Pardon. I fell into a crack of my own. Marked your post, to return after deleting the unwanted stuff. Then something, a paperclip perhaps, distracted me. I forgot.
You work so hard sometimes. Maybe I’m a happy simpleton, but the truth is easier I think. Difference is, sometimes I don’t see what’s in front of my nose ’cause the thoughts are all so big & distracting. My fault, you see.
Here’s a question. IF this is paradise, do you think we’re seeing it right?
I work to read everything you write. Always. Whether I understand or agree, or like what you write, sometimes I see you struggle, see you uncomfortable. IF I were there in person, could I make you smile? I don’t know. I try. For now, I’ll read.
Maybe the truth is everything. Older I get, less fussy I get. Sometimes I look at something common enough, I know what it is, but I see something else. Body feels more rigid, thoughts more fluid. Observation, no meaning meant.
When asked to choose these days, think I choose everything. Who or what am I to make a fuss. Been looking at the end-of-days for a while now. Different when personal. NOT THAT I’m counting days and no element of BooHoo, poor me. Rather the question is what’s-writing-meant-to-be in moments like these. I really really don’t know. I am not “about” my well-being, but neither is it something invisible. There is an element of Liberation in consideration. But then, no shortage of elements! I may continue for some good while yet, but I’m disturbed how ignorant we are about this process of change. Why am I a stranger to myself?
And then the smallest fraction may provoke a major response of words. Questionable. Unavoidable. Like right now. In their moment everyone knows more than me. I’m pretty sure of that. Thanks for making me look and look again.
I must admit I’m never sure academia fits into art (rather than the other way round). Teaching art (written, visual etc etc) must be really difficult, and sometimes I think the aim must be to give people the confidence to express themselves rather than teaching them form and adherence. I don’t know.
I miss my personal library assembled in my study which I have gladly given over to my son until he finds a better place. But I still miss it. And feel divorced from a part of myself.
Year ago or so, bumped into this small college geology teacher whose personal answer to the pandemic was to go on-line & live teaching geology (often right from his backyard). Never thought about the subject much but the man – a funny sort of charisma. So I stayed, week after week. As you began Ren, soon I was seeing the poetry of geology, the many big nuances. (you know, I think my blog title is accurate, not figurative)
For me too, truth is becoming unfocused, condensed, expansive. Don’t make sense (what sense used to mean to me). I lack a concise statement of what I think – when asked now, mostly I think the answer is “everything”. No justification. Nothing pretty.
I keep thinking what’s so if I take me out of the equation. What’s left. But, sort of arrogant, cause I am inside, not outside this reality. Messy.
Maybe the cracks already exist (without our help) and we are just too small, too brief, to really see without letting go of our localized notions about place and self. So yea, the deer like rice cakes. What do we like?
Critical shyness when young was my reason to ignore performance arts. That lingered over the horizon, much too long. But you found a note that’s opened me to look again. Hmm. I remember a very small theatre-in-the-round, when first seen, “The Tempest” left a mark I cherished. Even reading poems aloud in public – took forever to do. My finger hovers just over what I most want to say. Thanks, would be right to say for now. n.
Well, thank you Ren, I’ve got some homework to do. My little mind went some-how-else other way with that phrase. More ‘native’ (tho that’s ambiguous to say). Gotta look some more. You do make me think in interesting ways (being polite).
There is a tenderness here amidst the flexing of muscle. No, no explanation. I feel something about two poles (myself included), but what? Some folk are just driven to “look” I think. (not right/wrong, just another possibility) This much I do know – I don’t have all the conversations I would like to have. What does a tiger think? : )
Oh, I love that you are pondering this question of the unsaid, the between-the-lines part of drama, of poetry, as am I in my own fumbling way. The effect of great writing, I think, is to engender questions, not to give answers. Writing that gives answers is mind-closing, it is propaganda, or dogma.
Read your post with great interest as I just finished reading James Shapiro’s ‘1599:A year in the life of William Shakespeare.’ Are we missing the zeitgeist of the age that filled in the bits that are mysterious to us? – an excellent question. The book provided so much context to several plays- quite fascinating.
Pardon. I fell into a crack of my own. Marked your post, to return after deleting the unwanted stuff. Then something, a paperclip perhaps, distracted me. I forgot.
You work so hard sometimes. Maybe I’m a happy simpleton, but the truth is easier I think. Difference is, sometimes I don’t see what’s in front of my nose ’cause the thoughts are all so big & distracting. My fault, you see.
Here’s a question. IF this is paradise, do you think we’re seeing it right?
I work to read everything you write. Always. Whether I understand or agree, or like what you write, sometimes I see you struggle, see you uncomfortable. IF I were there in person, could I make you smile? I don’t know. I try. For now, I’ll read.
There’s a word, a phrase I’m looking for…
Maybe the truth is everything. Older I get, less fussy I get. Sometimes I look at something common enough, I know what it is, but I see something else. Body feels more rigid, thoughts more fluid. Observation, no meaning meant.
[…] Ren Powell, Done with Genres […]
When asked to choose these days, think I choose everything. Who or what am I to make a fuss. Been looking at the end-of-days for a while now. Different when personal. NOT THAT I’m counting days and no element of BooHoo, poor me. Rather the question is what’s-writing-meant-to-be in moments like these. I really really don’t know. I am not “about” my well-being, but neither is it something invisible. There is an element of Liberation in consideration. But then, no shortage of elements! I may continue for some good while yet, but I’m disturbed how ignorant we are about this process of change. Why am I a stranger to myself?
And then the smallest fraction may provoke a major response of words. Questionable. Unavoidable. Like right now. In their moment everyone knows more than me. I’m pretty sure of that. Thanks for making me look and look again.
[…] Ren Powell, An Argument for Amorphous Stories […]
‘Poetry might be defined as the clear expression of mixed feelings.’ – Perfect observation!
I love his definition
Rebecca Solnit is one of my favorite authors. I just finished ‘Recollections of My Nonexistence’.
I need to read more of her work!
I always think the point of life is to live it. No matter how bad the pain in body or mind gets. Although, in truth, I often struggle with that idea.
I must admit I’m never sure academia fits into art (rather than the other way round). Teaching art (written, visual etc etc) must be really difficult, and sometimes I think the aim must be to give people the confidence to express themselves rather than teaching them form and adherence. I don’t know.
I miss my personal library assembled in my study which I have gladly given over to my son until he finds a better place. But I still miss it. And feel divorced from a part of myself.
Year ago or so, bumped into this small college geology teacher whose personal answer to the pandemic was to go on-line & live teaching geology (often right from his backyard). Never thought about the subject much but the man – a funny sort of charisma. So I stayed, week after week. As you began Ren, soon I was seeing the poetry of geology, the many big nuances. (you know, I think my blog title is accurate, not figurative)
For me too, truth is becoming unfocused, condensed, expansive. Don’t make sense (what sense used to mean to me). I lack a concise statement of what I think – when asked now, mostly I think the answer is “everything”. No justification. Nothing pretty.
I keep thinking what’s so if I take me out of the equation. What’s left. But, sort of arrogant, cause I am inside, not outside this reality. Messy.
Maybe the cracks already exist (without our help) and we are just too small, too brief, to really see without letting go of our localized notions about place and self. So yea, the deer like rice cakes. What do we like?
[…] Ren Powell, Where to begin again? […]
Critical shyness when young was my reason to ignore performance arts. That lingered over the horizon, much too long. But you found a note that’s opened me to look again. Hmm. I remember a very small theatre-in-the-round, when first seen, “The Tempest” left a mark I cherished. Even reading poems aloud in public – took forever to do. My finger hovers just over what I most want to say. Thanks, would be right to say for now. n.
When we recognize we’re just part of the “herd”, lots of questions get easy to answer. Me thinks, life likes us, but it’s also the way gravity does.
Being human is considerably bigger than we think it is. You’re right I’d think.
Are ‘call and response’ threads? No matter what, we’re not alone.
Call and response – the priest talks, the congregation answers. 🙂
Well, thank you Ren, I’ve got some homework to do. My little mind went some-how-else other way with that phrase. More ‘native’ (tho that’s ambiguous to say). Gotta look some more. You do make me think in interesting ways (being polite).
There is a tenderness here amidst the flexing of muscle. No, no explanation. I feel something about two poles (myself included), but what? Some folk are just driven to “look” I think. (not right/wrong, just another possibility) This much I do know – I don’t have all the conversations I would like to have. What does a tiger think? : )
I’ve never read Arne Naess and am thinking it’s well past time that I should. Any recommendations?
I’m reading Ecology of Wisdom. Penguin. 🙂
[…] Ren Powell, The Hard Things […]
this is either a maiden’s smile – or – a new sketch in new ink.
myself, I like the first.
Oh, I love that you are pondering this question of the unsaid, the between-the-lines part of drama, of poetry, as am I in my own fumbling way. The effect of great writing, I think, is to engender questions, not to give answers. Writing that gives answers is mind-closing, it is propaganda, or dogma.
i agree. but I think there is a good space between dogma and puzzles. I too often write puzzles
Read your post with great interest as I just finished reading James Shapiro’s ‘1599:A year in the life of William Shakespeare.’ Are we missing the zeitgeist of the age that filled in the bits that are mysterious to us? – an excellent question. The book provided so much context to several plays- quite fascinating.