Nonsense and Sensibility: Exquisitely Delicate Deep(ly) Down(ed) Things
Note of caution: Not to worry if you can’t appreciate every nook and cranny of this lyrical crossword puzzle. Enjoy what comes easy, as it could easily be labled a words-at-cross-purposes puzzle. For those into “difficult” pleasures…let The Breadth be with you.
“…for dappled things –
For skies of couple-color as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim….” –Gerard Manly Hopkins
One of the reasons I don’t have any friends is obvious. I see with the sensibility of an out-of-breath Chicken Little who is neither mistaken nor hysterical. Inhaling lyrically.
The second sentence above should tell you a lot about me. It’s so true –for me– that I’m starting to run out of acquaintances. Even passers-by are beginning to smell me –my socially/environmentally-conscious self– from a distance…and cross the street.
I hang out at the shop a lot these days, trying to keep my mouth shut as it’s bad for business to be ranting and raving. Plus, I’ve learned my lesson respecting what people can and can’t take, are and aren’t interested in, will or won’t tolerate…as they go about their personal pathological pursuits, totally out of touch with what’s coming down. Few Authentic Children. Everyone’s either a Reformer, Status Quoer or Philistine Artist/Quietist.
There I go again, talking down to and about others. Sorry, but I’m breathless over the indifference, apathy and foci on vanities and mundane survival.
Nevertheless, I really do want to have human contact above and beyond my lovely family. And so, I’ve begun to draw upon the pure arts aspects of my background, staying pretty much away from any hints of activist concerns. What can one do when even “revolutionaries” who one’s given blood to don’t get back? That’s a whole different thang than one’s “blood” not calling.
Along those lines, I’ve been immersing myself in the thrust of Harold Bloom’s The Western Canon: The Books and School of the Ages recently. He makes a great case for steering clear of the politicization of literature (the meat and potatoes of Foucault, for example), and paves the way for an appreciation of what makes certain literature authoritative. He answers the question of why some works have escaped…oblivion. Why –without straining for what’s utilitarian– particular creations provide “retrospective comfort” on an ongoing basis. Wisdom.
Yep, that’s what I’m into, in great part, these days. But, y’know what? I’m not meeting too many people who are interested in that kind of thing either. Very busy, they are. Necessarily so?
Perhaps the breathless me is really off-putting.
I’m not talking about the me who tried recently, at the poetry club I formed, to push the notion that virtually all post-industrial poets had an axe to grind (on paper or personally) vis-a-vis the fallout from the Industrial Revolution. No, rather, I speak of the advocate me vis-a-vis authentic artistry, untainted by a commercial spine. Healthy accomplishments, inspired by the most beautiful of Muses. Pure gorgeousness. Exquisitely delicate deep down things. Me encountering a lack of much feeling respecting such.
With regard to the socially/environmentally conscious blah blah, I can provide definitive documentation concerning…the falling of the sky, for anyone…open. But people have no time (as they busily cling or greedily grab), it seems. I can die with that. We have an interval, and then our place knows us no more. Soon there will be no more intervals, but people don’t want to dialogue about our momentum. They only want to play –if they play at it at all– “Silly Gore, Silly Anti-Gore” (The simplistic dichotomy, the go nowhere duality.) Fine. Let activism go…the way of all flesh.
When it comes to Beauty, the Arts, however, my situation is more problematic. In this very present. What else is there ‘cept what’s drainingly obligatory and/or in the limited realm of (very personalized) human love? What nurtures me now?
People can’t seem to separate the Beauty from the Beast, works of substance — which make one soar and weep deeply– from fluff, false tears*. What sours.
*They’re stirred to tears by trivial causes; weeping at all weddings
and funerals, loss. Ecstatic over baby shoes, compassionate on cue.
(Here, this article takes a very serious turn).
With that, living next door to the Luftwaffe base, and witnessing the destruction of our landbase in the (this) face of indifference has to be allowed to mean zero. We can no longer acknowledge the death of our breath, only the source of ourselves. Seminal investigation is all that’s left. The horror can’t be cured now. But Beauty could be embraced. At least…talked about. For awhile.
Yet what I’m finding is that when I sit down over hushed tones and wonder with delicate souls…someone (or some thing) comes along telling us to move along, indicating that our time is up (Injunction #99), underscoring that there are other things to tend to…. Highlighting the very low lights that filter through strangers’ eyes, the dying beams of their headlights. Dear, dear, dear how dead they are!
There I go again, exhaling presumption. However,….
Meaningful (ongoing) action in solidarity is all but impossible. Genuine contact with friends and acquaintances appears a chimera. Beauty, asthmatic. Bold arrogance seems to be begged for….
The very least I’d like to experience is for some purple people eaters to say something along the lines of, “I know you’re a vegetarian, Richie, but, here,…have a little chicken.”
Connection risked. Many fall quickly away once my respiration is deep sans even civil courtesy. “Goodbyes” are obsolete! And too few have a clue about what’s blue (and lively green) in this life. 4 me.
But, then, maybe it’s simply…my breath.
Richard Oxman, reachable at firstname.lastname@example.org, notes that his new friends, Elizabeth and Scott and Mitchell (the cut up canine named after so-called dead comedian Mitch Hedberg) look like exceptions to the above rule. “Yay,” he says, “the sun also ariseth.” Whether or not a finger is lifted by anyone to blow away this American Concentration Damp Ad Infinitum. ” As shadows hold their breath, this is dedicated to E, S and M.