Barry Lopez: "Art's underlying strength is that it does not intend to be literal. It presents a metaphor and leaves the viewer or listener to interpret. It is giving in to art, not trying to divine its meaning, that brings the viewer or listener the deepest measures of satisfaction . . . Art does not aspire to entertain. It aspires to converse."
"When my ancient-Chinese brothers
made their poems people knew
what spring meant; they knew
the verdant and salubrious grace
of summer, the autumnal melancholy
of the cricket and the
chrysanthemum. But now every day
for everyone is just the same,
a time to get and spend. No one cares about
or even notices the clouds . . ."
"this warm September morning.
No wind, no birds' songs . . .
but later today the wind will pick up,
a slight breeze begin.
A pileated woodpecker will call
off in the woods somewhere . . .
But just now, none of that, just now,
silence and stillness,
a quiet, so profound I think
I can hear my own heart beating."
It was an interesting weekend: uncertainty prevailed. But I'm here and the west coast of Florida seems to be out of danger. It's unimaginable what it must be like in the Bahamas; where would you go?! And the east coast here may have some of that experience by the middle of the week. Stay safe, wherever you are.
Well, it looks like we're in for it. While we won't get a direct hit with storm surge, we will get heavy rain and high winds—probably. It should be an interesting weekend and next week. I don't know yet if we will have to evacuate—if we do, I most likely won't be posting on Monday . . .
Recently I watched a documentary about the discovery of some ancient Mayan cities. They could only be seen from the air, and the searchers then had to hack their way through dense jungle to find them.
That reminded me of a Rilke poem:
"Dear darkening ground,
you've endured so patiently the walls we've built,
perhaps you'll give the cities one more hour . . .
before you become forest again, and water, and widening
in that inconceivable terror
when you take back your name
from all things."
This poem seems particularly appropriate here too as we enter the height of the hurricane season!
Walt Whitman: "A morning glory at my window" (or a Bar Harbor sunrise) "satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books."
"Remember the way you are all possibilties
you can see and how you live best
as an appreciator of horizons,
whether you reach them or not.
Admit that once you have got up
from your chair and opened the door,
once you have walked into the clean air
toward that edge and taken the path up high
beyond the ordinary, you have become
the privileged and the pilgrim,
the one who will tell the story
and the one, coming back
from the mountain,
who helped to make it."
Jordan Pond, Acadia National Park
It has been raining everyday now for quite a long while. Ground is soaked, streets are sometimes flooded. And we are entering the peak of hurricane season—should be interesting . . .