
Yes, yes" as you prodded the craters in my skin, said my face in home video
shurt you. – I imagined you, piously trembling as I ate lollies, ran
down a beach caked in salt and sand. – There were thousands
of eyes then, and fur against my legs as she slurped
holy water, scratched airy crosses, spat
in my face and moaned at the floor,
you hovering like the cruellest flower.
I tried to speak to you but my mouth seemed full
of roses, the light was smothered by cats,
her fingers lashing at my red marks and blisters
as far off somewhere you pressed yourself
against a wall and yowled at me to pray.
These days I remember the itch on my elbow
as we came home, you sniffing and cooking me bland potatoes,
running me endless baths, making a mental note:
things will always be wrong. We send you photos you dislike,
and you sit in your dressing gown skimming
the scraps of alien things, our wonky grins;
we think of your living room full of flawed children,
faces slammed down, chewing dust. How sick we are, you wheeze,
how sick we are.
French Politics
They stand on scraps of broadsheet leaves, behind
this red-brick building; he’s been talking since
they left; the alley’s dim, his speech unwinds,
unwinds, unwinds, newspapered fingerprints
smudge over her; he throws out figures, names,
analysis, statistics, sparkling things
economists have said, “it’s all a game”
he laughs; her neck is cold; he clings and clings
to her; the calculations crumble, she
tastes like a broken wine glass as he smears
her lips with numbers, begging her to see;
knowing, of course, he will not find it here
he presses her against the dark red bricks.
He knows she doesn’t get French politics.
Summer in the City
This afternoon postcards with the Queen's head on them
have been quietly disappearing from the soggy racks, as dozens
of us have scrawled I MISS YOU IT'S AWFUL on the back
not knowing where to send them. Or so I like to think.
Though perhaps there are others whose knees buckle on buses
crashing through Catford, sometimes, when Crazy Bus Lady, a local
celebrity, throws back her head to howl Amazing Grace
at us, the rattling cattle. There must be others who notice
rain-beaten cafe tables and secluded spots in parks
where someone is missing, who pass through a square remembering
its Legoland equivalent. By the way, the woman we saw
in her black and white silks and painted misery
is still there, sobbing on the street corner as if all her bones
are breaking to pieces, the hat by her feet glinting toothily
with pound coins. Everywhere I go I hear brass bands.
Annie Katchinska is originally from Moscow and currently lives in London, where she's in her final year of school. She has won the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award twice and in 2007 came second in the Christopher Tower poetry competition. Annie is part of the editorial team of Pomegranate (www.pomegranate.me.uk), an online zine that publishes young poets. She also rambles a bit at murielmatters.blogspot.com.
Tuesday, 13 November 2007
Simon Turner - Marginal Notes (2)
The proliferation of media has resulted, too, in a proliferation of selves. We leave behind traces - in CCTV, digital photographs, emails, phone calls, comments on the internet - which take on a life independent of our bodies. When I die, the traces I have left behind will live on in a technological half-life, never to be erased. Such a thought is unsettling. When we write a book or compose a symphony, we are making a conscious choice to create an artifact that will, hopefully, outlive us. What is so unsettling about our technological ghosts is their ephemeral nature: we are leaving a monument of our most vacuous selves each time we send an email, every time we update our Facebook page. If we could clone ourselves from the virtual genetic trail of our technological journeys, I doubt that we would recognise the result. We would see a parody, a grotesque exaggeration of all those characteristics we had hoped would be airbrushed out of our obituaries. The proliferation of media does not allow for this rather old fashioned self-censorship: we are writing our obituaries on an almost hourly basis.
*
The self, in Buddhism, is a kind of learned behaviour: it is a matter, chiefly, of differentiation. 'I' is only 'I', that is, because it is not 'you', or it is not 'chair' or 'sky' or 'music'. It is a habit, in short, that we fall into at an early age, when we begin to learn how to distinguish objects and concepts in our immediate environment through the medium of language. Before this, before we take on the role of Adam, the world presents itself as an undifferentiated mass. Naming lends a certain clarity of purpose to the world and its objects. But at the same time, language serves to sever us, to deny us a total connection to the world. We can never know a tree, for example, if we have already named it, because the word 'tree' carries with it a whole universe of associations and embedded significances which are quite distinct from the physical fact of the tree in itself. Likewise, to truly know ourselves, we must do away with the semantic formality of 'I'. It, like 'tree', is simply a name - an arbitrary one at that - and as such an impediment to a deeper understanding of ourselves and our place in the universe. Sometimes I think this is why so many mystics and holy men choose to separate themselves off from the human community: the absence of speech means an absence of language, and the absence of language might well be the first step towards our reconciliation with the total being of the universe.
*
23/10/2007: A full moon tonight: a perfect silver-white disc. In the early evening I watched it make its first appearance, tentatively peeping from behind a chimney across the street, a peachy flush from the last of the sun tainting its colouration. Minutes later it was clear of the houses, more sure of itself now, slowly rolling towards the apex of its orbit. Later that night, walking home after a couple of drinks with friends in the local, I saw it flare from the centre of an absolute darkness, like a perfect unexpected thought.
*
The self, in Buddhism, is a kind of learned behaviour: it is a matter, chiefly, of differentiation. 'I' is only 'I', that is, because it is not 'you', or it is not 'chair' or 'sky' or 'music'. It is a habit, in short, that we fall into at an early age, when we begin to learn how to distinguish objects and concepts in our immediate environment through the medium of language. Before this, before we take on the role of Adam, the world presents itself as an undifferentiated mass. Naming lends a certain clarity of purpose to the world and its objects. But at the same time, language serves to sever us, to deny us a total connection to the world. We can never know a tree, for example, if we have already named it, because the word 'tree' carries with it a whole universe of associations and embedded significances which are quite distinct from the physical fact of the tree in itself. Likewise, to truly know ourselves, we must do away with the semantic formality of 'I'. It, like 'tree', is simply a name - an arbitrary one at that - and as such an impediment to a deeper understanding of ourselves and our place in the universe. Sometimes I think this is why so many mystics and holy men choose to separate themselves off from the human community: the absence of speech means an absence of language, and the absence of language might well be the first step towards our reconciliation with the total being of the universe.
*
23/10/2007: A full moon tonight: a perfect silver-white disc. In the early evening I watched it make its first appearance, tentatively peeping from behind a chimney across the street, a peachy flush from the last of the sun tainting its colouration. Minutes later it was clear of the houses, more sure of itself now, slowly rolling towards the apex of its orbit. Later that night, walking home after a couple of drinks with friends in the local, I saw it flare from the centre of an absolute darkness, like a perfect unexpected thought.
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