la politique
ne vaut rien
comparée à
un cœur humain
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
where are the estlins of yesteryear?
(from i: six nonlectures by E E Cummings [pp.31-32])
in the world of my boyhood -- long, long ago
before time was space and Oedipus was a complex and religion was the opiate of the people and pigeons had learned to play pingpong -- social stratification not merely existed but luxuriated. All women were not, as now [1952], ladies; a gentleman was a gentleman; and a mucker (as the professional denizens of Irving and Scott streets knew full well : since their lofty fragment of Cambridge almost adjoined plebeian Somerville) was a mucker. Being myself a professor's (& later a clergyman's) son, I had every socalled reason to accept these conventional distinctions without cavil; yet for some unreason I didn't. The more implacably a virtuous Cambridge drew me toward what might have been her bosom, the more sure I felt that soi-disant respectability comprised nearly everything which I couldn't respect, and the more eagerly I explored sinful Somerville. But while sinful Somerville certainly possessed a bosom (in fact, bosoms) she also possessed fists which hit below the belt and arms which threw snowballs containing small rocks.
Little by little and bruise by teacup
my doubly disillusioned spirit made an awe-inspiring discovery; which (on more than several occasions) has prevented me from wholly misunderstanding socalled humanity : the discovery, namely, that all groups, gangs, and collectivities -- no matter how apparently disparate -- are fundamentally alike; and that what makes any world go round is not the trivial difference between a Somerville and a Cambridge, but the immeasurable difference between either of them and individuality. Whether this discovery is valid for you, I can't pretend to say : but I can and do say, without pretending, that it's true for me -- inasmuch as I've found (and am still finding) authentic individuals in the most varied environments conceivable. Nor will anything ever persuade me that, by turning Somerville into Cambridge or Cambridge into Somerville or both into neither, anybody can make an even slightly better world. Better worlds (I suggest) are born, not made; and their birthdays are the birthdays of individuals.
in the world of my boyhood -- long, long ago
before time was space and Oedipus was a complex and religion was the opiate of the people and pigeons had learned to play pingpong -- social stratification not merely existed but luxuriated. All women were not, as now [1952], ladies; a gentleman was a gentleman; and a mucker (as the professional denizens of Irving and Scott streets knew full well : since their lofty fragment of Cambridge almost adjoined plebeian Somerville) was a mucker. Being myself a professor's (& later a clergyman's) son, I had every socalled reason to accept these conventional distinctions without cavil; yet for some unreason I didn't. The more implacably a virtuous Cambridge drew me toward what might have been her bosom, the more sure I felt that soi-disant respectability comprised nearly everything which I couldn't respect, and the more eagerly I explored sinful Somerville. But while sinful Somerville certainly possessed a bosom (in fact, bosoms) she also possessed fists which hit below the belt and arms which threw snowballs containing small rocks.
Little by little and bruise by teacup
my doubly disillusioned spirit made an awe-inspiring discovery; which (on more than several occasions) has prevented me from wholly misunderstanding socalled humanity : the discovery, namely, that all groups, gangs, and collectivities -- no matter how apparently disparate -- are fundamentally alike; and that what makes any world go round is not the trivial difference between a Somerville and a Cambridge, but the immeasurable difference between either of them and individuality. Whether this discovery is valid for you, I can't pretend to say : but I can and do say, without pretending, that it's true for me -- inasmuch as I've found (and am still finding) authentic individuals in the most varied environments conceivable. Nor will anything ever persuade me that, by turning Somerville into Cambridge or Cambridge into Somerville or both into neither, anybody can make an even slightly better world. Better worlds (I suggest) are born, not made; and their birthdays are the birthdays of individuals.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
Minimalist silliness
sleep
sleep sleep
sleep
to sleep
perchance
to dream
aye
there
's the
rub
nap
at noon?
nope
but the mind
craves
slumber
craves
a deeper
sleep
than that which
night
has given us
of late
:: :: ::
:: :: ::
sleep
like John Keats
"enshaded
in for-
getfulness
divine"
sleep sleep
sleep
to sleep
perchance
to dream
aye
there
's the
rub
nap
at noon?
nope
but the mind
craves
slumber
craves
a deeper
sleep
than that which
night
has given us
of late
:: :: ::
:: :: ::
sleep
like John Keats
"enshaded
in for-
getfulness
divine"
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
Cool down, papa!
Nnenna Freelon & Take 6 at the Grammys a few years back, performing "Straighten Up and Fly Right"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)