Cockscombs

First, I find that, while playing words with friends with my poet pal David, I have the letters for "Basho" in my hand, to counter his opening play of "Zen".  Next, I find the poem I've been looking for, which I had originally seen a few years ago in a book by Clark Strand: "Seeds from a birch tree". I loaned the book to Jim, he claimed to have returned it, end of story. Anyway, the Golden Notebook didn't have it, but they sent me to the Woodstock Library, which did. So. Here's the wwf board and there's the haiku. Turns out it's by Masaoka Shiki. Thanks to all of you for this little adventure. I'm happy to have the poem again after all these 7 or 8 years.

A year later (click to enlarge text)

Somehow these words of Pema Chödrön were begging for a little graphic design. Now, a year after my marriage blew up, the wisdom contained in them seems so liberating. I'm an adventurous spirit at the beginning of a whole new chapter of my life. Counting my blessings.

Related: wu wei

Clarity versus poetry via Jonathan Safran Foer

from the Village Voice, from an interview with JSF after the publication of his novel Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. (read the entire interview here.)

The thought comes up a lot: the power of poetry to illuminate or illustrate deeper truth than mere reportage, and I always think of these words from JSF that make so much sense:

Jonathan Safran Foer: It troubles me when people ask if it's too early to make art pertaining to September 11. No one asked, in the moments after the attacks, if it was too early for Tom Brokaw to report it. Do we trust Tom Brokaw more than we trust, say, Philip Roth? His wisdom, his morality, his vision? I don't. I appreciate that Tom Brokaw and Philip Roth do entirely different things, both necessary. I wouldn't want Roth giving me my information about what happened on a given day inBaghdad, and I wouldn't want Brokaw giving me my information about what it felt like. Journalists traffic in biography. Artists traffic in empathy. We need both. So why do people continually question what's the appropriate terrain for art? Why do people wonder what's "OK" to make art about, as if creating art out of tragedy weren't an inherently good thing? Too many people are too suspicious of art. Too many people hate art.

Buying a stamp

Kurt Vonnegut Jr.:

“I work at home, and if I wanted to, I could have a computer right by my bed, and I’d never have to leave it. But I use a typewriter, and afterwards I mark up the pages with a pencil. Then I call up this woman named Carol out in Woodstock and say, “Are you still doing typing?” Sure she is, and her husband is trying to track bluebirds out there and not having much luck, and so we chitchat back and forth, and I say, “OK, I’ll send you the pages.”

Then I’m going down the steps, and my wife calls up, “Where are you going?” I say, “Well, I’m going to go buy an envelope.” And she says, “You’re not a poor man. Why don’t you buy a thousand envelopes? They’ll deliver them, and you can put them in a closet.” And I say, “Hush.” So I go down the steps here, and I go out to this newsstand across the street where they sell magazines and lottery tickets and stationery. I have to get in line because there are people buying candy and all that sort of thing, and I talk to them. The woman behind the counter has a jewel between her eyes, and when it’s my turn, I ask her if there have been any big winners lately. I get my envelope and seal it up and go to the postal convenience center down the block at the corner of 47th Street and 2nd Avenue, where I’m secretly in love with the woman behind the counter. I keep absolutely poker-faced; I never let her know how I feel about her. One time I had my pocket picked in there and got to meet a cop and tell him about it. Anyway, I address the envelope to Carol in Woodstock. I stamp the envelope and mail it in a mailbox in front of the post office, and I go home.

And I’ve had a hell of a good time.

And I tell you, we are here on Earth to fart around, and don’t let anybody tell you any different.”

Peace that passeth understanding.

In an article called "The Joy of Quiet" in today's New York Times, author Pico Iyer quotes David Steindl-Rast's definition of joy.  Which I just love.  And posted here so that I can have access to it forever.  Here's the whole sentence:  "It’s actually something deeper than mere happiness: it’s joy, which the monk David Steindl-Rast describes as “that kind of happiness that doesn’t depend on what happens.”


Nice.  So, I guess posting here counts as joy.  Happy New Year.