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Sep. 4th, 2010 05:29 pmIt wasn't September till the wind picked up. It's not cold still but the wind picked up and so it was September. Two things told me it was September, one (1) the wind picked up, two (2) there were crows. People are waking up because it is September, they wake up because there are crows. The crows have rearrived, it is time to wake up. It's not cold still but soon it will be. Says the crows. I don't know what they say.
/
I was at the metropolitan museum some weeks back, a quick visit, I was travelling, had a large backpack and not a terrible amount of time, a broken phone, and I didn't feel like paying so I walked in through the giftshop and wandered around in the state I usually walk around in, which is constantly steeling myself for the eventuality that someone will yell Hey! You don't belong here! Half my brain in these situations is occupied with possible responses to this. I'm not fond of lying but I'm less fond of talking to strangers and so I plan out the most efficient ways to get out of conversations. Confrontations I'm even less fond of, it just leads to more talking and too many variables to adequately prepare for. The best out is something short and pithy that indicates that you understand anything they would be about to say and are as concerned about it as they are, maybe with a vague hand gesture thrown in. The other half of my brain is occupied with being invisible. Measuring the speed of my walk against other walkers, deciding when to appear in a hurry and when to appear lost in thought, when to turn around as if I'd forgotten something or were impatiently waiting for other members of my (imaginary) party. If this succeeds I won't be noticed any more than anyone else. It was only a partial success in this instance, I had cut through a hallway of Sumerian art which I didn't notice was empty save for a single security guard. I made sure not to walk too fast and when I noticed he was looking at me I took interest in a pair of tall statues. Historians are certain the face and head were recarved at a later date. When I was finished he told me my bag was too large to wear on my back, I needed to carry it in front or at my side. So I held it like a lopsided suitcase and said "How's that?" and smiled, and he smiled back and said "Sure." One sentence, one hand gesture.
The leftover bits of my brain (since no halves are ever perfectly equal) are wondering what I would be thinking about if I were thinking. Sitting or standing pretending to be in rapt attention is a sort of asana, you're not thinking your thoughts but thinking about your thoughts, the self is opaque, I know little about who I am, I know much about who I am, the things I know do not matter, the things I do not know do not matter, I am a closed shell hiding nothing very interesting at all.
I found I was comforted most by the dark browns and thick reds of the 16th century, the dutch especially, it was almost cruel how as I walked through the centuries more and more white and pale blue invaded the rectangles and the walls, until the 20th century was almost exclusively white, and colors' effects on white, and white walls' effects on colors' effects on white, and frames' effects on walls' effects on colors' effects on white.
I looked for Agnes Martin and that I was comforted by, that was not white but a complex gray. In the top corner was a room of Anne Ryan and this is where I spent most of my time. As the numbers on her untitled compositions went up the edges in the collages became more blurred so they weren't a collage of things but a texture. It was so sincere. Confident without a trace of hubris.
I don't understand why the things that I find untenable in poetry I appreciate most in visual arts. A singleminded craftsmanship, precise and confident, meaningful but only meaningful to the artist, confident in its existence in the world. She says: this, at this moment, is what I consider enough — not perfect/imperfect, not complete/incomplete, not historical or utilitarian or important, but enough. Enough to be what it is right now to me. So now I can move on.
To see it you have to see it through their eyes, and when you see it through their eyes for a moment you know what it's like to be them at their best.
/
I'm more frustrated and unhopeful than I have been at any other time I've needed to move and find a new job, mostly because now all I can think is "...again?" Honestly I don't know how I've survived this long. I'm just about the age where you start having more memories than hopes. But my memories all seem to be of the same thing.
/
If the self is opaque does that make suffering transparent?
/
I was at the metropolitan museum some weeks back, a quick visit, I was travelling, had a large backpack and not a terrible amount of time, a broken phone, and I didn't feel like paying so I walked in through the giftshop and wandered around in the state I usually walk around in, which is constantly steeling myself for the eventuality that someone will yell Hey! You don't belong here! Half my brain in these situations is occupied with possible responses to this. I'm not fond of lying but I'm less fond of talking to strangers and so I plan out the most efficient ways to get out of conversations. Confrontations I'm even less fond of, it just leads to more talking and too many variables to adequately prepare for. The best out is something short and pithy that indicates that you understand anything they would be about to say and are as concerned about it as they are, maybe with a vague hand gesture thrown in. The other half of my brain is occupied with being invisible. Measuring the speed of my walk against other walkers, deciding when to appear in a hurry and when to appear lost in thought, when to turn around as if I'd forgotten something or were impatiently waiting for other members of my (imaginary) party. If this succeeds I won't be noticed any more than anyone else. It was only a partial success in this instance, I had cut through a hallway of Sumerian art which I didn't notice was empty save for a single security guard. I made sure not to walk too fast and when I noticed he was looking at me I took interest in a pair of tall statues. Historians are certain the face and head were recarved at a later date. When I was finished he told me my bag was too large to wear on my back, I needed to carry it in front or at my side. So I held it like a lopsided suitcase and said "How's that?" and smiled, and he smiled back and said "Sure." One sentence, one hand gesture.
The leftover bits of my brain (since no halves are ever perfectly equal) are wondering what I would be thinking about if I were thinking. Sitting or standing pretending to be in rapt attention is a sort of asana, you're not thinking your thoughts but thinking about your thoughts, the self is opaque, I know little about who I am, I know much about who I am, the things I know do not matter, the things I do not know do not matter, I am a closed shell hiding nothing very interesting at all.
I found I was comforted most by the dark browns and thick reds of the 16th century, the dutch especially, it was almost cruel how as I walked through the centuries more and more white and pale blue invaded the rectangles and the walls, until the 20th century was almost exclusively white, and colors' effects on white, and white walls' effects on colors' effects on white, and frames' effects on walls' effects on colors' effects on white.
I looked for Agnes Martin and that I was comforted by, that was not white but a complex gray. In the top corner was a room of Anne Ryan and this is where I spent most of my time. As the numbers on her untitled compositions went up the edges in the collages became more blurred so they weren't a collage of things but a texture. It was so sincere. Confident without a trace of hubris.
I don't understand why the things that I find untenable in poetry I appreciate most in visual arts. A singleminded craftsmanship, precise and confident, meaningful but only meaningful to the artist, confident in its existence in the world. She says: this, at this moment, is what I consider enough — not perfect/imperfect, not complete/incomplete, not historical or utilitarian or important, but enough. Enough to be what it is right now to me. So now I can move on.
To see it you have to see it through their eyes, and when you see it through their eyes for a moment you know what it's like to be them at their best.
/
I'm more frustrated and unhopeful than I have been at any other time I've needed to move and find a new job, mostly because now all I can think is "...again?" Honestly I don't know how I've survived this long. I'm just about the age where you start having more memories than hopes. But my memories all seem to be of the same thing.
/
If the self is opaque does that make suffering transparent?
