“The only thing an astrologer can do is predict the past.”
That is a call for magic if I ever heard one.
I have been thinking a lot again about the double slit experiment, and how nothing happens in the world until it has been observed. I have been thinking about where I put my attention. And what, by doing so, I help make happen in the world.
A Dutch photographer with racy wedding picts says, “This isn’t 1900”. Another headline in the “news” (again, quotes are mine). First thought? Send this guy a link with some Ancient Roman ceramic motifs. And maybe some etchings from the Victorian era? Second thought? We have, literally in our hands, pedestrian access to historical information on a scale that no one could have dreamed of in 1900. And yet, we are still stuck in our adolescent view of having invented everything ourselves – from sex, to hand-wringing despair over the idiocy of the younger generation.
Sunday Thoughts: Aeon.co short film by Chris Landreth. At the risk of courting the ire of my friends who feel strongly on the subject of monetary compensation for their art work (and I do not disagree, in general), I believe this is where we go wrong: believing we are entitled to economic compensation for “our” […]
It’s kind of like a second date. We took the same route as last weekend. And this time the veil of fog was gone. A steady, small gale blew over the stretches of open landscape. Catching us from side, front or pushing us as we made the circle of the trail. The sun had half-set: […]
Isn’t there a culture that conceptualizes the future as something that comes at us from behind to overtake us? Maybe they are the only ones to have it right. All this planning, all the mirages we see ahead of us. The clump of earth that should be frozen, but that rushes suddenly from behind to slip into the present, under your foot, in the form of soft and giving mud. And there you have it: the irretraceable moment that is a wet sock.
(And my apology to email subscribers for the premature publishing of a draft yesterday.) Carolee, Last night I read the day’s poem from A Year With Rilke before bed. Since your letter last week, I’ve been reading them aloud. This poem was actually a letter: [..N]ow at last I can breathe. Now everything is […]
Oh, but if I could stay home and pay my bills with an interview a day, I would. But this is the next best thing. I’ve invited poets to send in their stories about how poetry (or a poem) has made a difference in their lives. See details here. This first Xtra Voices episode features […]
It became one of those jokes that becomes a joke because you just keep returning to it.
Pointlessly, yet with such great effect.
This weekend, I realised that, in light of the social climate in the United States, and as a woman who will always be the “trailer park girl” (despite a solid education and liberal political view), I thought it was necessary to speak up:
To remind these historians of the fact that education is a privilege – and was even more so 200 years ago when less than 50% of women in New England were could read. That spelling is not an indication of intelligence, and that the assumption that it is looks like class discrimination, and feels like contempt.
I’ve had colleagues – musicians – who have quit teaching, to work in offices or detailing cars. They said that teaching was sapping their creative energy. I have thought about it, but come to the conclusion that my creativity can’t be sapped by other kinds of creative work – it all primes the pump.
What I do believe is that, speaking only for myself, being the handmaiden for other people’s creativity can be a source of envy – and that needs to be dealt with honestly.
And, even though I do get up at 5 and write before “work”, I’d be upset if I thought my students believed that I gave them my “second-best effort”.
I’d be ashamed if I did.