BirchLane.net
January 2004
Saturday 31
A Dream. (still editing)
Friday 30
Inspiration. (edit mode)
Thursday 29 (edit mode)
Gorky and Language. Nietzsche and Music. Barone and Photography.
Wednesday 28
Snow. (edit mode)
Tuesday 27
Wherever You Go. There You Are. (Mindfulness Mediation in Everyday Life) The title of the best-selling book by Jon Kabat Zin. I was reminded of the book yesterday when I received an e-mail which read:
WANTING:
We
either
go with
our wanting
or against it.
Either way,
we do
what we're
wanting.
The two thoughts seem complimentary. The second is from the book Out-Smarting Your Karma by Barry Neil Kaufman.
And both point forward (or back) to the idea of being astonished.
Often, I ask myself "what am I called to do" and "how can I make the world a better place." To paraphrase Rumi; I remind myself: you need to be permanently astonished--this is the real work of religion. The second thing you need is love; draw upon love for energy. And the third thing is sacrifice--give the drop that is ourselves; we are given us an ocean. To be astonished, to become more like a child, gifts are all around us, be nourished by being amazed--it is a great thing to be alive.
To be astonished. This might be the number characteristic the best in any walk of life bring to their work: from painter to physicist, writer to welder, doctor to farmer, and on and one.
I am reminded of these lessons:
If a dog were your teacher, you would learn stuff like:
When loved ones come home, always run to greet them.
Never pass up the opportunity to go for a joyride.
Allow the experience of fresh air and the wind in your face to be pure ecstasy.
When it's in your best interest, practice obedience.
Let others know when they've invaded your territory.
Take naps and stretch before rising.
Run, romp, and play daily.
Thrive on attention and let people touch you.
On warm days, stop to lie on your back on the grass.
On hot days, drinks lots of water and lay under a shady tree.
When you're happy, dance around and wag your entire body.
No matter how often you're scolded, don't buy into the guilt thing and pout; run right back and make friends.
Delight in the simple joy of a long walk.
Eat with gusto and enthusiasm. Stop when you have had enough.
Be loyal.
Never pretend to be something you're not.
If what you want lies buried, dig until you find it.
When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit close by, and nuzzle them gently.
(in the packet of financial aid info from Smith College)
Monday 26
Dom Casmurro. In yesterday's Boston Globe there was a story about Machado de Assis in which the writer said he is one of the most important writers of the past 100 years. His book, Dom Casmurro, called a literary masterpiece by many, has been sitting patiently on my bookshelf since the days when I worked at Hearst Magazines. Avon published the paperback edition and we distributed it. It begins:
One night not long ago, as I was coming from the city to Engenho Novo, on the Brazil Central, I ran into a young man from here in the neighborhood, with whom I have a bowing acquaintance. He spoke, sat down beside me, talked of the moon and the government, ended by reading me some verses. The trip was short, and the verses may not have been entirely bad. It happened, however, that as I was tired, I closed my eyes three or four times---it was enough to make him stop reading and put the verses in his pocket.
Machado de Assis said, "The way to write an interesting book is to leave things out." And Dom Casmurro said, "Not everything is clear in life or in books."
Sunday 25
The Pitcher Needs an Empty Cup. This, paraphrasing Hafiz, the title of today's sermon at Edwards Church in Northampton. Similar to the Zen lesson:
A university professor went to visit a famous Zen master. While the master quietly served tea, the professor talked about Zen. The master poured the visitor's cup to the brim, and then kept pouring. The professor watched the overflowing cup until he could no longer restrain himself. "It's overfull! No more will go in!" the professor blurted. "You are like this cup," the master replied, "How can I show you Zen unless you first empty your cup."
Saturday 24
Seeing. I finished my "essay" yesterday; a letter more than an essay, and all day I thought about seeing. Tielhard de Chardin says:
Seeing:
We might say that the whole of life lies in that verb - if not ultimately, at least essentially.
Much of this frame of reference might be better put as: to become more like a child. To always live in a state of astonishment. I continue to shoot one self-portrait a day and ttoday someone commented that a recent one had the feeling of a Pierre Bonnard painting.
Thinking about less-studied photos, I recall the work of Xenia Hausner which I have seen a number of times at Forum Gallery (Alan Feltus, Daniel Massad, Odd Nerdrum) on Fifth Avenue in New York City. Here is her website And below, a painting, in the gallery director's office.
Friday 23
Dreaming of a Painting.
Thursday 22
The Ordinary at Birch Lane.
Wednesday 21.
The River. I am working today on my response to Chapter Two (Creating a Personal Vision to Live By) from the book Happiness is a Choice as a step in the process of applying to be The Option Institute's Marketing Director.
We are the river. We are in the river.
Tuesday 20
Satyagraha. And How Poetry Comes To Me. A school paper of Daryl's sits on the desk in front of me: Lesson II, Student Handout 3, "Inventing Satyagraha." A quote from The Gandhi Reader: A Sourcebook of his Life and Writings (Indiana University Press, 1956):
"None of us knew the name to give our movement. I then used the term 'passive resistance' in describing it. As the struggle advanced, the phrase......gave rise to confusion and it appeared shameful to permit this great struggle to be known only be an English name......A small prize was therefore announced in Indian Opinion (newspaper) to be awarded to the reader who invented the best designation for our struggle......(One person suggested) 'sadagraha.' meaning 'firmness in a good cause.' I liked the word but it did not fully represent the whole idea I wished to connote. I therefore corrected it to 'sathagraha.' Truth (Satya) implies love and firmess (Agraha) engenders and therefore serves as a synonym for force. I thus began to call the Indian movement 'Satyagraha,' that is to say, the Force which is born of Truth and Love or non-violence."
~Gandhi
Is this then not the way poetry comes to me? Born of truth and love? Of sight? Did not Tielhard de Chardin say:
We might say that the whole of life lies in that verb - if not ultimately, at least essentially..
Monday 19
Shepherd's Pie. Early this morning I decided to make a Shepherd's Pie, a dish I have never made before, but was always charmed by its name. I went to google and wrote "shephard's pie and I was taken to this charming biography. This, below, is NOT a Shepherd's Pie; it is a flower:
One author writes:
The magic of pies dates back to King Henry VIII. Legend has it that the British ruler was livid when he found out that one of his abbots was building an elaborate and expensive kitchen. The wise abbot took the wind out of the King's anger by sending him a delicious, warm pie. Early pies were predominantly made with meat. Two early examples were shepherd's pie and cottage pie. Shepherd's pie was made with lamb and vegetables, and the cottage pie was made with beef and vegetable. Both are topped with potatoes.
I found this author to be very interesting--and entertaining:
I haven't yet found evidence of Pere Botero's cauldron in accounts of the 1251/1320 Shepherds' Crusade, but at least this meme will encourage children who suspect that - denuded of the genitive apostrophe-s - shepherd's pie is exactly what it purports to be: minced shepherd with boots and gravy, topped first with potato mash and then with a layer of grated cheese, baked until brown, and forced down one's throat by a dietary zealot. Think I'm kidding you? Here's old rent-a-quote Radulph from Caen in Amin Maalouf's The Crusades Through Arab Eyes : In Ma'arra our troops boiled pagan adults in cooking-pots; they impaled children on spits and devoured them grilled.
Boring gits will now point out that Radulph was writing about the year 1098, not 1251, and that there is moreover no record of unethical culinary relationships involving pastoralists during that campaign. Fair enough, but said BGs also need to acknowledge that eating the shepherd is an enduring theme in European folklore. I'm not talking so much about stuff like George Borrow's rejection of such stories in The Zincali: An Account of the Gypsies of Spain as about the adoption by the Fourth Lateran Council of transubstantiation, the principal shepherd-eating myth in European culture. This doctrine was made official in 1215, and after 36 years French shepherds may have decided they'd had enough.
The definitive answer from The Food Timeline? I do not know but there is much information:
Enough! I am starving!
It is a holiday today, Martin Luther King Day. Danielle went back to school yesterday. Daryl is reading The DaVinci Code. Daisy is sleeping. Betsy is at the gym. I am about to write an essay in response to Chapter Two. In one sense, I did, a few years ago. But first this. Oh, and I did make my own version of Shepherd's Pie.
Sunday 18
Joy.
Saturday 17
Turners Falls. This village was named for Captain William Turner, a hero of the Indian Wars. The river Falls was the site of the first dam built on the river. In 1918 a hydro-electric plant was built here which then produced 2/3 of the electricity used by Western Massachusetts' companies. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service Anadromous Fish Research Laboratory, a state fish hatchery and Northeast Utilities' fish ladder at the Turners Falls dam are located on the Connecticut River. The fish ladder has an underwater viewing window for migrating shad and salmon.
Friday 16
Friday as Saturday. Friday and all schools closed due to bitter cold weather. And all day, thus, it felt like Saturday as Daryl had two friends sleep over last night, Danielle is still home and Betsy took off the day. I had a job interview (on the phone) at eleven this morning for the Marketing Director spot at The Option Institute.
I know the Institute's core values and mine are closely intertwined; I know I can help them. And later in the day I thought of this photo taken years ago:
Oh, and I read this very late last night and I must say Terri is one of THE smartest thinkers I have been lucky enough to find on the internet.
When someone helps me, or loves me, that is THEIR gift to give, not mine to claim. Even when there is cash money exchanged. People need to take more responsibility for the demands they place on others in their lives. They need to think about more ways to return the care and nurturing they receive, and spend less time bitching about how unfair life is because they can't consume the universe as if it were a Big Gulp at a 7-11.
And when I say "people", I include myself!Thursday 15
Sinks. (Not finished; will be an essay) Yesterday, late in the afternoon, as the sun was setting on a very cold winter's day, the coldest this year, I started thinking about sinks; they tell stories I am sure--more stories, both sad and beautiful, than possibly any other space in a house; certainly more than
any other space in a house.
Wednesday 14
The Snow Man. I edited this photo yesterday afternoon and last night someone posted the poem below for me on her website; I like the mysterious movement of life.
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter
Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,
Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place
For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.~Wallace Stevens
Catching up on a few things: the soup I made Saturday night for Sunday's Church Winter Luncheon was, once again, a big hit; the Thai dinner I made Saturday night was great--Betsy gave me Keo's Thai Cuisine by Keo Sananikone for Christmas and every recipe I have tried has turned out to be delicious; and not all that complicated.
Tuesday 13
Number 13.
"Get control of you own time; master the twenty-four hours. Do it well, without self-pity. It is as hard to get the children herded into the car pool and down the road to the bus as it is to chant sutras in the Buddha-hall on a cold morning. One move is not better than the other, each can be quite boring, and they both have the virtuous quality of repetition. Repetition and ritual and their good results come in many forms. Changing the filter, wiping noses, going to meetings, picking up around the house, washing dishes, checking the dipstick--don't let yourself think these are distracting you from your more serious pursuits. Such a round of chores is not a set of difficulties we hope to escape from so that we may do our 'practice' which will put us on a 'path'--it is out path."
~Gary Snyder, The Practice of the Wild
Monday 12.
Snow. Black and white and color.
Sunday 11.
Make it Small. In today's New York Times a writer said she was reminded of what Georgia O'Keeffe once said, that she decided to make flowers huge enough that people couldn't ignore them; ah, I desire to make prints small enough so that people can't ignore them
Saturday 10.
Painting. An older image; a sleeping beauty.
Friday 09.
Cold. And a Memory. This, I believe was taken when we were hiking in the Ramapo Mountains in Mahwah, New Jersey.
And, here, Daryl, in his Betsy's arms, warm and secure; fifteen years ago. Who knows where the times goes, who knows where the time goes.................
Thursday 08
Mending Wall. And What About Fish? There are no fences in the Birch Lane neighborhood; it is against the Declaration of Covenants and Restrictions of Woodbrook Estates, which read: No fence shall be commenced, erected, or maintained upon any site in Woodbrook Estates until the plans and specifications showing the nature, kind, shapes, height, materials, and location of the same shall have been submitted to an approved in writing as to harmony of external design and location in relation to surrounding structures and topography......" At this time, I might add the following: "no swine, pultry, goats, cattle, other livestock, or a nuisance of any kind shall be kept or maintained on the property conveyed, except that dogs, cats, or small household pets may be kept, provided that they are not kept, bred or maintained for any commercial purpose, and the number of adult pets of each species does not exceed four." I wonder now; what about fish?
On or about October 1987 a neighbor down the street constructed a fence which did not comply with the approved plan. It seems so silly now; they were sued by the Woodbrook Association and were requested to remove the fence. They moved.
And now I am reminded of Robert Frost's famous poem:
Moments before I came upon the wire fence and stone wall in the woods, I sat on a bench here
and I heard a sound which at first I did not recognize; I had, I think, never heard it before--it was the sound of a drum, deep and distant and as it traveled across the ice toward where I sat in the woods, the irregular sound of the drum beat soon became a roar that rose up and out of from below the ice to the woods, to me. At first I thought it might be a bear. And as it came closer to where I sat I realized it was the ice; the ice was speaking in a drone of flowing cracks, of pushing and pulling.
Wednesday 07
Ice and Stars. When I went to bed last last, I first looked out the window and saw what looked to be thousands, millions, of stars twinkling in the night sky. It was ice, frozen to thousands of tree branches, twinkling from the glow of the moon. It was a children's book story.
And late in the afternoon, just as the sun was setting and the ice was once again sparkling I read this (Jouke and Mitsu, this man always makes the most interesting observations!):
Mickey Mantle and Ragle Gumm Dear Friends,
This morning the movers came and took the usable furniture, bookcases, a bureau, television, fancy newly bought computer moniter and so on...the house is becoming more and more bare which in a way is freeing because there is less to do. Only two more nights, then a weekend retreat upstate, then two nights in motels and hopefully then the new home.
On the radio in the car, as always sports talk WFAN, a commercial had someone asking someone else about who was a great ball player when they were having
some success(forget exact phrasing) and the reply was Mickey Mantle.
My first reaction was, of course it's normal, and then I realize that the intended point was that it has been a long time, 45 years or so.
So I realize that in at least one area of life, baseball, I have considerably remained within the timeframe of the boy who at the stadium with his dad saw Mickey hit a ball which almost cleared the third deck ...
This odd arrest in time reminds me of the situation of Ragle Gumm and his strange destiny.........
(1)
Ragle Gumm(in TIME OUT OF JOINT by Philip K Dick) thinks he is living in 1959 and he has an uneventful life in a quiet suburban town, he does have a crystal radio he has made and on it he hears voices which are apparantly those of pilots of space craft of a sort which do not exist. Other troubling clues point towards some sort of temporal dislocation and in the end it appears that he really was living in 1999 (the book itself was written in 1959 so of course it is not our 1999) and there is a war between the Earth and colonists on the Moon and in the stress of the situation he had a nervous breakdown and regressed
into imagination of his remembered childhood time but since a pariticular talent of his for predicting the site of incoming missles is needed, a town has been built up in which he can feel at home and at the same time his information can be obtained and used.
(2)
Several things occur to me ... well first...this just for science fiction fans perhaps so I will italicize,
I will make a sort of pub argument statement that just as Robert Heinlein's juvenile science fiction and the shorter and earlier and tightly plotted of his adult science fiction is far superior to his later and intended to be more
philosophic stuff which is an embarassment, so too Dick's earlier work , this book, Eye in the Sky, Man in the High Castle, parts of Ubik, and then on to Maze of Death (my favorite), are much better work than the late stuff
which has its own cult following. I will maintain, if everyone has a pint of Harp in hand(remember this is pub talk) that all the visionary and intellectual content which people profess to find in the later books is better and clearer
in the early.
(3)
But thinking of my momentary loss of the sense of years since Mickey Mantle was active, it occurs to me that one underlying theme of the story of Ragle Gumm can be that a person lives in various areas of life arrested at different
moments of experience.
Ragle Gumm progressively questions his reality and in the end finds his way to his proper place in his own time. To question ones perception and find ones way beyond areas of arrested life is not simple really... In the old stories Perceval (Parsifal) as a young knight found himself in a castle where he sees things he does not fully understand but he , wishing to be mannerly for one thing and also not knowing what to ask, asks no questions of his host...and the moment is lost. He finds the castle gone in the morning...only the wind and the forest.
(4)
I think the possible lines of reflection are several and are perhaps we have indicated them a little... A problem is that reflection quickly turns for many of
us or all of us some of the time to reflection on how caught in illusion this or that other
and the one saying "Thank you God that I am not like that dishonest lowlife next to me..." (Luke 18:9-14 but I expect you know the story...which we apply of course to someone else)...
We have come a long way from Mickey Mantle...it is also possible to leave those reflections on temporal displacement true though they may be in their way, and be grateful that I saw number 7 at the plate and in the field with his special grace and power and that one afternoon when he hit baseball
harder than it perhaps ever had been hit before or since for it was still rising like a rocket when it caromed off the very top of the upper deck in right fields... and Mantle circles the bases... and has still a long way to go before the liver transplants and the hard death... only wind and the forest...but summer and the sun at meridian then...
These thoughts then and welcome any of yours on anything at all
as always, yours
+SeraphimTuesday 06
In The Woods. I went to MASSMoCA recently as I often like to do. One reason, among two or three, is that there were new art installations which I had not yet seen. It is a great museum to find inspiration--and I did.
The picture below I took soon before I arrived home; the woods near Leeds Reservoir which reminded me of The Return of the King.
The tour guide at MASSMoCa, Maya was her name, was the best I have ever had the pleasure to walk with; informative and entertaining.
I stopped at the top of the museum to take a few photos in what felt like a chapel.
Monday 05
Snow and Sleet. All through the night; and I woke up thinking about a few images from New York City, which I will add to in the future. And, this, a beautiful short story from Metropolitan Diary (The New York Times):
Dear Diary: The other morning, as I passed St. Bartholomew's Church on Park Avenue on my way to work, I saw a homeless man sitting by the curb with his hat set out in front of him. I also saw a shabbily dressed homeless woman dragging a cart filled with garbage bags. She paused in front of the man and, apparently deciding he was worse off than she was, put two crumpled dollar bills into hi shat.
During the holidays, random acts of charity in New York can almost break your art.
Sunday 04.
Middles. In church our minister read at length from one of my favorite Robert Frost poems, "In The Home Stretch."
"My dear,
It's who first thought the thought. You're searching, Joe,
For things that don't exist; I mean beginnings.
Ends and beginnings-there are no such things.
There are only middles."~ the poem
A few random images about "middles:" Danielle with our Weehawken neighbors; Storm King where I would often take Danielle for walks among the artworks; the gym where I worked out (cough couch) when I worked at Hearst magazines; and Betsy----middles; neither beginnings nor endings.
Saturday 03.
Avant-Garde.
My basic measures of avant-garde work are aesthetic innovation and initial unacceptability.
~Richard Kostelanetz
The French King Bridge was built in the 1930s with the steel arch hidden underneath so that as you drive toward it, only the curved road and thin railing are visible, as if a band of pavement had been thrown across the wide gorge. Named after a nearby landmark, it crosses the Connecticut River where it is joined by the Millers River. Standing on the bridge's walkway one hundred and forty feet above the water, you can follow the river's path far up into the mountains of Vermont and New Hampshire. The soft hills that rise on either side of the gorge are thick with trees. The night I drove across it with David and his brother, Michael, the bridge was lit with streetlamps, so that from a distance it looked as if it had been strung across the water like a bracelet. The top was down on David's old convertible and I felt the damp air and squeezed my coat together, Then, just as we entered the bridge, David pulled off to the side of the road.
"Why are you stopping?" Michael asked as he slowed.
"I want to get out and walk across it."
~The River Road by Karen Osborn
When I woke this morning, out the study window:
Friday 02.
Notes and Alterations. I will try to take one self-portrait each and every day (in addition to the photos of nature, New York City, journalism, friends/portraits, mirror photos, etc); it will be a good discipline and works hand-in-hand with one on my "Alterations;" Know Thy Self. I will need a new gallery for these. Here is the first self-portrait of the new year (all the others will posted in a new gallery); taken last night--reading a book of poems (an Artist's Book) by Deborah Brandon, who I think is one of the most interesting and exciting writers working today.
Today I continued to read a book I started last night, A Walk in the Woods, and finished writing about my Alterations.
And at night, reviewing my photos from the past year, I came upon the following--simply a favorite; we had just met and went for a hike with two other people and then this:
Thursday 01.
One Version. I am thinking of taking one self-portrait each and every day this year.
The physicist Leo Szilard once announced to his friend Hans Bethe that he was thinking of keeping a diary: "I don't intend to publish. I am merely going to record the facts for the information of God." "Don't you think God knows the facts?" Bethe asked. "Yes," said Szilard. "He knows the facts, but He does not know this version of the facts."
~Hans Christian von Baeyer, Taming the Atom
~A Short History of Nearly Everything, Bill Bryson
As is tradition, we went to the movies last night, New Year's Eve, and saw The Return of the King.
