Monday, December 17, 2012

mondaynote



Beginning again, after a long hiatus, should be cheery, like greeting someone after returning from a long trip. Aren’t we glad to be here today.

It’s not a question, but the kind of thing a first grade Teacher might say to her kids—and it would be “her.” “Let me see your smile.”

One first grader last Friday said, while their terrified teacher’s entire class huddled in their bathroom, “I know karate, so it’s OK. I’ll lead the way out.”

That night, another was quoted as saying “One thing good today: I didn’t die.”

I thought this morning my tearing up was gone. It was all news now, beyond active grief, for my part. But this Sunday photo broke me again.




Monday, September 17, 2012

another monday!



I’ve been blogging floridly far away (through a pseudonym), having much fun, but also posting vehemently against Romney’s campaign relative to contacts I’ve made with Romney supporters (for my part, tacitly inquiring into what infection they’ve assumed that makes them believe Romney isn’t all marketing of no real product), helped appreciably by daily news.

I’m also continuing to develop fun topics for linking to this blog—so many, indeed, that I’d be remiss with arbitrarity to itemize any few. The short story, though, is that I’m having lots of fun playing in the ways I wanna sail (and I’m making unassailable points against the empty twin of Max Headroom).

Soon, soon, I’ll return here daily—yes, folks, freedom’s just another word for lots of licentious time at hand!—to happily (and soberly, as well) address the ages.


Saturday, September 01, 2012

night forest shrouded in fog
with full moon beams



Late evening tonight on a Berkeley hillside overlooking the bay
behind me: glowing expanse of rays through so many eucalyptus arms

ethereal


Thursday, August 30, 2012

flowers and leaves

from the May 11 NYTimes review of “Lives of the Novelists: a history of fiction in 294 lives.”



My posting title is originally from a collection of poems by Guy Davenport, now-dead Professor of English at the University of Kentucky—a title which became an attitude of mine toward child development, teaching, romances, and how learning never ends, from one era of life growing and going into an other.


Sunday, August 19, 2012

to a skillful violin playing far away
in a summer night



I don’t know where exactly you are among trees on the woody street. Some window you’re near, as if serenely singing to the quiet dark without need of being held or bowed.

I should have some expansively poetic pithiness in complement, something prepared for days or weeks to which you’re a preface.

What I have is having given lots of time to a new web-based discussion group that’s very unique, and lovely—which I can’t fairly depict briefly. But they’ll be implicitly integral to writing I’ll link to, from here later.

One member of the group wrote earlier this month (which I quoted in my comments for one post tonight, in part) about her:
…soulmate....the one your heart, body, mind, and soul are screaming out for, and that love really is something so special, that so many others will never find.
—which I mourn a little [I replied], as I wanted that so much in the loves I had—loves I’m no less thankful for, yet—

I’m a creature of my own romanticism. Where you all (some of you) found your soulmate …and made it the love of your life, I wanted the love of my life to be the other side of myself I never found, which I idealized as a sister I didn’t have.

So, I support the best in others, and enjoy my romanticism as something known to be realistic for the hopes of those who haven’t yet found The One.

It’s not that the Love of your life should be like Love [you’ve found], but that Love be what is expressed at best here. Lover’s experiences will always be so varying, at least in the terms we choose. Yet, what we want is what’s expressed here—which is something never finished! It’s always to be reached or kept thriving. We fall away and journey back wiser, better mates. I know that. I found that. But I didn’t find the soulmate. That’s OK!

[…]

…because knowing The Gift can be given whatever way we can.



Monday, August 13, 2012

mondaynote



Life is rough, when you’re trying to have fun and life’s business unwittingly throws wrenches in the works.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

sundaynote



I didn’t forget my promise to get worthwhile posting done by today. But I’m working on it. I have a free Monday, so I expect tangible progress tomorrow.

It’s a matter of focusing some part of a lot of material into something manageably brief in an organizing process that’s ongoing. I haven’t been giving attention to what I might post soon; rather, I’m happily caught up in the process. (Process, like traveling, has its own merits.)

You might recall all the runaround I did last fall, then wrote a book-length thing around the turn of the year (though it’s easy to have missed that the completed project, “elations of solitude,” was so large, as parts 6 and 7 grew sections within sections).

Sunday, July 29, 2012

sporting life



One more week, two at the most, before I’m back to posting more often than Sunday.

I’m really tired of saying things like that. I want to just get on with it! But “it” won’t be worth the time if it’s not set up well.

If I didn’t have to go to the office every week—if I had continuous time to do this work I want to do—I’d have gotten through my fecund mess of notes earlier.

It’s like trying to build a house on weekends. “I just wanna get on with the party here.

So to speak.

Enjoy life (in good health) and leave a good (memorable) legacy, I say.

I say, good show in London—but I’m not giving time to viewing it. (I read news.) In the beginning, B.C.E. Athens could create olympics because wealth without war (i.e., leisure culture) gives time for turning freedom to sport. For the living well—who thrive continuously—life becomes commonly sporting.

So it is with adventures and drama and other arts of living—gardening, too (conceptual and otherwise) beyond vanity fairs.

“It’s all about the hunt, old sport”—first, roots and berries, sex, land, monumental memory, great things, realized peaks or other highs...

However, corporate sports (what turns up in a sports section of a newspaper) is boring. In that regard, I’m not a good sport.

Yet, I have olympic aspirations for conceptual gardening! [smirk]


Sunday, July 22, 2012

solar-systemic living



We’re commonly a world of inestimable volumes of little messages born of episodic attentions (which is all a market needs) grown from ephemeral interests. We give more attention to what’s shocking than to what matters. A string of RSSs feeds our need for narrative (which hardly needs integrative sense when one’s own life mirrors the limitless improvisation of being in time), as if a simulacrum of meaningfulness is a sophisticated realism.

The essayist is a nuisance, along with moralists.

Anyway, a writer has a pleasure of defining by exclusion what’s not worth attention, as well as a burden of scarce time to detail all that’s so worth appreciation, so much that truly matters.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

yea, earthlings



The music video “Where the Hell is Matt? 2012” (link below—but hasn’t everyone seen it?) starts off nicely, then quickly seems kitschy, but quickly gets delightful, inspiring, and deeply touching.

Note the marginality of locales (“where in the world…”), the sweetly simple vs. grand choreography, an incredible happiness in the concept, as if there’s an ethic of humanity in it all. A daddy’s wonderful gift addresses the immortal, aspiring child in our being.



P.S. After you’ve seen the thing, here’s some history.


Monday, July 09, 2012

imparting text



I guess vanity causes me anxiety about not posting recently, as if my tiresome promises of major departures were more vanity.

Non sequitur: “Texting” isn’t talking literally, but is talking-as-text—enamored with its abbrevity, but unconcerned with its textuality as such. Yet, writing has always been texting, and the structuring of narratives (stories, cases, verbal displays, etc.) has always involved architextual design, and conceptual design is environmental, implied by later detailing it routes or constrains, like a scripting that provides lots of freedom for stance and movement, inter-stancing and performative enriching, but determines to its degree what’s there worth determining, including (to my mind) some love of abstraction, true also to painting, dance, poetry, reflective conversation, and so on and on, generally speaking (texting).

Enough non sequiturs bricolaged in a given space through some design can compose a good Thing.

I got a lot of textual designing done the past few weeks, even gaining a sense of an ending yesterday which was elating, but oddly caused Ana to tease me dismissively, invisibly, making me a caricature of accomplishment, which I enjoyed. (I love her so much I can’t stand it sometimes.) But a bit of post-partum blues came this morning: What now? Too much still to do before departing.

Soon, I promise.


Friday, June 15, 2012

philosophical advice



This was a copy of an e-mail I sent today to the daughter of a friend.
I deleted it for use elsewhere.


Friday, May 25, 2012

Habermas and news, realism with idealism



While I’m privately integrating everything I’ve shared online during the past year (given free time, for the sake of specifically benefitting from upcoming readings of others), I feed my addiction to news, including Habermas’s view of EU politics, which I give too little time now to fairly discuss, because I prefer to “lose” myself (no, regain myself) in thinking through what I’ve earlier written, even substantially clarifying some of it, e.g., my idealism of mind.

I love a living resonance between dailiness and conceptual venturing. And I so wish for more free time sooner than later. (But the extended freedom will happen later: early 2013.)


Saturday, May 19, 2012

saturdaynote



I’m soon to get back to regular posting here.

In my very limited free time, I’ve been doing…

  • digital chores: Apple is canceling its me.com storage space, at which I’ve had tens of documents linked from blog postings and web pages. Replacing URLs (Dropbox now)—after locating them all— is not for an aging brain.
  • mistaking a local scholar of Habermas’s work for a kindred spirit: I’ll later share parts of our recent emails. It’s a good way to get into why I spent so many years with Habermas’ work. (And you’re so interested to know.)
  • gathering a slew of themes into a coherent plan for upcoming work online: I’ve said so often that I’m doing this, then so little becomes of it; one might think I’ve lost touch with my therapist. Actually, my self-deprecating attitude does the trick.

    I confess, I’m a bit vain about what’s in the works for my precious vining, my trOpical enpathing [sic…sick?].



Today’s weather is as perfect as I can remember—another day in paradise.

At Cheeseboard Pizza (pesto and mushrooms today, sprinkling of blue cheese), I sat on a sidewalk bench next to a lone girl-woman in breezy rose-colored dress, old high-laced shoes, old denim jacket (vintage sartorialist), and dissheveled dark brown hair, finishing her baklava from somewhere.

She remained afterward, aimlessly entertaining the surround.

I knew she thought I wanted to talk to her.

True—yet, I didn’t.

Two strangers under a tree’s gentle sway.

I almost blurted chirpily “Another day in paradise.” But I was more interested in the silent dramaturgy of my desire to start an entertainment. You will admire my restraint.

I watched a very old guy walk by “us” with his manicured poodle. I felt like Woody Allen in “Annie Hall” exuberantly scripting passers by. I might have turned to her and started babbling—as she was standing up, and walked away.


Sunday, April 15, 2012

“Dear Professor Jennifer,...”



I sent a letter (email) today to Jennifer Anna Gosetti-Ferencei, Professor of Philosophy, and I actually began it “Dear Professor Jennifer.” You’ll see shortly (a posting) that I wasn’t presumptuous. But I was a little vain.

Anyway, J.A.G-F masterfully exemplifies what philosophy of literature can be. 

Friday, March 30, 2012

remnants of a letter on Habermas’s “Heidegger”


revised ending, May 20

I began my day with the news, which led to a curiosity about the “free rider problem,” relative to my interest in the constitutionality of the “individual mandate” to have health insurance being considered by the U.S. Supreme Court. (They took their first vote on the matter today, in secret.)

That led to noticing that the article on “Authority” in The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy failed to mention Habermas, though Habermas’s career is about that as much as anything. 

Sunday, March 18, 2012

writing for writing



“But now, I just want to get back to what I love,” I ended Thursday (“ sunrise, sunset,...”).

He seems resolute.

I am. Yet, what I love is too much to distill into something both cogently fair to the love and brief (one would hope).

In particular, intending to write a good long posting today drew itself into a skeletal mitosis by late afternoon that could be fleshed out as at-least-nine essays.

That’s good—but not practical.

However, I could turn out a focused essay quickly, if I had a deadline to meet.

But given free time, I thoroughly enjoy the mental heights. I do know to stop when there’s need—to transpose ongoing elation into a promise of future time I make room for, in terms of points in my garden (themes, notes, allusions, resources) that would be obscure to anyone else, but which work for me. 

Saturday, March 17, 2012

creative life as manifold order



Have you ever wondered, faced with a definition of a personality disorder, what the correlate order might be? For example, what’s a bipolar order?

Consider the upside of it (relative to DSM-IV): I know very well that there’s nothing inherently problematic about exuberance or elation that extends over a week or more. This is one reason I love vacation periods. Extended “elevation of mood” is a great thing! What becomes problematic is not being able to effectively divide fidelity to the heights from needing to work with persons who can’t share your enthusiasm while intensely needing their appreciation of you (which can be a mistake). If you can keep the heights from intimidating others (i.e., pretend well that you’re as vacuous as the persons you need to collaborate with) and not need their recognition of the value of your inspiration, then you can better make the heights work for you, and not overly concern yourself that it doesn’t work for them.  

Thursday, March 15, 2012

sunrise, sunset, winter, spring



1976, a “girl” (25), Kathryne, loses a love, Gary (27), because the boy returned to a doctoral program (already half-finished) a continent away, as she’s beginning hers. The passion of mental growth in the life of each separately causes them to reconcile to time. He was supposed to return, but didn’t. Decades later, each one’s partner died, but neither knew that about the other. So it goes. 


Monday, February 27, 2012

mondaynote



I can’t stand it. I might have gone my whole life without looking up ‘nulliparous’.

I can stand it. No sheepishness for me. I’m a master of stoicality (whatever).

You can make such lovely images of your day. Or be so funny, then heartrending.

Your foot documentation lives!

I thank the gods you crossed my path.


Thursday, February 23, 2012

taken away to “anywhere right now”



What point is there to life, if I can’t write freely? What point is there to writing, if I can’t tell you how happy I am this morning?

You admire my restraint? Bad, bad girl. You’re like a cat not wanting little booties on its paws. Kittys should be open hearted?

I’m a knitter, too, inwordly.

You can be the most delightful person I’ve ever met my whole life.

Call that a failure of my youth?

Yeah, I can live with that, for there’s always tomorrow, years ahead, and fiction.



Friday, February 17, 2012

I.M. from paradise



The weather in Berkeley today is gorgeous. My health is excellent.
My investments are doing well. And I’m surrounded (Caffè Strada)
by bright people, buds, and birds. All in all, I’m living at
the Best Place on Earth.

I told a friend once that, if I were wealthy, I wouldn’t admit it.
Likewise, if I were gifted.

Well, I’ll violate my principle once: I’m gifted.
So, I take a bad view of others’ presumptive reading
of my prevailing humility as weak spine.


Wednesday, February 15, 2012

all but forgotten



Exactly 30 years before I was born, on June 16, many persons married, surely, if not resolutely.


Wednesday, February 08, 2012

dark blue bow



“A man or boy who goes frequently or steadily with a” fiction or is
“in an intimate relationship with a” story is so free there to say, for

example, you

are intrinsically funny, beautifully

so, painfully



So, let’s not tarry here, but love going on

with the story, as freely there as

I want



later




Sunday, February 05, 2012

in transit



Gently, though freely, I want this blog to remain worthwhile, so I’m not going to fabricate reasons to post just to stay in touch. I’m easy to contact by email. I couldn’t bear to orient my life around Facebook or spend lots of time Tweeting. Geez.

Part of what I’m doing today is organizing a year’s worth of sundry jottings and archived articles that are unrelated to current events (or indirectly related). I’m organizing it all into topics I’ll flesh out. It’s like sketching lots of works-to-do.

It includes coming across things I’d forgotten, like a poem by Wallace Stevens, “The Wind Shifts,” that affects me deeply to discover again. It must have affected me deeply back when, though I can’t remember finding it.

He’s despairing; I am not. And we are not like the carelessness of the wind. Yet we must live with those who are like the wind. And changes of time may surprise like a break of focus in a narrating line.

I think of this time next year, when I’ll have “retired” from my department—which will be a rebirth!

Years back, I’d drive across the U.S. on impulse, when I was unencumbered. What adventures I have to recount someday! More to come.

I don’t have a list of places on the skin of the Earth I want to find, but I can improvise easily. There’s so much writing I need to do. I’ve never visited my birthplace: Savannah (which my parents left when I was 6 months). There’s so much I’ve not lived yet.



The Wind Shifts
Wallace Stevens

This is how the wind shifts:
Like the thoughts of an old human,
Who still thinks eagerly
And despairingly.
The wind shifts like this:
Like a human without illusions,
Who still feels irrational things within her.
The wind shifts like this:
Like humans approaching proudly,
Like humans approaching angrily.
This is how the wind shifts:
Like a human, heavy and heavy,
Who does not care.


Wednesday, January 18, 2012

a validity of candor



For decades, I’ve lived with or felt nearest to persons who are emotionally open, trusting, caring, and therefore candid. I’d welcome being told by a friend that I seemed, say, “emotionally disabled,” because—well firstly, that would be funny to hear; but mainly that would be a chance to understand myself better through their sensibility, a chance to learn something about myself, as well as better understand her or him. 

Monday, January 02, 2012

intimacies



Here are the six sections of “intimacies,” which ends “Elations of solitude,” a book-length project.

therapeutic living

letter

true love and fun with confession

love in manifold

textual intimacy, Take 2

singularity