Asparagus
Thinking about Gertrude Stein most days. Not spending a lot of time on her, she just comes into the field of play when I consider certain things. Not to say I compare myself to her or that I want her to be something other than what she is, or that I wish to be like her. She's not my hero. I don't know her. I don't know anything about her except a book I read once by her that I loved. And how much she loved Alice.
A LIGHT IN THE MOON
by: Gertrude Stein (1874-1946)
LIGHT in the moon the only light is on Sunday. What was the sensible decision. The sensible decision was that notwithstanding many declarations and more music, not even withstanding the choice and a torch and a collection, notwithstanding the celebrating hat and a vacation and even more noise than cutting, notwithstanding Europe and Asia and being overbearing, not even notwithstanding an elephant and a strict occasion, not even withstanding more cultivation and some seasoning, not even with drowning and with the ocean being encircling, not even with more likeness and any cloud, not even with terrific sacrifice of pedestrianism and a special resolution, not even more likely to be pleasing. The care with which the rain is wrong and the green is wrong and the white is wrong, the care with which there is a chair and plenty of breathing. The care with which there is incredible justice and likeness, all this makes a magnificent asparagus, and also a fountain.
She wrote as if in dream, in waking dream of all that conjures itself out of sleep. Language about levels of understanding that is not present to us. It's not immediate. But it is a working, a digging ~ not at meaning, whatdoesthatmean, but in the experiencing of the images. Letting language free to flow out and on a page of clean white readiness to accept it. It is pre poetry, it is post poetry.
When I am stuck in my mind, body and soul is restricted by wanting to express to needing to show something to say more than what I know how to say I think of Gertrude and I don't stop the avalance that tumbles from my fingers and I type and the words bellow their minds and they feel unrestricted, titillated, excited that I am not structuring them in any certain form or particular story or underlying a commentary or subtext. But there is a benevolence there and appreciation deep in letting that which is meant to be be and sometimes in the tumble they will obligingly offer to tell me something to relay back that which completes a thought of resolution.
Baby Kitty was a moment ago playing with doll clothes and just stopped to lick my toe.
Here is the thought: With care, it is never easy. But it is always easy.
A LIGHT IN THE MOON
by: Gertrude Stein (1874-1946)
LIGHT in the moon the only light is on Sunday. What was the sensible decision. The sensible decision was that notwithstanding many declarations and more music, not even withstanding the choice and a torch and a collection, notwithstanding the celebrating hat and a vacation and even more noise than cutting, notwithstanding Europe and Asia and being overbearing, not even notwithstanding an elephant and a strict occasion, not even withstanding more cultivation and some seasoning, not even with drowning and with the ocean being encircling, not even with more likeness and any cloud, not even with terrific sacrifice of pedestrianism and a special resolution, not even more likely to be pleasing. The care with which the rain is wrong and the green is wrong and the white is wrong, the care with which there is a chair and plenty of breathing. The care with which there is incredible justice and likeness, all this makes a magnificent asparagus, and also a fountain.
She wrote as if in dream, in waking dream of all that conjures itself out of sleep. Language about levels of understanding that is not present to us. It's not immediate. But it is a working, a digging ~ not at meaning, whatdoesthatmean, but in the experiencing of the images. Letting language free to flow out and on a page of clean white readiness to accept it. It is pre poetry, it is post poetry.
When I am stuck in my mind, body and soul is restricted by wanting to express to needing to show something to say more than what I know how to say I think of Gertrude and I don't stop the avalance that tumbles from my fingers and I type and the words bellow their minds and they feel unrestricted, titillated, excited that I am not structuring them in any certain form or particular story or underlying a commentary or subtext. But there is a benevolence there and appreciation deep in letting that which is meant to be be and sometimes in the tumble they will obligingly offer to tell me something to relay back that which completes a thought of resolution.
Baby Kitty was a moment ago playing with doll clothes and just stopped to lick my toe.
Here is the thought: With care, it is never easy. But it is always easy.
posted by SPOA | 6:44 AM
1 Comments:
What I want to know is this: Why do cats always get the best deal?
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