I woke up this morning with this forming in my head. Afterwards, I realized it’s about my friend Michael O’Connor Clarke who died yesterday.
The yew that margins our yard grew so implacably large that it shoved off the walk mothers with strollers, and brought dogs to curse at its succor for squirrels. So, when the cold days set in I did what the Internet said and lopped and sawed and hemmed past its quick, revealing the brute as a pile of scratchy sticks without shape except where it ends.
Now my yew is catching leaves from more proper plants that have learned by falling that autumn is a lie that winter smoothly tells.
My deepest condolences to Michael’s family. I cannot express the joy he brought to anyone within earshot, and especially to his friends.
You Barcelona birds don’t know how good you have it.
You give your city two stars
because once a tourist left you a crust that had some mustard on it —
Don’t eat the yellow bread, is that so hard to remember? —
and last February a pigeon bullied you aside.
You ought to come to my city some February.
Is there even a word in Spanish for slush?
Yeah, Boston would grow you a pair,
and then would shrivel them up until they make a high-pitched ting.
How you like them tiny frozen apples?
So why don’t you go back to TripAdvisor and fix your ratings
even if you have to make up a new login.
Stoopid Barcelona birds.
I’ve been reading John Barton’s book Playing Shakespeare, which pretty much transcribes a series of televised master classes. It’s a pretty amazing book, in which Barton claims that Shakespeare’s lines provide clues to how they should be read — the irregular stresses in the verse, the changes from prose to verse and back again.
I googled around trying to find the original series, but found these instead. Here are two ten-minute segments. Spanning the two is David Suchet reading Sonnet 138 several times, receiving direction. (I think I personally prefer his second reading.)
It is obvious to me that those who shun moderation and want a longer life are fools.
The days of an overly long life are filled with pain.
Happiness eludes those who want to hang on to life longer than what the fates have allotted for them and in the end…
…the same attendant awaits him: Hades! Hades waits upon us all!
No ceremony, no wedding songs, no dances and no songs…
Just death!The end of us all is death.
The best would be not to be born at all.
But then, if he is born, the next best thing for him would be to try and return to where he came from…
…in the quickest possible time!
While youth and its careless mind lasts, no thought is given to what pain, what misery will, most certainly, follow.
Murder, mayhem, quarrels, wars will come before the inescapable end…
The hateful old age, frailty, loneliness, desolation and…
…your own misery’s neighbour, is even more misery.
And so, Oedipus like us, is old. Unhappy Oedipus! Bashed about like a reef facing north…
Bashed about on all sides by tempests of all sorts.
Never ending rain and wind crash over his head…
…fierce waves crash over him.
Now from West…
Now from the East…
Some during the midday’s light…
Some from the mountainous North…
…which the deep night darkens.
I’ve loved the bleakness of these lines ever since I read them in college. But I’ve always wondered whether we should read them as eternal truths that apply to us all, or as an anthropological glimpse into another culture. Today listening to them I had a different reaction: Man, have I had it easy!
When I was a youth, my careless mind was actually fairly morbid. I thought about death a lot. I still do. Yet, I think I did not have a vivid sense of “what misery will, most certainly, follow. Murder, mayhem, quarrels, wars will come before the inescapable end.” In fact, of those four, all I’ve directly experienced are quarrels. Murder? No one I knew has been murdered. Mayhem? Nothing that didn’t occur around a conference table. Wars? I missed the draft and did not serve, although like every other American, I have lived with some of the awful consequences of war. But that’s really not what Sophocles had in mind. He was thinking about the imminent sacking of a city, the cleaving of skulls, the starving of children.
Life sucked back then. To those of us in affluent countries, with a job and some health coverage, I wonder whether Sophocles would have sung a different song.
According to Amazon’s review of Richard Hamblyn’s The Invention of Clouds, we only began thinking clouds could be categorized in 1802 when Luke Howard started giving public lectures. The very idea that clouds â€” the paradigm of uncatchable â€” could be divided into groups was (apparently) fascinating and thrilling. (Lamarck had also categorized clouds, but it didn’t catch on.)
A quick googly scan makes it seem that the cloud taxonomy is pretty messy. For example, the University of Illinois’ “cloud types” page lists four broad categories, and a list of miscellaneous clouds, each of which is categorized under one of the four basic types, evoking a “Huh?” reaction from at least one of us. The cloud taxonomy page at Univ. Missouri-Columbia lists eight types. Do you categorize by what they look like, how high they are, what they do (rain or not?), which celebrity profiles they resemble …? Categorizing clouds is truly a Borgesian task.
And, dammit, wouldn’t you know? Here’s a poem by Jorge Luis Borges called: “Clouds (II)” (with the line-endings probably removed):
Placid mountains meander through the air, or tragic cordilleras cast a pall, overshadowing the day. They are what we call clouds. And their shapes are often strange and rare. Shakespeare observed one once. It seemed to be a dragon. That one cloud of an afternoon still kindles in his words and blazes down, so that we go on seeing it today. What are the clouds? An architecture of chance? Perhaps they are the necessary things from which God weaves his vast imaginings, threads of a web of infinite expanse. Maybe the cloud is emptiness returning, just like the man who watches it this morning.
(translated by Richard Barnes. B; Robert Mezey; Richard Barnes. “Clouds (II). (poem).” The American Poetry Review. World Poetry, Inc. 1996. HighBeam Research. 11 Oct. 2009 v)
Disagreement is, in its nature, like the creation of the world.
For the creation of the world came about in essence by way of open space,
without which all would have been endless divinity,
and there would have been no place for the creation of the world.
Therefore, God withdrew light to the margins,
and the open space was formed,
and in that space God created the world,
through acts of speech.
And so it is, too, with disagreementâ€”
for if all the sages were of one mind
there would be no place for the creation of the world.
It is only by way of the disagreement between them,
and their dividing one from another,
each one drawing to a particular side,
that open space comes into being between themâ€”
which, in its nature, is like the withdrawing of primordial divine light to the marginsâ€”
in the midst of which creation can take place, through acts of speech.
â€”Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav (1772â€“1810) Jonah Steinberg, translator
This is a text a lecture (now postponed) by Nehemia Polen was going to discuss at a class in Newton, MA.