Hughes

Life is for the living.
Death is for the dead.
Let life be like music.
And death a note unsaid.

-Langston Hughes

Words, no words

Orpheus, Eurydice, Hermes
Rainer Maria Rilke
translated from the German by Stephen Mitchell

That was the deep uncanny mine of souls.
Like veins of silver ore, they silently
moved through its massive darkness. Blood welled up
among the roots, on its way to the world of men,
and in the dark it looked as hard as stone.
Nothing else was red.

There were cliffs there,
and forests made of mist. There were bridges
spanning the void, and that great gray blind lake
which hung above its distant bottom
like the sky on a rainy day above a landscape.
And through the gentle, unresisting meadows
one pale path unrolled like a strip of cotton.

Down this path they were coming.

In front, the slender man in the blue cloak--
mute, impatient, looking straight ahead.
In large, greedy, unchewed bites his walk
devoured the path; his hands hung at his sides,
tight and heavy, out of the falling folds,
no longer conscious of the delicate lyre
which had grown into his left arm, like a slip
of roses grafted onto an olive tree.
His senses felt as though they were split in two;
his sight would race ahead of him like a dog,
stop, come back, then rushing off again
would stand, impatient, at the path's next turn,--
but his hearing, like an odor, stayed behind.
Sometimes it seemed to him as though it reached
back to the footsteps of those other two
who were to follow him, up the long path home.
But then, once more, it was just his own steps' echo,
or the wind inside his cloak, that made the sound.

He said to himself, they had to be behind him;
said it aloud and heard it fade away.
They had to be behind him, but their steps
were ominously soft. If only he could
turn around, just once (but looking back
would ruin this entire work, so near
completion), then he could not fail to see them,
those other two, who followed him so softly:

The god of speed and distant messages,
a traveler's hood above his shining eyes,
his slender staff held out in front of him,
and little wings fluttering at his ankles;
and on his left arm, barely touching it: she.

A woman so loved that from one lyre there came
more lament than from all lamenting women;
that a whole world of lament arose, in which
all nature reappeared: forest and valley,
road and village, field and stream and animal;
and that around this lament-world, even as
around the other earth, a sun revolved
and a silent star-filled heaven, a lament-
heaven, with its own, disfigured stars--:
So greatly was she loved.

But now she walked beside the graceful god,
Her steps constricted by the trailing graveclothes,
uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.
She was deep within herself, like a woman heavy
with child, and did not see the man in front
or the path ascending steeply into life.
Deep within herself. Being dead
filled her beyond fulfillment. Like a fruit
suffused with its own mystery and sweetness,
she was filled with her vast death, which was so new,
she could not understand that it had happened.

She had come into a new virginity
and was untouchable; her sex had closed
like a young flower at nightfall, and her hands
had grown so unused to marriage that the god's
infinitely gentle touch of guidance
hurt her, like an undesired kiss.

She was no longer that woman with blue eyes
who once had echoed through the poet's songs,
no longer the wide couch's scent and island,
and that man's property no longer.

She was already loosened like long hair,
poured out like fallen rain,
shared like a limitless supply.

She was already root.

And when, abruptly,
the god put out his hand to stop her, saying,
with sorrow in his voice: He has turned around--,
she could not understand, and softly answered
Who?

Far away,
dark before the shining exit-gates,
someone or other stood, whose features were
unrecognizable. He stood and saw
how, on the strip of road among the meadows,
with a mournful look, the god of messages
silently turned to follow the small figure
already walking back along the path,
her steps constricted by the trailing graveclothes,
uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.

3C

Curate, Critique, Create

Collect, display, and try to make some sense to convey an arc of development set in a context imposed and biased by the selections.

Based on a context and bias (personal and ignorant), have an opinion on a work that was created by another.  Usually developed by a person with very little knowledge in the process, or by a person with  a methodology already in mind.

Play, explore edges, inquire, and bring rules and non-rules into the development of an opus.  Can involve collaboration with others who have some similarity of approach, and even with this initial affinity, can have an outcome that could not have been predicted at the beginning of the partnership.

...distilled from what has been brewing lately, and recently reinforced.

Hues

or Hughs.

Picking them up in a "last effort" before the last class in dye-ing.  But who is to say this is the "last effort?", I remind myself.  Tap into receptive resources and share share share.

The passing of recent influencers has got me back on vinyl and ivory: listening and re-creating.  In conjunction with recent readings and correspondence received (goodness you can't possibly make this juicy stuff up!! tabloid news is not so far from past-real life, for some people), this material melds with my other interests and "day-job" to make a very enriching experience.

Unfortunately there are numerous fires and displaced friends I need to tend to.  These come first.

Still

When the altitude of flying or settling in mountains makes me short of breath, I sit to read.  I am currently savoring the nuance of Barthes between bouts of hand-crafting and sketching. A note on the Barthes: had to put it down for a bit after reading the forward that set the context, then again after reading Barthes's explanation of the structure, then again after reading here and there, then again after devising a structure that may guide me through the reading.

Heat

...reveling in it despite the missing voice and the stress of seeing the earth shake, winds blow and suck and push water, fires consume vast acreage, and arrogant ones thrash around and take up valuable space and time.

I made an inadvertent presentation of "coals to Newcastle" this afternoon in the Bay Area culinary world, and I think I survived, thanks to my pure ignorance.  Got a flat tire in the process and the 2 who came to assist were adept and fast.  Yeah, I told myself I could have done it on my own but there is nothing wrong with calling for assistance and having the pros do it.

The weekend has been spent with the memory that I have 5 skeins of a particular yarn.  The house exploded then come back to order quickly as I looked for the yarn, without success.  However, more consolidation and inventory (goodness, I have so much...) has been taken in the process.

I accepted an invitation to participate in a fiber event.

Meanwhile I continue to watch the beacon and light that I was raised on slowly wane, marking the end of an era.  Time for the next generation to pick up the mantle.

Filters are more refined with each month and year, as time becomes more limited.

Ground

Wished I were with others elsewhere,
yet solace is found
in immersing myself in the movement.
We each lift our burdens alone, so I have
returned to this place of mine.
Drove back from holiday and
saw those who continue to
labor without the benefit of the holiday.
Saw tears from those betrayed,
as I have also felt betrayed at times,
more recently through
heritage and my story of how I came to
reap the fruits of this land of
opportunity.  Meanwhile others, from their
privileged perches, sail through the clouds.

On another note, art experienced from
galleries and essential commentary was
marred by a supplementary presentation
not well organized nor edited for the
time allotment.  Too bad because a better use
of my time would have been to re-visit
the artist's work in the gallery.

Was depressed as hell, but reminded myself that
this is not tumblr (if you've seen, you know that proclivity).
Lifting off with rejuvenation.

To focus

Remind me next time:
Limit the realm of possibilities to those that will support and contribute.
Stay off the electronics and the fascinating nesting doors that lead to unfulfillment.
Know that the housework will still need to be done.
Print the hardcopy, lay it out, and scribble away.
Assemble, mix, layout, and edit again.

Got the monkey off my back after days of postponing, fretting,
and tending to other tasks:
memorizing a poem,
sewing 6 semi-dresses,
baking 2 loaves of bread,
preparing 2 substantial meals and restoring the kitchen each time,
wondering why other interests have not been more deeply explored.

and yet, and yet a sense of being adrift

until I hear the voice and feel the rhythm running through my hands again

Solar

Get off the damn computer and take a two-hour time-out.

An early Fall mid-morning, with so much fog and overcast conditions that the sun's location was a mystery unless you knew this place earlier.   As the moon began to cover the sun, the sky became slightly darker as though a storm was approaching.  The air became very quiet.  More quiet than usual at this time?  we don't know, but we heard birds, people, and traffic one hour later, far off in the distance, which created stark audio relief to the quieter darkening sky.  As the sky changed, the silence pressed in with the darkness.  When the sky lightened to the glare of overcast conditions, birds began to fly again.  A flock of crows flew to the tall (they must be at least 30 feet) trees in the distance, several blocks down the street.  A hummingbird chirped as it drew from flowers near me.  I returned to my reading, then departed soon afterward.

Time to hit the water soon.

Heightened

News of the sudden collapse and death of someone close in age and temperament reminds me to savor all that is in this life.  No (well, only a few) regrets.