"Words stand between silence and silence: between the silence of things and the silence of our own being. Between the silence of the world and the silence of God. When we have really met and known the world in silence, words do not separate us from the world nor form other men, nor from God, nor from ourselves because we no longer trust entirely in language to contain reality.

You are made in the image of what you desire.

I am aware of the need for constant self-revision and growth, leaving behind the renunciations of yesterday and yet in continuity with all my yesterdays. For to cling to the past is to lose one's continuity with the past, since this means clinging to what is no longer there. My ideas are always changing, always moving around one center, and I am always seeing that center, and I am always seeing that center from somewhere else. Hence, I will always be accused of inconsistency. But I will no longer be there to hear the accusation."
- Thomas Merton (:::wood s lot::: "the fitful tracing of a portal" )

- See: Artists


:: note :: ... the beginning of a new term . . .

treetops outside the temple
reach to caress each other
neonerve end tendrils
sensible to the years semblance
articulating the season

standstill partners
breathing catalytic agents
pause before your majestic grace
honour your knowing
return your gaze
return your particular pathos
return your caring

- See:Image

:: note :: . . . Happy Lunar New Year . . . nocturnorama . . .

oh the cunning primal history
the monumental affinities
the half concealed variegated traces
the radical labyrinthine relations
discursive , abandoned & intimate

- See: Poetry

:: note :: . . . too dark to see . . .

"The necessity for poetry is one of the most fundamental traits of the human race. But naturally we do not take that into account, any more than we take into account that dinner, and the next day again, dinner, is the condition of our remaining alive. Without poetry the soul and heart of man starves and dies. The only difference between them is that all men know, if they turn their minds to it, that without food they would die, and comparatively few people know that without poetry they would die. . . . Have I answered the question? I think I have. We should read poetry because only in that way can we know man in all his moods -- in the most beautiful thoughts of his heart, in his farthest reaches of imagination, in the tenderness of his love, in the nakedness and awe of his soul confronted with the terror and wonder of the Universe." (Critical Essays by Amy Lowell)

- See: Education

:: note :: . . . via manoverboard. . . why we should read poetry . . . the next essay examines the imagination connection

"Too often, poverty is confused with passivity." (COLORS)

- See: Politics

test

under the brilliant blue
standing on the icewater
swinging still water into flowing water
we let go . . . empty . . . wash  . . .  walk  on . . .

 dreams mingle in the delicate magic of possiblility
where one never knows where the sly ice may open adventure

- See: Poetry


:: note ::  . . . always beginning & ending be . . .

"Where have you been? Think of the first place you remember living. Think of the streets, pathways, bodies of water, train tracks and intersections that you remember. Try to remember the relationships of each. Find the farthest edges of each in your mind."
(memorymapping - [expandedfield.com] )

- See: Terms

:: note :: . . . always by a river . . . sand underneath foot . . . the opposite side rising towards an open expanse . . . ceaselessly changing sky . . . most often the calling of geese . . . to get to the river i must cross train tracks . . . the words of my mother warning "never cross the tracks". . . the water flows fast with a huge overgrown island in the middle . . . an iron bridge on one horizon & a concrete bridge on the other . . . a beaver swims silently by . . . the schoolyard is a couple of blocks behind me . . . i'm alone . . .

"How do we learn the things we value most?"
(EDN | Transformation: Stephen Downes and Will Richardson)

- See:Terms

:: note:: . . . a compassionate alliance . . . a deeper sense of inner reflection . . . giving to /sharing with others inspires our individual self . . . energy & play . . . transformation & reinvention . . . "If I listen to the wind I will hear the voices of my life" . . .

"Nine steps to living abundantly:  . . .   by seeking out the things and experiences that work for you in your core being . . .  the more I give away the more I get back . . .  being grateful . . .  Resentment, jealousy, envy and self-pity interfere with the free-flow of abundance . . .  forgiving . . .  receiving generously . . . make things happen . . . Believing . . . "    (ManOverBoard: Nine steps to living abundantly)

- See: Quotes

:: note :: . . . hmmm . . .

rose
water in
the life well.

dip
your hand
to splash knowledge.

wise
eyes to
seek crooked trees.

play
the moment
always and forever.

-See: Poetry

embrace
instability by
exposing the roots

extract
more explicit
meaning by rendering

enclosures
do reveal
the inner structure

- See: Poetry

::note:: . . . picture via wood s lot . . .

Teaching
creates heart
questions to live.


Live
heart questions
to create teaching


Heart
questions to
live create teaching


Questions
teach heart
to create life.

- See: Poetry

:: note :: . . . hay(na)ku . . .

" 'Aura' is an elusive term for that which is elusive. . . 'Aura' is an unfathomable darkness, unbridgeable distance, unexpected reciprocity. As such, it combines both negative and positive moments. On the one hand, it is a form of obscurity and inscrutability, a murky residue on the cultic origins of the work of art; on the other, it is a source of 'melancholy, incomparable beauty', a moment of mutual recognition, a mnemonic device for the remembrance of the dead. "(Gilloch | Walter Benjamin Critical Constellations | Benjamin On-Air, Benjamin on Aura 177 )

:: note :: . . . the young & the younger bring tears to my eyes . . . weave space & time into dancingness and singingness says the wisest of all . . . goodnight you dear souls . . . let us dream . . .

"Pure conceiving is the basis of every work of art. And it is always directed at two features: at the ideas and at nature in the process of de-forming itself. This means that every work of art is grounded in the imagination. Perhaps, even probably, to varying degrees. However, imagination is always incapable of constructing a work of art because as a de-forming agent it must always refer to something formed beyond itself, which then, when it enters the work, must itself become of fundamental importance for the work. Whenever such a formed element does not enter the work but is kept at a distance from it, for reasons of sentiment, pathos, or irony, such works regard the world of forms as a text to which they provide a commentary or an arabesque. Because they point beyond themselves, they are no more pure works of art than are riddles."

"The exact opposite of imagination is prophetic vision. Pure prophetic vision can not form the basis of a work, yet such vision enters into every great work of art. Prophetic vision is the ability to perceive the forms of the future; imagination is the awareness of the de-formations of the future. Prophecy is genius for premonitions; imagination is the genius for forgetting. Their perceptive intention is not based in either case on a cognitive intention (anymore than clairvoyance), but in a different manner in each instance."

"The imagination knows only constantly changing transitions. "

"In the great drama of the passing away of nature, the resurrection of nature repeats itself as an act. (Sunrise)/ Imagination plays a role on the last day of the world and the first. "

"Pure imagination is concerned exclusively with nature. It creates no new nature. Pure imagination, therefore, is not an inventive power. "(Imagination | Walter Benjamin Selected Writings Vol. 1 p 281-2)

:: note :: . . . reading Benjamin takes me through the long day & night . . .

Traveller
shadow figure you dance on the roof of the world beneath a rainbow on the wings of a condor

Do you you hear the flowing water whispering blue beneath the ice?

Love the questions for the living questions
and the sighs & seeds of life visible & flowing
on the surface are not obscene.

"Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer."(Rainer Maria Rilke, 1903 in Letters to a Young Poet)

"After I posted, I thought of Aleksandra's posts that talk about the process-oriented, braided 'poetics' of Balinese drama versus the less process-oriented poetics of Aristotle and much of western literature. Certainly writers involved in digital media have wrestled with the apparent disjunction between the structure of western narratives and drama, on the one hand, and the more process-oriented possibilities of new media. It may be that the sort of thing you and Aleksandra note--that useful paradigms for dramatic, process-oriented art exist (as in Balinese drama)--could be useful to writers and others. Interesting that the 'braided process' approach is not only of drama but song and dance...Greek theatre also had these elements...it seems likely that the roots of Greek drama go back to religious rites/rituals (so much work done on that matter by the 'Cambridge anthropologists' Jane Harrison et all)."

"I wonder if you know when the Balinesians acquired writing? Much later than their dramatic form? It would be natural for writing to be strongly influential on form emerging from cultures that have writing."

"I'm currently reading one of the better books I've encountered in a long time, called Snow by the Turkish novelist Orhan Pamuk. Though there are conventional progressions between chapters in the narrative, you can pick it up at any point and its interesting to read from there. That's a fairly 'simple' poetics, in a sense, but difficult to achieve: excellence at every point. I suppose it doesn't hurt that the main character is a poet."

"The approach is hinted at in the first paragraph of chapter one (titled The Journey to Kars). "The silence of snow, thought the man sitting just behind the bus driver. If this were the beginning of a poem, he would have called the thing he felt inside him the silence of snow." A wonderful introduction to the character's poetics--and the novelist's. Poetics as what we mediate experience and language with. - ja http://subtle.net/empyre"

(http://vispo.com | empyre forum | empyre@lists.cofa.unsw.edu.au | http://www.subtle.net/empyre )

:: note :: . . . thoughtful forum discussion . . . subscribed on&off to this forum for years now . . . each month a new topic . . . layers & layers of ideas storm and turmoil blindingly. . . blizzard . . . whiteout . . . after the saturated hope & after all branched off fate . . . would call the thing he felt inside him the silence of whiteout . . .

:: note :: . . . every snowman needs a feather . . . Irving would have loved it . . . as a high school student his works were one of my first sources into the power of words . . . rage, rage, rage into the good night old ageless man . . .

three days the sky wept
on the sunday afternoon
a patch of blue sky opened
not enough to see the sun
for the clouds still shrouded the mountain tops

slow heavy steps
led to the river
"why, why, why" cried
the place behind the eye

the fast winter flowing water replied
"let the why rest"

narrow winding paths
of fern & cedar
take you to & from this place
between

listen to the unseen raven
find where the mosses cover
the roof of the world

dear sister
when I next come
knocking at your door
please answer quietly
for your bed has been made

(12/25/05 Hope,BC)

:: note :: . . . written the day before the Hope service I knew she was to be buried in Saskatoon . . . two days later my hand held the the urn and placed it gently to bed touching the earth's bottom . . . to those reading i have the need to apologize . . . the mourning is private . . . i share the privacy . . . take care of the ones around you . . .

open the sky

carrying ashes
in corridors of time between
the gold light shadows wander

where are you now?

in the mist
there was a mountainside departing
where dancing in the pew
a child chants
tip toe tip toe tip toe
& a son wept waiting

at the edge of the foothills
in a glass stained hallway
a weary night comes
bringing no rest
no sleep
just an uneasy truce

the black bag
heavy single strap
weighs the shoulder
a temporary station
on a life long journey
towards immortality

where will you go?

you shall be home soon
soon south of the loon cry
follow the calling geese

open the sky

(calgary airport12/27/05)

I Shall Be Released
Bob Dylan

They say everything can be replaced
They say every distance is not near
So I remember every face
Of every man who put me here.

I see my light come shining
From the west unto the east
Any day now, any day now,
I shall be released.

They say every man needs protection
They say every man must fall
So I swear I see my reflection
Someplace so high above this wall.

I see my light come shining
from the west unto the east
Any day now, any day now,
I shall be released.

Standing next to me in this lonely crowd
Is a man who swears he's not to blame
All day long I hear him shout so loud
Crying out that he was framed.

I see my light come shining
from the west unto the east
Any day now, any day now,
I shall be released.

:: note :: . . . these words have been a solace during many times as they are again . . .