Reasons I choose librarianship, or the Book and Education (pt. 1)

the knowledge of most worth, whatever it may be, is not something one has: it is something one is… The end of criticism and teaching, in any case, is not an aesthetic but an ethical and participating end: for it, ultimately, works of literature are not things to be contemplated but powers to be absorbed.

Northrop Frye, The Stubborn Structure

As the Fall semester begins, with all its anticipation, energy, trepidation, and more… so many cultural and technological changes and experimentations upon humans and their learning, directing, and doings… I find more and more that we may be entering a kind of “dark ages” for reading and writing – a time when few, specialized alchemical, spiritual, learned enclaves (monasteries mostly) preserved the materiality of human learning and culture for hundreds and hundreds of years… that otherwise would have vanished to our access.

Following are some sections of Robert Bringhurst’s wonderful small beautiful printing of an incredible talk delivered orally – “What is Reading for?” – which I fervently recommend you borrow or find for the whole river of its beautiful pathway of winding deep riches and reflection. https://scottboms.com/library/what-is-reading-for

Now some samples from Bringhurst…

“In the narrow sense, as we all know, writing and reading refer to something done only by highly organized, agricultural, and management-oriented groups of human beings: making and deciphering visible signs for this normally invisible and almost intangible but nevertheless exceedingly dangerous stuff called human language. After that kind of reading and writing gets going, it’s borrowed by people who aren’t so management-oriented: oddballs like me, who want to use it to give stories and poems and ideas and musical compositions an independent, semipermanent material existence: to let them speak for themselves, like paintings and statues.

“That kind of reading and writing is usually called artificial. It only exists where highly organized groups of humans go to a lot of expense and trouble to sustain it. But some of the things that are done with it, and some of the things it is used for, are not artificial at all. Margaret Atwood, you might remember, spoke about that crucial shift, from the writing of quartermasters and clerks, wanting to keep control of what they possess, to the writing of thinkers and listeners, wanting to keep in touch with what they’ve heard. Both kinds of writing are, of course, still with us, but it is the latter kind of writing that we associate with writers, and so with readers too…

“…If it sounds like writing loves rivers [he’s just spoken of the earliest traces we have of places we have evidence of inventions of writing, all which occurred along rivers], that’s because writing loves agriculture, and that’s because writing is, itself, an advanced form of linguistic agriculture. “Writing is planting,” it says in a poem I remember from somewhere – and reading is harvesting. Harvest time, you’ll remember used to be a time of celebration, but harvesting was work. There are actually places where humans still do it themselves, and where they remember that it leads, in turn, to more work – threshing and milling, peeling an cooking, pitting and drying – and then to still more celebration. In industrial societies, all of these crucial activities are now mechanized. I have a strong hunch that the urge to digitize books and distribute them over the internet to reading machines grows out of a similar dream: a desire to build machines that will write and edit and print and read the books for us, so we can go upstairs and watch our screens…

[here he spends a few sections tracing the evolution of the materiality of oral language to script and then to printing – to scribal cultures to typography – to preservation and dissemination methods and technologies, concluding with]: “You see what I’m getting at. Reading could have a rich and interesting future, because it does have a rich and interesting past. But if no one remembers that past, it may not mean much to the future…What I think is that a great work of literature deserves fine typography and printing, just as a great theatrical script or a great piece of music deserves a great performance. The idea, of course, is that these things can add up – and ought to add up, at least once in awhile, as a form of celebration. If reading good books is physically pleasant, people just might spend more time reading those kinds of books, and might want their friends and neighbors and children to do the same. And reading good books just might make some of them into wiser, healthier people. That, as I recall, is how education is supposed to work. It’s not necessarily supposed to raise the GNP or make everybody rich, but to make every life more likely to be a life worth living, whatever life it is…with a reasonable degree of intellectual and spiritual independence…”

[more soon to follow…]

swaddling a bird (for papa. for Summer.)

.

experts continue

futzing about

their hands

in my father’s heart

.

poking and prying

at birds

needles and leads

voltage and tools

tinkering to tech

faux flying machines

.

.

try chemicals try

pacemakers try

shocking behaviors

interventions new

veins never hold

.

never rest

never listen

nor relieve

.

intelligence

.

A storm across the Plains

https://pin.it/1zOc8stL5

Heidegger’s Hut: Sanity, or, ‘shelter as we go’

Sanity, or, ‘shelter as we go’ - [Ben Howard] 
"Love is the capacity for unity and multiplicity to exist in harmony" - J. Pageau

it's hard to make sense
of the world
in larger worlds;
things don’t register
in expected ways

the pace is all different
and nothing is counting -
time, space, motion
do their thing as one -
human happenings

don’t make sense -
seem separate, divorced -
a frantic scale
the earth holds quietly -

even words
dissolve
and transform
like breezes
and bird-calls,
not meaning the same

passing, passage, hold
passage, passing, held;
i imagine Heidegger’s hut
murmuring
these things, being

hard to make sense of
with reason
or belief, a stance
of simple sense, outside -

Why do we listen?
and what is listened
with and for and
how?

quietly, with wing-beats
a-flutter
water moves and i

move - out of my head
toward the rest of me -
skinning an open passage,
organs trudging patiently,
waiting -
blood moves -

accordion chests
filling limbs
hands clasping
feet feeling -
grounded -

laying back
all in
all othered
with / in / of
this world,

here.

Eau Claire

Eau Claire (for Clare)

“turns out tears don’t cause themselves, whatever the scientists say”



how do we talk about what we don’t see
in others
their beauty, grandeur, and grace,
what overwhelms and awes
is unmistakably perceived,
sensed, invisibly
like God, horror, love
wind on water, its currents

i can see the river moving
but not its source or pull -

what really matters
in any matter
the H, the O, that does not equal
wet, keeps happening
from ripples to roars to rain,
even from out my own body -
blood and piss and tears -
revising the letters

the responses
i’m learning
are silent
like praises
and weeping

even if the matters resound

Free-write: An apology

Dear readers.

As i see “likes” occur again – dear, deep, sweet, long encouragers of my intermittent efforts in language – it is hard to describe. That you remain and are alive, and have the kindness to lend me moments, and even “like” what i cobble together, astounds me. Thank you. It would be very difficult to express what seeing familiar icons, remember many years of co-respond-ence has meant in my own strange life. Thank you.

My apology is intended more for my use of “categories” and “tags”. Returning to this site I am struggling very much with all the computable forms with which my scribblings do not seem to comply. The work of transferring my notebooks to this platte-form takes too much time. But when I view it rearranged to the proffered forms it is not at all what i had configured. [*especially my normally multi-colored spread across surface word tumblings I will probably need to upload as PDFs from now on, which still may not have the differing fonts and shapes from my hand*].

I do not consider myself a writer anymore, certainly not a ‘poet,’ ‘essayist,’ or any of those things. Trying again, I realize I do not compose* language, but rearrange it like pebbles I worry (or cherish), like the assemblages of rocks and feathers, bones and books all throughout our home… until they rest a little, or keep finding their lineage similarly, enough to let sit awhile. Then I take them up again, re-place, carry elsewhere, find. I don’t know what that’s called – but it’s not a genre or a poem or a song. It’s just the way I relate to words or letters. [*now i realize placing-with is the meaning of com-pose* alas]

Today I’ve been looking back through notebooks and journals from my past couple years – seeing repetitions, surprises, strange confessions and expressions that hardly seem (aside from the penmanship and the colors and shapes) that they emerged from “me.” Perhaps not. [*again, placing-WITH – this time beyond even letters and me, but all the world that provides them and you and rivers and sky and…]

Anyway, I’ll not be using categories or tags anymore, to be honest. Thank you all for your amazing gratuitousness in visiting me through these efforts of mine. It gives me courage that pebbles I find and arrange some others see something in too. I’m very humbled by this.

Stone Hefter in High Winds


Stone Hefter in High Winds (at Jack’s farm, Western Easter)

Maybe my mind is lost
holding the lamb
held
by holding the lamb -

hope and despair
not so different
after all -
as symptoms of alive

fingering rocks
in pockets
words
accrued structures

layers
of meanings
“Go on”
Stone Hefter

Living Tree
Breath Brother
Sighted Singer
no division

only specular,
complex,
complicated processes -
birds, soil

plants, mammals
always skies
everywhere in light
or what is darkness for?

he said,
let there be...
and there is
in beginnings

the words
ends and means
roots to branches
seed to flower

quarks to organum
charging inspired
bodies
carbonated sparks

in the high winds

Grateful to engage again… things brewing

manoftheword.files.wordpress.com/2012/06/who-then-is-speaking.pdf

ELSE – Erasure : Beginning

Erasure It will have to be something new, you think to yourself, beginning.  What’s been done before is already present.  All the brief and poignant …

ELSE – Erasure : Beginning

Whoever is reading through so much I don’t remember that I somehow cobbled…thank you…& wonder why I feel ever in the same place at my desk, absorbing, wondering, rejoicing, and…. erasing & beginning, beginning & erasing… thank you reader55555

Metamorphosis: 2013: Insect Intensity

Termite Art Working the edges and angles.  “Part of the woodwork,” they say, though not in a structural sense – rather more a destructural or …

Metamorphosis: 2013: Insect Intensity

Thank you readers which stumble upon and engage my tunneling activities… reminders of this quiet wrestling vocation in the midst… still termiting here 🙏🏼