barriers exist

Various barriers to free expression and privacy have been much in the news, but those barriers often do not apply to me in my every day world. However, barriers exist.

I am truly struggling in a new phase of my poetry to explore some difficult times in my life. Those times are an essential, but mostly an unexpressed part of who I am today. It seems imperative to bring those times openly into my creative process.

But, I have become so aware of my barriers to writing honestly, and even to remembering. The barriers once seemed, or were, essential for self protection in society, relationships, work and ultimately my own self image. Because of change and aging, they are no longer relevant. The question today seems to be, can I remove these fences that block my reach? 

Are they unmovable or a matter of changing perspective?

the humility of sound

Stairs have been so widely written about that I won’t venture to go there. Using the metaphor of the staircase for life’s journey, the spiritual path or even about education has been over-used. But, the blue at night of this particular stairway…which no longer goes anywhere…reminded me of a poem that I do love. (much abbreviated here)

The Blue Stairs

     by Barbara Guest

There is no fear

in taking the first step

or the second or the third

In fact the top can be reached

without disaster

precocious

The code consists in noticing

the particular shade of the staircase

occasionally giving way to the emotions

It has been chosen discriminately

*  *  *  *

It has discovered

in the creak of a footstep

the humility of sound 

merely might have happened

It was one of those unplanned excavations into the back of a closet that caused me to think so much about events from long ago (the 60’s) and how I I remember it now. This photo certainly doesn’t look like the “me” that most people know, yet I somehow don’t think of the years as having quite the external change that has occurred. I love this quote:

I always had trouble distinguishing between what happened and what merely might have happened, but I remain unconvinced that the distinction, for my purposes, matters.

Joan Didion,

Slouching Towards Bethlehem

the right to share the exotic

I have never been a fan of the zoo. It has always seemed a sad place for me. Yesterday, I was at loose ends and went looking for a photo op. I went to our local zoo. It is as good as any, I understand. I wandered for several hours and saw animals that seemed bored or putting on a show to interact with the species looking in through the wire fences/bars/glass barriers.

I got some decent photos, but at what price? The price of captivity for most of the animals seems obvious. But, what is the price we pay for this moment of viewing the exotic, far from their natural environments. The pensive Snow Leopard brought to mind this deep felt poem of Rilke. Rodin had told him to go out into Paris and observe. This was one of those moments for the young Rilke. Still holds for those of us who are old.

The Panther

His gaze has from the passing of the bars

grown so tired that it holds nothing anymore.

It seems to him there are a thousand bars

and behind a thousand bars no world.

The supple pace of powerful soft strides,

turning in the very smallest circle,

is like a dance of strength around a center

in which a great will stands numbed.

Only sometimes the curtain of the pupils

soundlessly slides up ─ then an image enters,

slides through the limbs’ taut stillness

dives into the heart ─ and dies.

Rainer Maria Rilke

tr. by Edward Snow

scavenging

It has become a custom in my neighborhood to put out usable objects for passersby to recycle for their own use. This room size rug was prominently placed at the edge of the rec center/children’s park--a popular place for displaying “goods”. The rug is an amazing green color, but had one serious qualification from the previous owner. BTW, I like the lettering and graphics.

a time for quiet

It is a cold, foggy Sunday morning in the City. A time for quiet, as the fog dampens not only the air, but sound. It does not seem like a time for endings or a time for beginning. Just a near silent morning thinking about today, not so much about yesterday and very little about tomorrow. Reflecting on temporality: this magnificent butterfly remains magnificent.

blue light of awareness

Late in the evening as I was walking home, I saw the grizzled old man who frequently sleeps in doorways and on bus benches on Mission Street. I have commented on him in an earlier blog. I have observed him from the bus window. I sometimes walk past him when he seems to be passed out. I have watched him as he incoherently discourses with the passing traffic. All of these times, I have seen him. Last night, he looked up at me as I passed and I realized that he recognized me, too. I had never once thought about him observing me. This was a shattering awareness of my role as “unseen” observer. A psychic way of separation and self-protection that feels very, very uncomfortable.