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Showing posts from June, 2021

The Art of Memory

  The Art of Memory When we can traverse the plains of memory, stopping at each fire to warm ourselves before we start again on our journey, there is a world inside a world that keeps going on to infinity.  If we are lucky enough to hear the eternal melody that is at work in these moments, many fine hours may come upon us.   But sometimes the solace and hospitality are too much and we live with our new found companions, taking them along wherever we go, as a shadow upon our eyes.  The memories of Thoreau, or the early frontier narratives of Indian captivity, are something that I have felt eternal and unchangeable in human nature, not for any piece of information they have given me, but because my melancholy has always found peace in their environment.  For some the world is old or the world is new, but the point is that we tend to look at it through memory.  One memorable event confounds all future celebrations; we remember so as not to forget, but we do not remember that we are able t

A Poet's Journal: February 20th, 2015

  February 20th, 2015 How much of our day is determined by the first few moments after we wake?  And how much have we already decided of ourselves when we are ready to step out from our place of rest?  There is some importance in asking this.  We like to believe that the place of rest holds some physical comfort that we can come back to in time, remaining unchanged, because we ourselves have spent the day going from one thing to another.  But there is always this underlying fixation that what is far from us is truly the thing that will bring us the most support.  The moment that I find myself confronted with something that I can't get around, whether it be plans, obligations, or simply self-imposed rules, I immediately think to something far away, something I don't have that I want, something that I could use, something that I could read; this is the reward for the effort. There is never really enough time for us to be a part of these things, we only use them to get something e

A Poet's Journal: February 19th, 2015

  February 19th, 2015 To the east, Jupiter is arriving earlier in the evening sky each day; today, a perfectly dull white dot in the fading blue expanse.  Looking at it, one feels as if he were falling into infinity. I have always read Thoreau in winter and spring; his words are filled with the melancholy of these months, and no matter how many times we come over the same passage, it remains steeped in a relationship that is filled with the turnings of human life.  Keats has been read as a complement alongside, though I find it difficult to veer from only one or two of his most mystical passages.  We have written so many words, but none of them has ever been enough to keep us silent; the hardest thing is perhaps letting them go, for the word always dies but our feeling for it always wants it to continue on the same plane, eternal, and for this reason confine ourselves to the most rudimentary meaning.  If we cannot look at anything as if it were a part of the ephemeral, as if it were fa