To thine own self be true

mad yet humble
tried to do it straight
neat, failed

peasants–his touchstones
lunatics, haystacks, whores
faces, chairs & shoes
(Theo helped, wrote back at least)

eating his paints, poisoned,
saw sunflowers as they really are
tried to get the yellows to go away
(they didn’t)

stayed up all night
to paint cafes and stars
walking by the river
lights & whorls overhead

then something happened:

it didn’t matter anymore
that circles never ended
like inmates in a ring
or that cypresses moved like waves

the sower walked blue fields at dusk
smoking, bandaged, completely sane

& Dr. Gachet looking tres triste
would say “you know
you really oughta get out more”
which Vincent did

the plein air experience…

& then green
lots of green truths
a colour no-one had dared before
that & the crows

then something happened:

…………………………………………..

A moment of being with van Gogh and his work. I believe van Gogh had many epiphanies and moments of being but, as Don McLean pointed out in his song, he couldn’t communicate these unique visions to his contemporaries. There is, alas, sometimes a heavy price paid by artists for being true to themselves and their representations of life. In his last picture, “Wheat Field with Crows”, he invites us, as audience, to experience and share his apocalyptic vision and the final truths of what “happened” to this great artist.

“God is in the detail.”–Gustave Flaubert

Moments of being are those more elusive transitory times when one is especially aware of the sublime pleasure and excitement of a given moment, and how it is unique and distinctly different from the many more ordinary, mundane moments in the passing flow of daily life. Moments of being tend to ‘announce’ or ‘proclaim’ themselves with an extreme obvious positiveness. At the time that they are experienced, the person (and sometimes persons) involved know and sometimes even share the specialness, uniqueness, and importance of the moment. Often there is a definite pleasurable sense of discovery, revelation, or epiphany about the moment in question.

The “being” part of whatever moment usually manifests itself in/as a heightened sense of being or becoming. A moment of being might very well also be the consciousness of significant change–possibly of imminent or possible change–an awareness of great hitherto inexperienced individual or situation potential. In any case, moments of being are primarily inner individual experiences in response to context and external events.

It is not surprising that moments of being comprise our most treasured memories of important things that have happened to us in the past. Think back to when you had special recognition that no one else you’ve known has had such as being chosen by your principal to receive the gift of a painting for the school’s official opening, or of being allowed the privilege of playing disc jockey in charge of your high school’s noon-hour intercom music. Often it is these sorts of special defining moments which determine one’s direction in life, too, career-wise.

Often moments of being have to do with relationships such as the first time one spoke to or spent time closely with a particular person. Experiences with members of the same or opposite sex in a first-time intimate way can introduce us to aspects of ourselves and others that ‘mark us’ for life.

Moments of being sometimes occur in moments of learning through the arts such as when we read a very emotionally moving book such as To Kill a Mockingbird, experience a powerful piece of music such as Beethoven’s “Diabelli Variations” or visit a gallery containing Monet’s enormous panels of water-lillies. In such experiences, we are moved through our senses to experience something deep and true about the human condition that connects us with other people and other times. Moments of being can have that kind of broadening, enriching impact and influence.

We know, too, that nature can also create moments of being, an effect we attain anytime we go to the mountains, the seaside, or desert. Under favorable active or contemplative circumstances, interaction with nature can produce deep inner effects that go way beyond words to transportive spiritual satisfactions, akin to those we might call religious. In that sense, ‘God’ can be found in the “details” that make up whatever moving moments of being.

As we look back on our lives, we find that our lives can, to a large extent, be defined and understood by the many personal moments of being that we have been lucky to experience and sometimes fortunate to share and communicate to others. To them, we should pay special attention, as we should, indeed, to all passing, precious transitory moments, regardless of their relative ‘shine’ in the great scheme of things.

“We have only this moment, sparkling like a star in our hand…and melting like a snowflake.”–Marie Beynon Ray

……………………………………………………………………..

(If you’ve just joined us, this blog is written in sections, each with a ‘general’ meditation at the beginning which introduces a theme.  This is followed by specific selections that develop and illuminate examples and illustrations of the theme from my own writing and experience. As much as possible, I have tried to connect themes, subthemes, and examples.)

 The title of this ‘probe’ (a McLuhan term) comes from a phrase by Virginia Woolf. I have tried to keep some of the meanings she intended, but it seems to me the term is broader, more connotative, and self-defining. The “details” are in many ways the most important aspects of moments of being, as well, incidentally, as this blog. Viewed another way, they are how we know what we know. From pondering these for possible meanings, the general patterns and larger insights emerge.

Moments of being tend to be personal, though when other people figure in them, they become larger and often more connective. (In a meditation still to come, I write that the freedom of two, for instance, can exceed and be more profound than the freedom of one.) Consciousness and reflection are necessary to recognize, understand, and appreciate moments of being. I believe we seek moments of being, although these can happen quite wonderfully on their own spontaneously. And sometimes, if we are fortunate and paying attention, we can be conscious of moments of being as they happen, savouring them as they do. In that instance, moments of being can be glorious, inspiring, and loving.

“Keep a green tree in your heart and perhaps a singing bird will come.” –-Chinese proverb                 

(for Stu, consummate bass-jazzer)

There is so much to like
about this trio, this gig.
In a word, movement.
Piano lets you know which standard
is to be resignatured.
And then the momentum
of bass and drums and
you are into it before
the waitress even takes your order.

Courtyard lounge,
big-screen tv menacingly above
the real news and true art.
What is there about
these 3 that delights?
A look, a glance,
a sideways motion?
Cymbals splash and then
bassman is on–
spontaneously composing
in public–an unnatural act
if ever there was one
for this space.
Up and down, he speaketh
and what rhythm, man!
What memory of melody.

It may look like work
and yet is so effortless,
this desire to put it out there–
to declare oneself:
one`s chops and sensibility.

And stopping and waiting
for that first tentative clap,
no matter how quiet–
to know there`s a connection
going down, a bridge
gapped by noteful play
and interplay.
(These 3 have evidently met before.
This is not their first or last time.
The encore of divorce aside,
some marriages are charmed.)

Like this one–
piano precise, taste-full
and yet open-ended
to what the crowd might bring
to this swingin`smorg.

Drummer only seems to be
`way over there`–
distance a mirage.
His brushes and accents
an undersong bonus.

And then those bass arms–
over, under, and finally thru.
Who`da thunk he could re-
enact a chiropractor`s dream?

But pay close attention:
this is a very good story.
An encapsulation of all
of life`s gigs and quest
for spiritual nourishment.
A plot rolled out like
a Kerouac teletype novel.
As life could and might be.

Three pairs of eyes and ears
on the very same page
saying, We are unit–
our experience and jazz wisdom
times three.

Another break, a laugh
and no one knows
who it came from.
Well, that was easy,
that was a slice.
What next, o brothers?
Wither wilt we goest?
Duke? Porter? Train?
So much to recall now,
so much of the ideal–
the jazz gods be praised tonight
for this assemblage of mortals.

The limitation of lounge,
non-listeners and chatter
now forgotten and small.
Irrelevant.
There are always limitations.
But maybe this once,
for some anyway:
a remembered lyric
a nameless glow
a gentle communion
a momentary stay
against confusion.

And thus curiosity becomes                                                                                               a drummer`s brushes.
Whim, a bassman`s bow.
Wonder, a minor 6th chord.
It`s all there with a first-drink mind,
the charts momentarily abandoned.
So many tones and colours
to be sampled and voiced,
each player imagining
his own way and role.

Look.
It`s all in their faces–
the way the eyes focus
as a zone is ascended.
Out there and yet
strangely here.
Passing strange, in fact.
The great balancing act of all art
and all that jazz.

Consummate,
a word devoutly to be wished.
One can only savour
the tonal axe-stasy of these 3.
The Glad-To-Be-Alive.
This moment.
A truly cool place to be.
As good as it gets, folks.
No kiddin`.

………………………………………………..

For me, music has been one of life’s great possibilities. This poem is an homage to live jazz, a particular trio, and a very special bassman-friend. What I tried to capture was the emotional, mental, physical, and spiritual equivalent of a performance. I think what interested me most was the communication that was going on here, especially amongst the musicians. Music can be a transcendent experience; in this case, the musicians transcended the context of a somewhat impersonal setting, their three instruments, and some initial audience distraction. What jazz musicians impressively do is very risky, far riskier than anything played by a classical music orchestra or a commercial rock act, for instance. They basically create something beautiful, true and good out of nothing, spontaneously and continuously.

Good and great music speaks to the feelings, the mind, and the soul. In concert, this can be seen and experienced en masse for large numbers of different people. No other form of art (except dance) can do this with large numbers of people in one spot, in one time. Music offers the great life possibility and experience of transcendence from one’s own cares and situation. The best music depends on intuitive communication between players and audience. And good or great music offers depth, richness, and connection.  At its best, music makes us feel less alienated and more connected to something other or greater than ourselves.

“That is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great.”–Willa Cather, My Antonia

“O brave new world /That has such people in ‘t!”–Shakespeare, The Tempest

There are those things
which do not matter to you
like shoes that fix you to the ground
whenever you fly above us.
When mortals offer to help you
buy purses or other deadly possessions,
you just laugh and know you never will.

Crazy. Don’t they know?
Can’t they see the way you look?
The way you are is not numbered
or fashioned by any means.
Serene, you always look like
you came from somewhere else:
a seashell, a cave, a forest,
a heath, a kiss, a fountain.

Clouds of glory trail behind you
as you move among us like every princess
we desired or ever dreamt of being.
You live the unempirical dream
we want to have, a blue-green space
within us all.

We reach for you but you fade
slipping through our pale hands.
You don’t speak plain and spurn our language.
No one knows your whirling words.
To us, you say “I wish you all the sky
and boundless fields.” You say
“Awake you many sleepers. Arise ye dead
and paralyzed on the last golden morning
on earth. Sing now, I say, and write your poems
to the spirit I am: my grace and wisdom.”

Stuck in hollows of the night,
we only shudder, sigh and wonder at what
life is like, o nymph, in that forest dream,
those fields of unbodied joy.
We pine for your touch, your spell
beyond time, in metaphors of you, Johanna.

………………………………………………..

“In the far ago land the door of his death glided wide,/And the bird descended.” –Dylan Thomas, “A Winter’s Tale”

If one is lucky, life’s possibilities may also include memorable encounters with individuals who are more like spirits or the angels in Wim Wender’s film Wings of Desire. Comet-like, they whiz through our lives, inspiring us and lifting us out of our selves, imbuing us with transcendent consciousness. They veritably radiate or shine, and can be significant life-changers and life-enhancers. We are truly blessed if we ever get to meet but one of these rare people in our busy, crowded, fast-changing lives these days.

2 players chasing shadows
on a dim-lit city street
full moon in september
night jet above flashing red
hooo-fffffff
whho-fff

poor man’s tennis:
father-son
no rhyme or reason to our play
writing a poem without a net
hooo–ffff
click<ffff

dream: a bird’s eye view of life
waiting for the one that never falls
about as close to heaven
as we may get: 2 shades of night

on the fly we serve & are served
playing blind for most of the game,
live in dark, though we aim to
keep it going (the bird, I mean)
lightweight though it is,
by backhands & bouncers
doingggg–ffff
whhoo–ff

the net affect of twilight
is a kind of love between us,
stabilizing feathers,
we fly to one another
& pray for contact–
the odd bird grounding out
with the thud & racquet-scrape
of failure

& yet that empyreal possibility
(father-son)
we keep the bird alive
between us & the spirit of flight
fine gut exchanging volleys
in the welkin
beneath polaris star
counting hits & hang-time
waiting for the one
that won’t come down
the one that won’t come back
whoo–fffff
hhhooooo——

………………………………..

Frost once said free verse was like “playing tennis without a net”. This poem owes its tones, spirit, and sensibility to his “Mending Wall” and “Birches” moreso. With apologies to Tennyson, I am a part of all that I have read and written.

Life’s possibilities are many and may be experienced deeply in our days, even during seemingly ordinary activities and spontaneous useless nothings. I believe we are largely dream-driven and that sometimes comes out in family contexts, as in this case. We are sustained and buoyed by the “what if’s”.

“My poems are hymns of praise to the glory of life.”–Edith Sitwell, Collected Poems, 1957

“Poetry is properly speaking a transcendental quality…and we can no more define this quality than we can define a state of grace”–Herbert Read (cf. also the narrator’s/Redford’s descriptions of Paul’s fishing style in A River Runs Through It.)

The kingdom…is spread over the earth and men do not see it.–The Gospel of Thomas
(as quoted by Joseph Campbell)

We all start life in various relative contexts of safety, security, advantage, disadvantage, family, and love. All these things affect our initial possibilities in life. Context–as played out through school, work, relationships, places lived in–continues to play a major role in what our life possibilities might be.

But to a large extent, life is what we make of it, via our choices and the process of living. When we are young, we are usually blessed with more time, freedom, and uninhibited imagination, that we can distract ourselves, and ‘create our own fun.’ Just about anything is possible, in that sense, when we are, say, three or five years-old. Although we may be confined to playing in the back yard, there is a richness to be found in whatever nature or man-made-objects we are left to play with, with or without playmates–the possibilities of one or more than one, socially speaking.

School introduces us to the possibilities of increased knowledge and interaction with many different other people and texts. We learn the possibilities of languages, mathematics, sciences, history, the fine arts, and physical education. Again, our possibilities may increase through socializing and learning more about ourselves, others, various subject areas, society, and the world.

We are presented with a variety of possibilities via our introduction to the working world as we try out different jobs and, possibly, careers in the exploration of employment possibilities. If we are lucky, we may end up doing work we enjoy and make an adequate living. Through a similar trial and error process, we also arrive at our home bases and mature relationships, usually involving parents, friends, neighbors, staff at work, and, possibly, significant others.

Along the way, we are the unique people we are with various attitudes, values, beliefs, dreams, strengths and skills. Whatever life possibilities we actualize are dependent on those key personal elements or aspects. And so we arrive at certain points in our lives where we stop and take stock of ourselves and remaining life possibilities. What might and can we still do? What dreams do we still want to realize and achieve?

But life possibilities are more microcosmic than the dreams of the so-called ‘big picture’. There are the possibilities of seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, and years. At any given moment, everywhere around us, are life’s possibilities in the precious process of an individual lifetime. What these possibilities are or may be is largely a matter of perception and attitude, how one feels at any given time about his or her own life.

At any given moment on a weekend or evening, for instance, one can likely go to the nearest book-store coffee shop and not only relax with a favorite beverage, but wander the aisles in search of what subjects may interest one all over again as they once did in school. If one really wants to see a concert involving a favorite performer, one can easily book tickets online when they first become available. If one wants to be surrounded by natural beauty for three seasons of a North American year, one can go to greenhouses to buy whatever flowers and plants one wants to nurture and be able to derive viewing pleasure from. If one wants to see the classmates of one’s youth, one might attend an anniversary reunion. If one wants to ‘get out of town’, one can travel to any place that appeals to deeper needs of soul and preferred imagery.

In short, just about anything is possible even in adult life, be it changing a mate, a home, a job, a stale lifestyle, and so forth. Life’s possibilities, for the most part, remain nothing more than what we can and might choose if we wish through simple acts of will. Minister-author Norman Vincent Peale had an interesting suggestion regarding this topic: “Become a possibilitarian. No matter how dark things seem to be or actually are, raise your sights and see possibilities–always see them, for they’re always there.”

………………………………………………………………………………………..

Life possibilities are ever-present in any situation, as Viktor Frankl persuasively argues in his book Man’s Search for Meaning, in which he speaks of willing seemingly impossible dreams, attitudes, and behaviors into being. Possibilities are to be found even in the most stressful or depressing situations and contexts, and we have the free will and inner capacity to rise above any crisis or extremely limiting situation. “Life is what we make (of) it” goes the old cliche.

In “As I Walked Out One Evening”, W.H. Auden wrote “Life remains a blessing/Although you cannot bless.” Hamlet said “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” In those two statements, the ideas that there is a “kingdom” of opportunities (cf. the meditation’s epigraph), and that attitude and perspective play large roles in actualizing whatever possibilities of said kingdom. Indeed, if we cannot “bless”, the fault may be an internal one, one resting largely on personal will and individual choice.

A song lyric of mine from the late 1960s goes:

And if you want, you can slide/And if you want you can ride/The day is like a daisy/Pick it off if you’re lazy or crazy

And with your dreams you can fly/Spread your wings touch the sky/All that remains is for you to do it/Close your eyes there’s nothing to it/Come on and try

Takin’ a chance on a star/Findin’ out who you really are/Strummin’ on a magic guitar

……………….

“I am large….I contain multitudes.”–Walt Whitman

Well you know, it`s been a long winter
Hearts & minds all covered in snow
Some got hot, but some turned colder
Some stayed home, while others turned foes

Some got young as some got older
Some went up while others came down
Livin` on the edge of desire
Some went crazy for all we might know

There`s a long hair on my pillow
How it got there, I don`t know
Livin` on the edge of desire
Hidin` wounds that are startin` to show–

Some came slow, but some came runnin`
Some lived dreams while others stayed home
Some gave up & some got bitter
Some got free while others got ‘owned’

Some got light though some got heavy
Some killed love they thought they might gain
Livin` on the edge of desire
Various persons goin` stark ravin` sane

There`s a long hair on my pillow
How it got there, I don`t know
Livin` on the edge of desire
Hidin` wounds that are startin` to show–

Some got reborn & some got smothered
Some of us here don`t remember our names
Some went down to check out the river
All of us here got caught in the flames

Some got cut & some got wounded
Some got burned while others got maimed
Livin` on the edge of desire
Certain people have died in this game

There`s a long hair on my pillow
How it got there, I don`t know
Livin` on the edge of desire
Hidin` wounds that are startin` to show–

…………………………………………………………

Phil Ochs–“So good to be alive when the eulogies are read”. This song lyric about relationships process covers and illustrates the ironies, ambiguities, contrasts, juxtapositions, and paradoxes . To some extent, ‘you had to be there’ when this wrote itself as a rock (or country-rock) song. I have performed it a number of times live, most memorably at Cafe la Gare in Edmonton with my band cohort KK.

(some musical notes: I first sang in operettas at my high school, including a lead role in Gilbert and Sullivan’s Trial by Jury. I played coffee houses, churches, community clubs, and on campus as a solo folk singer-guitarist in addition to folk groups during my university years. One gig was as the first act in front of a thousand people at the Voyageur Festival in Winnipeg. In the Grand Centre-Cold Lake area in the early ’70s, I was in a folk duo as well as a country-rock group, in which I was leader, lead singer and rhythm guitarist. We played a 100 gigs easily in three memorable years and 4-5 thousand people. From 1975 to 2003, I formed several teacher bands which played for several thousand more people in various high school functions. In addition, I have written about 30 songs which have been praised by the likes of Glen Campbell’s manager, the Guess Who’s producer Jack Richardson, and Rita McNeil!)

Next a poem about poetic process and the conflictful birth of a poem…

There were no more maps
just bite-marks and dry lips
that bled on their own.
Hair that stuck to skin
and smells that lingered on
like good music.

There were no more frontiers,
the proper guides left far behind.
Previous roads meant nothing now
and the mirror of time
was broken once and for all.

There were no more names
in this territory and everything
had stopped making sense.
There was no telling if they
would ever arrive or even stop.

Much of the their time was spent
lost in the country of desire.
Destinations changed daily.
A touch, a glance or single word
could shift forever the travel plans
of all these crazy tourist-lovers.

………………………………………………….

And now for two poems about the process of love and other relationships. The Talking Heads` movie Stop Making Sense was definitely an influence here, as well as the metaphor of process as journey. Change can be mental, spiritual, or sometimes very physical. As well, I find it interesting how language, physical contact, and gesture can play important roles in whatever unfolding relationships process.

This poem won first place in a love poetry contest for Winnipeg`s Zygote magazine in the `90s. It had the honour to be read at a makeshift cafe one fall evening under the dome of the great entrance hall of Winnipeg`s Union Station, a beautiful structure built by the same architect who built Grand Central Station. I was always think of that context in conjunction with the process of this favorite.

Slow teasing measures
there is time
teasing measures
why despair when
there is time
teasing measures?

Then run dancing joy
come with me
formal balance
up & down
see the range
counterpoint
& then
stop

And drops of
rain falling
one-two
one too many
see drops of rain
falling:
the droplets of
rain

Now measure how
slowly
they weave down-
ward slowly
the bright drops of water:
perfection
of rain

………………………………………………………………………………..

This was written for the opening of Glenn Gould`s original 1950s recording of  `The Goldberg Variations`. A lot of classical music seems to take its cues from nature as do many people and artists. Nature often seems to have a symmetry in its unfoldings and processes; to wit, streams, waterfalls, and rainfall.

If you`re looking for examples of symmetry in process, the above offer some examples. Obviously, process in nature and music can also be wonderfully beautiful; is there anything more delightful or moving than beauty in nature and music?

The process of this poem was simple. I listened to the piece over and over on a rainy day, and wrote down the words that suggested themselves; interestingly enough, the language stayed simple and repetitive, suggesting the rhythm of the original. I wanted a visual symmetry, too, that suggested the raindrops and the fall of the music so I used a centered/balanced spacing for the poem.

The poem was beautifully read on Cabbages and Kings, a 1980s radio program by Sheila Martindale of London, Ontario in the `80s. It is definitely a poem for voice/s and I have read it two or three times in a row with different nuances, also with the multiple overlapping voices of Spiritus, my performance trio of the `80s and `90s.

“Cursed be the social lies that warp us from living truth!’–Tennyson, “Locksley Hall”

The sleepers lie so deep,
their gardens go unplanted.
Their summer song unsung forever,
the spring-words half-remembered.
The rose and the smell
of running water here.
And then a voice
that tries to find itself,
to speak the saddest silence.

It is said the sleepers
never wake to rise,
only babble with their bedmates,
discuss the latest zygote
or virtual reality,
unplugged from the umbilical
cords of imagined souls.

The sleepers dance in masques
of nightmare shapes.
All-serious now, they
bury their affections
in cozy plots of work and reason,
complain of what they miss
on full-moon nights,
refuse the cracks of entry
to another life in stars.

It is said the sleepers put
themselves to sleep at last
with dreams of tv,
mortgages and murder.
They give up hope and try
to plant themselves in vain,
their only seedlings
dust of secret song.

In the great shared cemetery
of heart and mind,
the sleepers stretch their forevers
in separate pallets,
ache to recall a recurring dream:
the sprouting wings of distant love.

………………………………………………..

“Genuine poetry is conceived and composed in the soul.”–Matthew Arnold, Essays in Criticism, second series

At least Burton had a life in the stars for a while! This poem about the `saddest silence`owes something to T.S. Eliot and works like Four Quartets and The Hollow Men. Death-in-life existences and buried lives are not hard to find; there are days when they seem all-too-common. I think the alternate choices are fairly clear here. They have a lot to do with living out dreams and love; sometimes these two are totally antithetical to the customary modes of work and reason. People often settle for less, in my opinion. As I said re. the previous poem, too often `we do it to ourselves` in our choices. And so many gardens remain wintry and many “secret songs`go unsung.

The next poems are about process, the last subtheme of context-choice-process…