my pacific coast muse

Category: language

zeroes on the loose

I had a great meeting with Iain Boal yesterday, working on a book project with Iain and Ren Weschler. Iain shared this beautiful poem by Wisława Szymborska.

edge of the pacific

Possibilities

I prefer movies.
I prefer cats.
I prefer the oaks along the Warta.
I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky.
I prefer myself liking people
to myself loving mankind.
I prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand, just in case.
I prefer the color green.
I prefer not to maintain
that reason is to blame for everything.
I prefer exceptions.
I prefer to leave early.
I prefer talking to doctors about something else.
I prefer the old fine-lined illustrations.
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems
to the absurdity of not writing poems.
I prefer, where love’s concerned, nonspecific anniversaries
that can be celebrated every day.
I prefer moralists
who promise me nothing.
I prefer cunning kindness to the over-trustful kind.
I prefer the earth in civvies.
I prefer conquered to conquering countries.
I prefer having some reservations.
I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
I prefer Grimms’ fairy tales to the newspapers’ front pages.
I prefer leaves without flowers to flowers without leaves.
I prefer dogs with uncropped tails.
I prefer light eyes, since mine are dark.
I prefer desk drawers.
I prefer many things that I haven’t mentioned here
to many things I’ve also left unsaid.
I prefer zeroes on the loose
to those lined up behind a cipher.
I prefer the time of insects to the time of stars.
I prefer to knock on wood.
I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
that existence has its own reason for being.

– Wislawa Szymborska, from Nothing Twice, 1997

pleonexia

Foundation for nuclear power

photo: Don McCullough. Foundation for nuclear power plant once planned for Bodega Bay.

This passage is from Caterpillage by Henry Berger, and seems apropos for a fermenting administration that threatens to destroy our fragile coast in the search for oil and more.

“Pleonexia means not only ‘having more’ (a literal translation) but wanting to have more – wanting to be bigger, better, superior. It means never having enough because you aspire to total and immortal self-sufficiency, even if that involves draining the rest of the world of power, wealth, pleasure, and being. But there’s also a more defensive side to pleonexia in a society whose members are aware of competing with each other: pleonexia involves wanting to take from another before another takes from you.

… The shadow of pleonexia or vanitas that falls across the embarrassment of riches … has the form of an enormous, incessantly munching caterpillar.”

salt water

 

jennerYesterday, on my drive back to Berkeley, I caught a radio show called “Says You!” It was about language, in the guise of a game show, and it was hilarious. An example:

Q: What is the difference between an obsession and a compulsion?
A: About ten years in federal prison.

The contestants eventually gave a legitimate answer, but the best part was the associative ad lib  path to getting there. As with art. A listener had written in asking them to revive a topic from a previous episode based on nautical terms. As part of this, they mentioned that we all gain and lose a tiny bit of weight each day, in the form of salt water, due to the gravitational effects of the moon. This made me feel much better, driving away from the coast, realizing that there was an echo of the ocean inside of me, pulsing in sync with the Pacific.

Growing up on the east coast, high tide was for swimming, and low tide was for searching for animals under the mud and in tiny crevices and trapped pools. In between tides was for all of the above. This is what life is: swimming at high, searching at low.

 

no beginnings

I would start at the beginning but there is no beginning. At least not one that I remember. No, that’s a lie. There are many beginnings, many encounters that all converge. They converge here, in this small rocky cove, where Stockhoff Creek trickles out of a redwood-lined gulch and spills into the Pacific Ocean. But it’s not really about this cove, either. It’s about how this cove becomes a metaphor. This cove becomes a mirror. It becomes a victim, a perpetrator, an arbiter, and an enigma. It becomes a story book, a history book, a graveyard, a cauldron, an inquiry and an appeal. It becomes a paradise.

© 2024 Stillwater

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑