"The Machine endangers all we have made.
We allow it to rule instead of obey.
To build the house cut the stone sharp and fast:
the carver's hand takes too long to feel its way.
The Machine never hesitates, or we might escape
and its factories subside into silence.
It thinks it's alive and does everything better.
With equal resolve it creates and destroys.
But life holds mystery for us yet. In a hundred places
we can still sense the source: a play of pure powers
that—when you feel it—brings you to your knees."
Rilke: "As long as we are here, and cousin to tree, flower, soil, may all that is near at hand be real to us and enter fully our awareness."
A cold front has come through, and so nights are in the 60s, mornings in the 70s. The sun is less intense: Autumn is here. A season that is at once sweet and melancholy. Time to remember things done and left undone, and a time to await what the ongoing seasons will bring to us next.
That day I saw beneath dark clouds
the passing light over the water
and I heard the voice of the world speak out,
I knew then, as I had before
life is no passing memory of what has been
nor the remaining pages in a great book
waiting to be read.
It is the opening of eyes long closed.
It is the vision of far off things
seen for the silence they hold . . .
It is Moses in the desert
fallen to his knees before the lit bush.
It is the man throwing away his shoes . . .
and finding himself astonished,
opened at last,
fallen in love with solid ground.
Recently I had a discussion with someone who insisted that an image without an explanation lacked some important information to help the viewer understand the image. I disagreed, which is why I seldom give a title to an image. I was reminded of what Robert Frost said when someone asked him to explain one of his poems—he said, "You want me to say it worse?" That I can agree with; if someone asks me to explain an image, my inclination is just to point to the image.
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