waferiction

The peculiar history of Honoria, Roman Princess

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 04:15:00 +0000

A lesson in politics

Justa Grata Honoria was the older sister of the Western Roman Emperor, Valetinian III. At this time, the early 400s, the empire was effectively split into West and East. The two emperors were related and even if relations were strained, they still communicated and helped each other out.

Honoria was an important asset to Valetinian. She could be married off to an important head of state or perhaps an important local family to help strengthen his position as emperor.

A church in Ravenna, Italy

This is why she was confined to the imperial palace in Ravenna as soon as she turned 12, which was the minimum age for marriage in those days.

Honoria had other plans. She chafed at being under such close guard, and she detested her mother, Galla Placidia's recently-found religiousity: prayers, fasting and chastity. It was this last item that led her to take the Steward of Estates, Eugenius, as a lover.

One thing led to another, and another, and eventually she could no longer hide the fact she was pregnant.

The Theodosian Walls of Constantinople

Valetinian was furious. Honoria's honour was now worthless. He had Eugenius executed and Honoria sent off to Constantinople, which was the capital of the Eastern half of the empire. There she stayed with Aelia Pulcheria and her sisters Arcadia and Marina. The three were sisters of the emperor Theodosius II, and had taken vows of celibacy. They lived in a palace outside the Theodosian Walls of Constantinople.

There, Honoria had her baby. No one knows what happened to it. It was never named and Honoria never saw it. The chances are Pulcheria had it disposed of. Perhaps it was dashed against the city's walls with the remains fed to the dogs, or sent off with a hunter with a demand to see the heart. An unwanted imperial baby was a dangerous, dangerous thing.

Honoria returned to Ravenna disgraced and under guard. She was now damaged goods as far as Valetinian was concerned, and risk as well. However, she was still family and an imperial princess. Valetinian was also planning his own daughter Eudocia's wedding to the Vandal King's son Hunneria. To have Honoria around the palace was a potential embarrassment.

Valetinian's solution was to engage her to Flavius Bassus Herculanus, a dull, respectable land-owner far from the capital. She would be kept in the style she was accustomed to, but wouldn't be around to cause trouble.

Honoria was not pleased. She detested Herculanus, who was, apparently, no Hercules.

Attila the Hun

To strengthen her position she sent a trusted eunuch named Hyancinthus across the Danube to Attila the Hun with gold, a ring to show she was serious, and a plea for help.

Attila, a crafty politician and negotiator recognized the value of this embassy. He sent Hyancinthus back with assurances the wedding would not take place. His only stipulation was that Honoria should become his next wife.

It's a safe bet this wasn't the response Honoria was looking for.

Attila then sent an embassy to Valetinian. He claimed to be engaged to Honoria, with her consent. The ring was proof of her pledge. He asked for her to be sent over. He also asked that Honoria be given half of the Western Empire.

Valetinian's initial response must have been interesting to watch.

He tortured Hyacinthus to extract the complete story before executing him. He conferred with Theodosius. The two decided that sending Honoria to Attila was probably a reasonable strategy, especially if it would keep Attila from attacking either of them. Valetinian told Honoria to pack her bags.

Honoria's response must have been interesting to watch.

Fortunately for her Galla Placidia, their mother, intervened. She convinced her son the emperor that handing over an imperial princess as a bride might not placate Attila, but whet his appetite for more. Valetinian eventually allowed Honoria to marry Herculanus, the dull land owner, and move to the country.

There she slips from history.

One bag, one pit, an abyss

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 17:07:00 +0000

One bag: a plastic cloth grocery bag from IGA Marketplace. Sturdy. Off-white and green. Eco-friendly. Actually, what is it made of? Feel it. Pliable, soft. It's a woven cloth of some kind, but not from anything that grows from the ground. Nylon? I don't know my plastics. It's mystery material.

Inside the bag: a sock-monkey toque with two red pompoms dangling from the earflaps. I guess it's not really a toque if you want to get picky. It's not even made from a work sock, which is what Zephyr was made from. Zephyr was a sock monkey my mom made. She used a pair of my dad's wool socks. Grey and red. A long tail. This sock-monkey toque is a simulacrum of a simulacrum, just as this grocery bag is a sort of fake paper grocery bag, but better. I don't know what the sock-monkey is made of. Something miraculous and mysterious.

Inside the bag: the camera. A Canon 50D with a 18-200 lens. Hefty. Expensive. Precious.

Beside me, on the black vinyl seat in the new library are two books, yet to be checked out. One is about Attila the Hun, the other a short introduction to literary theory. There's a cartoon inside and I think I could fit it into a shirt pocket. I picked it up on a whim.

Outside, trucks and shovels dig a hole, scrape out the slate-grey clay, rocks and dirt next to this new library. Once, a river flowed over this plain dropping silt, clay and particulates from the interior of the province. Now shovels dig it out. Where will it journey next?

This hole is for the new city hall. That's the future.

The now is across the hole from me, where seven or eight women stare out the second-floor window of the old library into this pit.

The old library is across the pit from me. It's smaller and seems lower down. What floor am I on? Second-from-the-top. I think the library has three floors, so I should be on the second floor too, the same as the women across the uncrossable abyss of space between old and new. I marvel at how much higher I am. What's in the old library now? I can see the book shelves are empty. Outside, the paint peels from above the window.

The women stand and stare into the pit. I sit and look down at them from across this gulf of grey rock grey mud grey puddles separated by glass from the droppings of an ancient river.

The kitchen the next morning

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 00:21:00 +0000

What was on kitchen counter the morning after several pizzas were made and eaten?

An empty bag of chips flattened and folded in half. The foil top from a 750 ml yogurt container. Vanilla yogurt.

Four plates: three dinner, and one for serving. Stained with crumbs and bits of topping. A paring knife -- useful for cutting -- and a fork rested on top.

The counter dusted with flour. A few clumps where it had been pushed aside to make room for some object that was now long gone.

Three cloth napkins, off-white. Two used, one still neatly folded. I'm pretty sure these were the organic cotton napkins. I'll put that folded one back in the drawer.

The rolling pin. It's between the plates and a large mixing bowl. This must have held the dough. A bit of dried flaky substance clings inside.

This is just one counter. There is tomato paste, a piece of pizza, cutting board and knife, among other sundry objects, on two other counters beside the fridge and stove. The sink if full of pans and things. But back to our main counter, where a spatula and a large knife rest parallel to each other on top of the flour. The knife's tip has been broken off sometime in the past, but it still has a nice heft to it.

On the side is a recipe book open to sofregit. I've never heard of it. The text inside tells me it's a flavour base used in Catalan cooking. The mouth-watering picture looks like onions in a tomato sauce. Under it is another cookbook, closed.

An empty plastic bag. A handkerchief.

A broken pair of dollar-store eye-glasses stare blindly at 48 cents in change: four dimes, one nickel and three pennies.

Three bottles of pills for the dog. I can't remember what they do, but they're related to a rash on his leg.

A not-so-small bamboo plant is next to a spool of green thread and a blue highlighter felt pen.

Happiness: a dialogue between a crab and turtle

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Sun, 30 Oct 2011 18:24:00 +0000

The short-sighted bald man walked down the hill muttering to himself. Demons spoke to him. They gave him suggestions. They harassed and insulted him. They told him what he should have said and what he still could say.

He tried to brush them off, but the divine can not be stopped. Not only did they speak to him, but they spoke to each other. He managed to remember enough to scribble it down.

Crab: Are you happy?

Turtle: I don't now. What is happiness? And, if I could recognize it, is it something I want?

Crab: Isn't happiness a sense of well-being?

Turtle: Like being drunk?

Crab: Perhaps. Sometimes. I think it's more... something...

Turtle: A sense of euphoria?

Crab: Yes. Although euphoria is fleeting: a sudden joy, an explosion of pheromes that dissipate into the bloodstream with time.

Turtle: So happiness isn't a chemical reaction, something that is created by alcohol or occasional bodily reactions?

Crab: No, you're right. Those might create a temporary sense of happiness, but that's not what I meant.

Turtle: You mentioned a sense of well-being. Perhaps the phrase 'contentment with yourself' gets closer to what you were getting at?

Crab: Yes. But also how you feel fitting into society or the world. Not just your physical self, but your relationships.

Turtle: That sounds complicated. There are a lot of variables. For example, I could be ecstatic that my favourite team has won a game, but also sad that my son is sick.

Crab: Hmm. And if you add in all your individual relationships you'd have quite the soup!

Turtle: So, it sounds like you're looking for an averaging, an overall look at the big picture?

Crab: Yes. How are you -- right now.

Turtle: Because it could change within a minute.

Crab: No. It has to be more macro than that. I mean, I suppose that if you suddenly receive some news that's significant -- that you've just received a big promotion for example, or that your dog's been killed by a car -- then yes, that could change your sense of 'happinesss' or 'well-being' quickly. But aside from major events your overall sense of happiness probably shifts more slowly.

Turtle: Sort of a sum-of-all-parts?

Crab: Yes. if we take up all the pieces that make up your life: your relationships, your goals, your health -- all the things that matter to you -- if we add up all of that, is it generally happy?

Turtle: Are you following Spinoza's idea that all human emotion is on a continuum between joy and sorrow?

Crab: I though it was more involved than that. What about jealousy?

Turtle: I can't remember. Somehow I thought he had it all pegged down to those two primal emotions. All else followed from those.

Crab: If you're trying to reduce emotions to their cellular or neurological basis I think you have to include fear: fight or flight.

Turtle: Fair enough. We digress. But it's interesting because these dichotomies: joy and sorrow, happy and sad, anger and fear -- create the structure that we then try to apply to our own state of being.

Crab: An artificial way of making things black or white?

Turtle: Yes. Or simplifying things so they can be spoken of. For example, you asked me if I was happy. To answer this I mentally add up all my feelings of my life from some period of time, say two or three days, weigh it on some sort of personal happiness scale and come back with a yes/no answer.

Crab: Right. And no. I, and I think most other people, know that not everything will be reducible to such extremes. We expect an answer like: "For the most part things are going well for me: example one, example two. I'm anxious about this-or-that and I'm worried about so-and-so."

Turtle: But now you're asking me how I'm doing, not whether I'm happy or not.

Crab: Ok. Yes. When I'm asking if you're happy I'm either starting a conversation that leads to probing how you are doing, or summing up that conversation. It's part of a larger communication.

Turtle: With a yes or no answer.

Crab: The question is a yes or no question.

Turtle: That's a problem.

Crab: Is it? Christ, you must know if you're happy or not!

Turtle: Would I? I don't think I can reduce it down to yes or no. And if I do, by what mechanism? How big is my picture? How quickly will it change?

Crab: If you had to describe how you're feeling -- right now -- what word would you use?

Turtle: Frustrated? Irritated? But now my happiness -- notice how we're using the word happiness as a synonym for feeling -- has been heavily weighted by our current conversation.

Crab: So the answer will change depending on what you were thinking or talking about most recently.

Turtle: And by articulating that feeling, do I not also confirm it, feed it and make it stronger? In other words it sets up a feedback loop. It also means there is no semi-objective overall picture.

Crab: It will be skewed, admittedly. But if it comes at the end of a 'how are you' conversation it can sum up the thoughts so far.

Turtle: As long as that conversation was candid and thorough.

Crab: Yes.

Turtle: And if the question opens the conversation?

Crab: Then it will jar the person asked. To be perfectly honest, most people will probably lie, or put a positive slant on things. Who doesn't want to appear happy?

Turtle: Except, perhaps, to close friends.

Crab: Or especially to close friends. But the question can also force a personal assessment. No one is always happy. When someone out of the blue asks if you're happy you may suddenly face that you're not happy right at this moment. Of course you instinctively answer politely "for the most part, yes." But now, privately, you start questioning yourself more closely. Am I happy? Why am I not happy?

Turtle: This could be a technique for unscrupulous peddlers of therapies since, as you said, no one is always happy, and everyone wants to appear happy.

Crab: No doubt.

Turtle: We haven't really looked at what we mean by 'happiness'. Not closely. It's loaded with connotations and a trigger for hurts and psychological reactions.

Crab: Another time perhaps. Are you happy now?

Turtle: Better, thanks.

The coins

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 17:33:00 +0000

I picked up one coin off the floor. Carpet. It wouldn't have made a noise as it fell.

20 Copias, Estados Unidos Mexicanos.

A spread of coins was pushed to one side of the kitchen table. Detritus of purses and pockets, trips and expeditions. Joy and sorrow. Too valuable to throw. Too many memories.

Not my memories. But something lingers with the metal.

Five francs 1978, Republique Francaise. Perhaps I touched this coin before, in 2001 or 2005. How would I know?

L.50 Repvlica Italiana 1976. Note 'v', not 'u'. A little overdone? Half a lira or 50? Where did this come from?

Two American half dollars.

25 Belize cents, Queen Elizabeth the Second.

Another half dollar, American.

Here's one with a hole: 25 PTAS. Espana. Ah, this must be Zoe's pile.

They're historical artifacts. This last one (1997) is stamped with an amphora, the word 'Melilla' and 1497-1997. A town? Does the Euro do commemorative coins?

More Spanish coins: cien pesetas and 5 ptas. They have a distinctive light brass colour. Nice. Easy to group.

A Canadian penny 2011. How many more can I list before I get bored?

Eight more Canadian pennies of various shades of brown. The darkest one is from 1974.

Wait. One is an American penny. Abe Lincoln glowers out of his litter of maple leaves. Sorry old boy. Misfiled.

A washer. Not a coin, but more practical and useful than many of these other objects. So similar, so different.

20 centimes francaise.

Un centavo from Guatemala, an American quarter dollar.

A tiny bit of aluminium, smaller than a penny. It's a Toronto bus or subway token. A coin, but not a coin, and yet, probably of more use... if we were in Toronto.

Ten cents Belize. Another five pesetas Espana.

A Canadian dime. 2009. The Bluenose still has its sails filled with wind. Vol au gre du vent.

50 cents Mexican, two more Canadian pennies.

25 cents Belize, and another one. Did I count this one already?

Two francs from 1981, Republique Francaise.

Five more pesitas, and Jean Carlos I, Rey de Espana present 100 pesetas from 1992.

a bouquet

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Mon, 10 Oct 2011 17:01:00 +0000

a bouquet under three small halogen lights.

ten open carnations, pink-tinged, salmon-coloured petals
three unopen. they will never open.
constellations of baby breath - small white stars connected with the straight black lines of their stems. They could be precisely counted, but could also be enumerated as many.

This whole world is in a glass meant for specialty coffees: monte cristos and such that combine cream, coffee and liqueurs.

The glass, I think, came from the dollar store.

clouds

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Wed, 14 Sep 2011 03:07:00 +0000

Clouds.

It's so rare to see them against the blue sky. Here.

Here they are, though, both solid and wisps. Moving.

Moving not a shapes, not animals and Rorschach blogs but changing like fractals, smoothly evolving, like time-lapse photography. But in real time. Our time. Now.

Now, lying on my back on the humid hill, the wind here moving like the clouds, moving the clouds, moving me to stand up and disperse back to a million shattered thoughts.

Clouded.

The squirrel, the cat, and the raccoon

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Sat, 03 Sep 2011 16:57:00 +0000

A squirrel and a cat, putting their differences aside, created a partnership for their mutual protection.

One evening they met a raccoon.

The cat, seeing the danger, snuck up to the raccoon and promised it a fat squirrel. In return, the cat asked only for its own safety. The raccoon agreed.

The cat returned to the squirrel, pointed out where the raccoon was lurking. It suggested they go back, another way, and led the squirrel where it fell into a a steep-sided hole some men had been digging.

The raccoon, seeing that the squirrel was not only fat, but unable to escape, immediately pounced on the cat. It then ate the squirrel at its leisure.

The original tale from Aesop, via Project Gutenberg, via V. S. VERNON JONES, 1912:

An Ass and a Fox went into partnership and sallied out to forage for
food together. They hadn't gone far before they saw a Lion coming
their way, at which they were both dreadfully frightened. But the Fox
thought he saw a way of saving his own skin, and went boldly up to the
Lion and whispered in his ear, "I'll manage that you shall get hold of
the Ass without the trouble of stalking him, if you'll promise to let
me go free." The Lion agreed to this, and the Fox then rejoined his
companion and contrived before long to lead him by a hidden pit, which
some hunter had dug as a trap for wild animals, and into which he
fell. When the Lion saw that the Ass was safely caught and couldn't
get away, it was to the Fox that he first turned his attention, and he
soon finished him off, and then at his leisure proceeded to feast upon
the Ass.

Notes on the Consolation of Philosophy by Boethius

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Thu, 21 Jul 2011 04:17:00 +0000

I've been reading an Elizabethan translation of Boethius' Consolation of Philosophy. It's one of those things I've read so much about, but never got around to wading through.

This version (Project Gutenberg) also has the latin, and although I can't read that it's interesting to see the text presented in two languages, chapter by chapter.

A few things that stand out for me are:

1. The Consolation of Philosophy isn't about how philosophy as a subject matter has consoled Boethius, it's about a goddess called Philosophy who provides a consolation, or argument to him on why he should accept things as they are. This immediately reminds me of Parmenides whose work is dictated to him by a goddess called Truth (or somesuch).

2. The text is presented as alternating poems which introduce the following prose exposition. Because much of the subject matter is about the vanity of existence, etc etc, the Testament of Villon springs to mind, where his longish poem (of the same general theme) is interrupted by shorter pieces (like "Ballad des dames du temps jadis").

3. Because we know Boethius wrote this in prison knowing he was going to be executed (524 AD), there's a poignant urgency to the piece. He's struggling with coming to terms (a la Job) with why this unfair judgment is on him. It's not abstract. The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius has a similar feel: that work was created as a sort of personal notebook that somehow accidentally became published. Immediacy.

Well worth a read.

Heart of Darkness :: notes on another approach

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Fri, 27 May 2011 02:07:00 +0000

Heart of Darkness. Up the river. Into the dark primeval wilderness. Kurtz ('short' in German) goes native. He doesn't (or can't) come back.

Conrad's world is gone. Marlowe and Kurtz have vanished, their world of progress and civilization is largely discredited, or viewed with irony. The authentic, the natural, the closeness to self and nature is the reasonable world now.

Where can Marlowe go in this world? Certainly not on a steamship, certainly not a river into the wild: that would be a journey into the self, into the "heart of lightness of being", towards his natural self. There's no horror there.

The new darkness is the old light of civilization: the endless malls of exactly the same franchises. The brands, the cars, the drug gangs.

Marlowe will leave the comfort of his Whole Foods, farmers markets and juice bars in the city and travel, by car, into the suburbs. He will have problems with the car, a hybrid. It will break down and only the gas engine will work.

They have to fetch a friend. He's moved out there, selling vitamins or some bullshit, and sales are up, up, up. Unbelievable. But, he's not getting more stock. What's going on? Obviously his methods are unsound. The territory will be ruined by his unethical selling systems.

So they head out to find him. Someone in the car, the navigator, originally comes from the suburbs, but has been educated and informed. Something has to happen to him because we can not combine the savage and the civilized. Once partially converted --tapping the valves-- he can not go back. He'll be lost in a mall looking for directions.

Of course they find Kurtz. He's ill, he's gone native, wearing Abercombie and Fitch and expensive sneakers. He says "dude," and listens to the hip music on his iPod. He doesn't want to come, but sees the necessity.

On the way back they stop in at a Starbucks, Kurtz needs his caffeine. But he can't come out. Does he die, or just refuse to leave? I guess it depends on how 'native' you want to make the story...

Marlowe returns to the green downtown core and has to explain it to Kurtz's intended. Would he say Kurtz's last words were her name?

The beginning of wrongs

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Sat, 16 Apr 2011 18:34:00 +0000

Herodotus says...

Those Persians who know history say it was the Phoenicians who began the quarrel.

These, they say, made long voyages by sea, carrying merchandise from Egypt and Assyria to other places. Once, the Phoenicians arrived at Argos, then a major city in Greece, and began to sell their ship's cargo. On the fifth or sixth day after they had arrived, when their goods had been almost all sold, there came down to the sea a great company of women, and among them was the daughter of the king Inachos. Her name, as the Greeks also agree, was Io. [mythology of Io]

The women were standing near to the stern of the ship buying the wares that took their fancy, when all of a sudden the Phoenicians, passing the word from one to another, made a rush upon them. Most of the women escaped, but Io and a few others were carried on board the ship and sailed to Egypt.

This is the way the Persians say that Io came to Egypt, not agreeing with the Greeks, and this they say was the first beginning of wrongs.

After this, they say, certain Greeks (but they were unable to say where they were from) put in to the city of Tyre in Phoenicia and carried off the king's daughter Europa —they must have been Cretans— and so these Greeks felt avenged for the injury done by the stealing of Io. [mythology of Europa]

But after this the Persians say the Greeks did another wrong. They sailed in to Aia of Colchis, to the east of the Black Sea and up the river Phasis with a ship of war. From there, after they had done the other business for which they came, they carried off the king's daughter Medea. [mythology of Medea] The king of Colchis sent a herald to the cities of Greece, demanding satisfaction for the rape and to have his daughter back; but all the cities answered that, as the Barbarians had given them no satisfaction for the rape of Io the Greek, they wouldn't give satisfaction to the Barbarians for this incident.

In the next generation after this, the Persians continue, Alexander the son of Priam [mythology of Paris (Alexander)], having heard of these things, desired to get a wife for himself through violence from Greece, being fully assured that he would not be compelled to give any satisfaction for this wrong, since the Greeks gave none for theirs.

So he carried off Helen. The Greeks first sent messengers to demand her back with satisfaction for the rape. But the Trojans pointed out to them the rape of Medea, saying that the Greeks were now desiring satisfaction to be given to them by others, though they had given none themselves nor had surrendered the person when a demand was made of them.

Up to this point, they say, nothing more happened than the carrying away of women on both sides; but after this the Greeks were very greatly to blame; for they set the first example of war, making an expedition into Asia before the Barbarians made any into Europe.

Now the Persians say that in their judgment, though it is an act of wrong to carry away women by force, it is a folly to set one's heart on taking vengeance. The wise course is to pay no attention.

They further say that the people of Asia, both from Phoenicia and Colchis, when their women were carried away by force, had made it a matter of small importance, but the Greeks on account of one woman put together a great armament, came to Asia and destroyed Troy, the dominion of Priam.

From this time forward the Persians considered the Greeks to be their enemy. To them Asia and the people who live there are theirs; but Europe and the Greek race are considered to be different.

This, the Persians say, is how things happened, and conclude the beginning of their quarrel with the Greeks was on account of the taking of Troy.

The Phoenicians, however, do not agree with the Persians in how they tell the tale of Io.

They deny that they carried her off to Egypt by violent means. They say on the other hand that when they were in Argos she was intimate with the master of their ship, and perceiving that she was pregnant, she was ashamed to confess it to her parents, and therefore sailed away with the Phoenicians of her own will, for fear of being found out.

These are the tales told by the Persians and the Phoenicians. I am not going to say things happened this way or that. I know that human fortune swings up and down, and so I mention both indifferently.

Mercury the angel

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 05:14:00 +0000

In the Aeneid there's a scene where Jupiter sends Mercury down to tell Aeneas to stop dawdling with Dido and get moving on to Italy.

There seems to be a corollary between the lesser deities (Mercury, Iris, etc) and Christian angels. They're both gofers. Go for this, go for that. Tell them this, Make them do that.

There may be some artistic possibilities here.

Last night he dozed in front of the fire

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Sat, 06 Nov 2010 19:29:00 +0000

Last night he dozed off in front of the fire.

When he woke up he stayed motionless, ready to float off again.

Sitting warm without the desire to move, without the inclination to move, knowing he had no need to move. This was meditative, peaceful and contentment realized.

Eventually of course he had to move, but for a short while it was joy.

The granola bar stormcloud of connotation

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Fri, 05 Nov 2010 19:14:00 +0000

A bar of granola at a cafe. Not a foil-wrapped industrial version (no matter how organic), but presumably locally-made in small quantities.

The cloud of connotations grows into a threatening storm with more and more thought and reflection: boiling, swirling, mixing and with an epiphanal flash of lightening occasionally -- but not predictably -- startling the mind to jump and leap, but then the cloud descends and covers the earth in a thick fog, blinding the distance, but still allowing a view of the individual motes of vapour, ideas, associations and meaning as they swirl in front of the eye before they are lost in the uniform greyness of the denotational idea of what is a bar of granola.

And then you bite a hard piece that nearly breaks your tooth and it starts to rain.

This process can repeat itself a thousand times a day with anything we touch.

Today: between joy and sorrow, and above desire

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 18:51:00 +0000

He lay on the earth's thin skin, a crust really, and was immediately covered by a warm exhalation that was humid and smelled faintly of earth and the roots of grass.

So close to the ground, his nose was maybe five or six inches away, he felt as if he was under that layer that's on top of a glass of water. Surface tension. Invisible and easily permeable, but also -- for those creatures light or skilled enough -- solid enough to walk on, or rest a steel needle on if you were lucky or practiced a lot or perhaps were shown by someone who had mastered the trick -- someone who knew the magic and was willing or wanted to pass that knowledge on. A teacher.

But here he was, by his own actions under that invisible layer, but above the slow tectonic cthonic movement of magma, rocks and earthworms. Here it was still and moving, hot and cool and close to the bees flying erratically from clover to clover drunk perhaps on their own secret power or slowly dying from invisible rays of microwaves beaming through the air, even through this narrow gaseous sphere that is a still world separate from the breezes and particulates floating through the troposphere clouding and obscuring the mountains with an orangeish yellow haze.

The boy and the poem

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Wed, 03 Nov 2010 19:26:00 +0000

The boy is struggling with the poem.

The bird is captured is dead is caged.

Set the word FREE by not recording it. Listen to the flutter of wings; you will see nothing by examining its guts, by pulling it apart to examine the bone and marrow.

But wait. Only by dissection can we appreciate the living ephemeral transitory nature of flight.

Now read it again and feel.

All plans have fallen into disarray

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Tue, 02 Nov 2010 18:42:00 +0000

And so, once again, at the end of the day he saw that all plans had fallen into disarray, slowly evaporated into the haze of good intentions that blow on the soft breeze of work, chores, gardening and other items of day-to-day existence.

All that was left were a few stains on paper, some archived emails and a vague itch or sense of despair that reminded him he had done nothing. He was just living out his days, despite his best intentions.
Was there a way to counteract this?

He couldn't see how, not without really disrupting who he was. But then again, who was he? Wasn't the "who-I-am" the problem?

He slumped deeper into the chair.

paradise

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Mon, 01 Nov 2010 14:10:00 +0000

rough notes:

angels' secret:
jealousy

drink the tears
from paradise

Notes on water as a metaphor

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 21:16:00 +0000

Water

Muddy and turgid

vs.

Clear and wild

Water was a metaphor used by Saigo - the last Samurai - to be clear, principled, immediate, unpretentious, unpolluted, duplicitous.

"Is it nothing to yov?"

Feet dipped into False Creek. Last hot day of August. Suddenly tired. Recline against the cut granite.

The jumping fish

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Sun, 03 Oct 2010 21:04:00 +0000

The fish taunt us by jumping. They can get up to four feet in the air, which is something since they're only 14 inches long on the outside. It's astounding to watch.

Why do they jump? It's not clear. Is it for joy? Are they goof-ball juveniles showing off?

Perhaps they're tormented by lice and by jumping they're trying to escape the constant itch.

In any case it's inevitable that one will sooner or later jump into the boat.

But there's a sinister alternative. What if the fish are themselves bait from some ancient leviathan slouching in the mud at the bottom of the lake?

At the same time we throw lines into the water -- lines that are invisible to the fish -- with some shiny bauble we hope will attract a bite, this creature is throwing its bait into the air.

We can not see how these fish are tied to the monster, but on thing is sure: as soon as we catch one, or one flops into the boat we'll be hooked and dragged down to the bottom.

Image via Wikipedia

This was the day he gave up

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 12:11:00 +0000

The wooden calendar said May 13. Several months after he last changed the date it hit him. This was the day he gave up.

It was a wooden block calendar. Two wooden cubes made the date, one for each digit, and a narrow block on top kept track of the month.

She had bought it at the dollar store years before. It was cheerful enough, folksy with it's bright purples and yellows, and changing the date was kind of fun too. There was a visceral tactile pleasure in matching the cubes to make a 29 or 07. It was almost a puzzle. Perhaps a puzzle for a small child.

Upon reflection, he didn't think she ever changed the calendar herself. Once it was bought and placed on a shelf her job was done. It was an ornament that provided a finishing detail to the kitchen. The utility of a calendar never occurred to her. It was there because there should be a calendar in the kitchen, along with a stove and sink. It was what kitchens had. Put in it's place, just so, and perhaps dusted now and then, that was its function.

He, however, felt compelled to change it almost every day. He was keeper of days, a biological mechanism for keeping the wooden engine correct. Sometimes he'd forget, and then it would change in spurts, like a watch that chronically plays a little too slow and had to be brought up the right time occasionally.

But something happened on, or shortly after May 13.

Here it was preserved, his Hiroshima clock, the day he gave up. There had been times before when he thought he'd had enough, but this time was different. Some internal spring had snapped. The clock was broken. Time ended May 13.

These are the buttercups

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 12:05:00 +0000

a constellation
yellow stars.
Look for patterns,
tracing lines.
Connecting points,
making worlds.

These are the buttercups:
small, bright, delightful to behold, and yet, creeping across the lawn they choke out the grasses, take over and transform the verdure into a stringy broad-leafed neuron-like fibrous texture of stretching surprises.

The signs were everywhere

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 11:46:00 +0000

The signs were everywhere.

The way the crows flew across their path, the way the wind blew the long grasses backward, it all pointed to the gravest of consequences -- visible to all who looked -- and more than a few did, like Montezuma's lords, who eventually slew him over his failure to act against this Cortes, a chalk-like man who dared look upon Him.

They knew better, they were practical, and the blowing grass showed more than a crucible of smouldering human hearts.

Here too, the grass was blowing backwards, the eagles were flying from behind and to the left.

It was time to leave.

to green, to invisible

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 12:53:00 +0000

Why it's sad to see the apple and cherry blossoms go

It's been a week of tension; knowing they'll go soon and then this brief moment of unnatural bright colour is gone. To green, to ordinary, to invisible.

Notes for a two-foot sonnet about a tree

noreply@blogger.com (waferboard) — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 12:47:00 +0000

early spring
stippled green
ornate frame
near fractal
holding sky
divides air
like stained glass
silhouette
every year
frozen stick
black and brown
until spring
winter's end
magic growth
hides the bones
before it turns
invisible