I’ve read Martin Shaw’s book Scatterlings a couple of times now and I keep finding hoards of riches. Here’s a good introduction to it, filmed by Ian MacKenzie:
This is a cool tool. Put yourself on the north pole, or at, say, 74.8 degrees N latitude.
Is this nature study?
I’ve rediscovered Tim Morton’s books on ecology, among them Ecology without Nature and The Ecological Thought, where he introduces the concept of dark ecology as a means of expressing the “irony, ugliness, and horror” of ecology. Yes, that’s what we need, or what I need: to ditch the neutral theoretical ground on which to articulate ecological claims. Instead, all beings are always already implicated within the ecological, necessitating an acknowledgement of coexistential difference for coping with ecological catastrophe that, according to Morton, “has already occurred.”
With a friend I’m also working on a series of events and a documentary film about dying, death and burial. How can it be that death is a rumor? And I also suspect it is about endurance as well. “The Sovereignty and the Goodness of God, Together with the Faithfulness of His Promises Displayed,” by Liz Waldner:
“Time” is a word. “Love” is a word.
Between them are words and between them
an entrance. I pray to be
entranced, starting right now again I do.
I am old enough to understand
to go on is a great gift.
(I realize I am soon becoming the Queen of Grief, but you can always read the “Molting Chicken” entry after this one and restore some balance.)
Last Sunday Amie played in her Orchestra concert. This concert featured four Rivers Youth Orchestras, from Preparatory (that Amie is in) to Symphony. It’s absolutely riveting to follow the progress from beginners to as-good-as professional orchestra. The Symphony played Elgar’s Nimrod (Enigma Variation IX). This piece always brings tears to my eyes and they played it superbly, with great restraint and sensitivity. It’s for the same reason that I prefer this version to, say, Solti conducting.
The Thirteenth Moon
Even if you have lost heart
She puts a tide in you
Even if you have lost heart
You will be moved
You will be all lined up
The soil has tides
Bedrock has tides
The horizon heaves
She will drag even you
“That turns out to be a place where it’s just it and me.“
There has been a major change in my thinking/feeling about our culture, our future, and my role. An upheaval big enough for me to burn some bridges (to set fire to them, at least), to shed some tears. Well. Good things are happening too as a result of it, I hasten to add. Clarity is one of them. I hope I can write about it soon. But in the meantime, here’s part of another poem I am working on.
Do you dare to test
the endurance of your hope?
To take it to that far place
where still it refuses to leave
or maybe not.
My friend Janine, fellow Transition worker and fellow blogger, has written a gripping poem. It haunts till the end. This is the beginning:
Visit her post to read the rest. You will not be sorry!
Change of plans! This poem will not be our friend’s birthday poem after all.
So it is going out to someone else, with the following ink and water color painting by Pinka Das, from Kolkata, India.
Some things just must be said
Some things just say themselves
If only for a mouth
I just need to sit here and watch the fire
And know it
That it works and has worked for all time
That it is showing itself
And I would be an oracle for it
Is that what we are
The ones who can say it poetically
And once we have said it
Are we done here?
Now I can’t stop blogging! I just wanted share this, from Jim Harrison’s North American Image Cycle:
The boy stood in the burning house. Set it up
that way, and with all windows open. I don’t want
a roof. I want to fill all those spaces where we
never allow words to occur.
That’s what I feel like. The house is burning. I want to fearlessly invite and feed and explore that fear.