Aphorisms

Are aphorisms poetry? I would say not, but the esteemed literary magazine, Ploughshares, and the anthology, The Best Ameriocan Poetryt of 2001 one, printed 45 of James Richardson's large collection of aphorisms as a poem. Anyway some stopped me -- some the way Zen koans do ... as mind stopping conundrums -- others are a little more graspable. Here are some:

Who breaks the thread? The one who pulls or the one who hangs on?

Patience is not very different from courage. It just takes longer.

What you fear to believe, your children will believe.

When my friend does something stupid he is just my friend doing something stupid. When I do something stupid I have deeply betrayed myself.

I lie so that I do not have to trust you to beleive me.

It's easier to agree on the future than on the past.

Back then I wanted to be right about my estimate of my abilities. Now I want to be wrong.

Below is a photo which offers a conundrum [definitely not an aphorism] Why were these two teens voted the "most radical" in their high school class. The hints are there. But IS that radical? Or highly conservative? Any thoughts? Leave a comment. By the way. with the current set up. I cannot reply to comments, so in a way you are safe.

One Book Today

First and last, two more butterflies that I didn't show before. Today the paper tells us the honey bees are dying. Even quilted butterflies add a little cheer. Yes, like the frogs which disappeared in many locales a couple of years ago, the honey bees are leaving the hive and simply not returning ... apparently dying. It's not just a matter of no honey. They pollinate, as we all know. In Califorina it's a matter of the almond trees which need the honey bees. Millions are being imported from Australia ... will they remain healthy or will they die of whatever is killing the natives? We have to conclude that something about the world is askew, wrong, out of whack, messed up. No one knows what it is. The Powers That Be try to deny global warming and the ruination of much of the natural world. We can't possibly admit that the huge populatio of humans on this earth and their greedy use of natural resources might be tipping the natural scale in a way that is dangerous for all living things.

One book, not ten today: I finished Jim Harrison's THE ROAD HOME last night and spent a couple of hours before falling asleep and manyl moments today pondering. It is a novel of character -- also of generations of a Nebraska family with a great deal of Native American in the blood lines. I prefer character novels that really delve into the people and do not depend on plot or incident, although there must be plot, of course. Plot is always the most contrived and artificial component. Plot comes from cleverness; character comes from insight and love of humanity.

Harrison wrote a wonderful book called DALVA years ago which I liked very much. THE ROAD HOME manages to be both pre-quel and sequel, a neat trick. I was totally caught up in the first third which is from the point of view of Dalva's grandfather, Northridge, a half Lakota, half white who has accumlated a great deal of money and who prepares for his death. I felt powerfully the inevitable, and accepted death of a man who was almost a force of nature who lived by his own set of principles and had a deep connection to his Native American ancestry while being very "white". He was both a monster and a mystic in his way. It is for me very gratifying to read a novelist who respects, loves, I think [without sentimentality] Native American culture.

The remainder of the novel is about his immediate family, including Dalva, the half Lakota son she gave up for adoption, her mother, and a second son of Northridge's. Each has a long first person segment. We see the family from all those perspecives. They are priviledged, monied people, although they never "act rich". Because they have all the money they need and are able to be generous and to act on impules [as poor people can't], the reader feels a distance from them. [I speak of my non-wealthy self]

However, I felt that I know that family, more completely than I know most real people including family. When a very good writer writes in first person the reader sees through their eyes, but remains "Reader" knowing that no one sees himself clearly. The reader must always also be the critic. However, the joy of reading comes from making acquaintances and caring about people sometimes almost as deeply as about actual people I know. Creating a fully rounded character is the true wonder of fine writing. When the character is in a demanding situation, we measure ourselves against them, i.e., I understand the choice Dalva made at the end of the novel, but if I made a similar choice under similar cicumstances, it would be for a totally diffrent reason. Reading helps us understand such things about ourselves and may even prepare us for what we will face in the future or enlighten us about what we have done in the past. Certainly truly good writing is always more than entertainment.

Ten Books

I've begun participating in Swap-bot, a website that arranges swaps of ecclectic things, like poems on postcards, or, in this case, letters listing your ten favorite books. There are swaps that appeal to people who do scrapbooking and other "crafty" things. I read about it on the Artful Quilter's Web Ring. It's great for people who enjoy getting mail -- real snail mail even from strangers but with expected sort of things, I'm in the midst of getting poems on postcards, supposed to get a total of five, and I've got four so far. A fascinating variety! Also, of course, I had to send five which I did. Who sends to who is efficiently arranged by the Swap-bot genies.

So the current one that I've just prepared is a list of my ten "favorite" books -- a true impossibility. But I complied ten [sort of] with notes on why. Here they are:

Lord of the Rings, and The Hobbit. The perfect epic fantasy; so engrossing I read the whole thing aloud to my daughters --something like 1700 pages -- not once but twice. We loved the movies too, but with caveats, of course, because no movie can equal our imaginative vision.

Mary Oliver's poems. She's been called simplistic, but she's also won the Pulitzer Prize and is the most purchased poet in the America -- because she looks at nature with a clear and sympathetic but not saccharine view.

View With a Grain of Sand, the only collection I've read of Wislawa Szyborska's poetry. A Nobel prize winner, this Polish woman has a wicked sense of humor, a deep sense of humanity, a clear, European view of politics.

Huckleberry Finn and Moby Dick -- the two candidates I put forward for Great American Novel. Very different, totally American, breathtakingly brilliant accomplishments in their different ways.

I Ching, Chinese ancient Book of Changes, to me the best of all wisdom books. I do not use it for prediction, I go to it at least weekly for it's balanced Taoist philosophy filtered through Confucius and Richard Wilhelm -- other translations seem shallow or pretentious, Wilhelm is poetic, if dated in some ways.

When Things Fall Apart, Pema Chodron -- and all the rest of her slender books based on her Buddhist point of view but without the jargon, just good sense and eternal verities. I thank Gary Hill for telling me to read her. I now tell all sorts of other people to read her.

Any book by Michael Pissell, a French "adventurer" who loves and understands Tibetan culture better than any other non-Tibetan I've ever read. I heard him speak and his knowledge and passion are wonderful.

Brother Karamazov which is my candidate for greatest novel ever written; but it get juggled against Don Quxiote. Totally different, of course, one darkly serious, the other sunny with a satiric bite.

Finally a choice more contemporary and popular: Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods because it starts out fall-off-your-chair funny, and then gives us a picture of the Appalachain Trail and the through hikers who are a breed apart, I wish I'd become a serious walker early in life -- I would have loved to do the Trail.

There are probably a hundred other books I could add to the list; this is what came to mind in response to the Swat-bot challenge. It will be interesting to read the two lists that will be sent to me. I suspect it will be less ecclectic -- but then I could be wrong. It's never wise to prejudge others.

More Butterflies

Okay, so maybe it is an obsession. Here are four more recent butterflies; they are getting quite colorful. That may be directly due to the winter weather and the total BLAH view from my worktable window.



They are not large, 4x6", or the framed ones are 5x7", You'd think they wouldn't take very long, but counting pulling the fabrics, auditioning fabrics, tracing the pattern, cutting, sometimes fusing, sewing the shapes on, fusing parts, then the wing markings and antennae, doing the quilting around the butterfly it adds up often to5 or 6 hours.



I just read a descriptioin by someone who went to the forest where the Monarchs go in the winter. He said there were as many as two billion monarchs in that forest. When he went away he continued to hear, with stunned awe "the sussuration of two billion butterflies." I'd like to experience that.



So here are the one's I've been working on in the last week or so. I have only one more mat to make a butterfly, or maybe two, for and then I'll take a rest until that wall quilt takes a more distinct form in my mind. Meanwhie I've got other projects -- non-quilting ones -- cooking, percolating, whatever the proper term.

Shopping

When my daughters were in high school we went -- at least once, maybe twice -- all the way to Boston (300 miles) to shop at the real Filene's basement, i.e., the original bargain store on two levels beneath Filene's department store in Boston. They had been there a time or two when we went to Boston from their grandparent's home in Fall River, Mass. They understood the philosophy of bargain basement shopping: have an idea of what you hope to find, then have the flexibility to decide about things you find that you like but aren't immediate needs and don't be disappointed if the hoped for item isn't to be found.

We had a grand time and settled into a motel after the work out with our sacks of bargains. I think we had a good dinner somewhere but I don't remember. I know we stopped at a bakery and bought treats -- that was when Leslie discovered the delight of Napoleons. We then spread out our purchases, gathered the tags and compared what we paid with the original price tag and felt a smug, even righteous glow about how much money we had saved.

For the most part this kind of shopping is a woman's sport. I am always surprised how few women actually understand the mindset of this kind of bargain shopping. It is definitely a middle class game. Although wealthy people usually like bargains they don't get the same joy. They can buy the $100 jacket anyway; but if we know we won't buy the $100 jacket until it's at least half price, we feel we've outsmarted the forces of retail commerce. Unfortunately, most poorer people simply don't have the discretionary cash to buy except what they really must have. I think about these economic realities but I truly love textiles and what is done with them. I can wander in expensive stores and buy nothing but very much enjoy the feel of luxury fabrics and the way they are cut and draped and sewn. I'm very good at "just looking."

Once in a while, perhaps every six weeks or two months, I really feel an addict's urge to hit certain stores that reliably have bargains. In New York one is Daffy's which has many clothes imported from Italy. Their merchandise ranges from quite good to really schlocky, from tasteful to tasteless. Today I had in mind that the last boots of the season might offer up a pair of excessively plain ones that I would like. That was the ostensible excuse. But really it was just time to shop. In fact the boots were all horrible, nearly all the shoes were horrible too. But there were racks and racks of sale items. I happen to have the patience to look at such racks item by itme; because I look at tailoring details, I feel fabrics -- unless one has experienced this it's impossible to understand the enormous range of fabrics used in making women's trousers, blouses, jackets, skirts. I can almost O.D. on tactile sensations. The color variations are equally enormous, and the variety of cuts, is much greater than the uninitiated would guess.

I literally spent three hours just looking, mostly rejecting and sometimes greatly regretting that so many sale clothes are very small sizes. Store buyers seem to think their shoppers are going to be size 6 and 8 and America really does not have so many 6es and 8s anymore -- as the media tell us almost daily. After three hours did I come home with a bundle? No, I spent less than $40 for two pair of trousers and a sweater any one item had been meant to retail for over $50, so -- yes, I got the nice kick of getting bargains. Now that I've had my fix I'll probably stay out of stores again for some weeks. I'll probably wear the new brown pants and sweater tomorrow. Immediate gratification!

Cardiology

I don't write much about science because it's definitely not my expertise. I read a lot of layman's science in quite a few fields but medical science especially interests me. In my job I've learned a fair amount about drugs and drug development and the diseases they are intended to combat because PR firms working for pharmaceutical companies are clients, so is the Dana Foundation which supports brain research. I've gained a better than usual layman's understanding and a decent vocabulary. My curiosity only grows and grows as I grow older and find some of these medical matters becoming personally important. Some months ago I wrote a little about making this small art quilt called "A WOMAN'S HEART" which shows the route of an angioplasty and/or stent placement such as I had over a year ago.



I spent the better part of today having my heart looked at by every "non-invasive" method available. There were EKGs of course, and an echo cardiogram which happens in a darkened room as a computer makes occasional spooky gutteral groans. I had a radioactive isotope injected so pictures could be taken of my blood glowingly pumping through the heart before and after a treadmill stress test during which the EKG ran and the blood pressure cuff sent it's readings. I lay on my back for fitteen minutes at a time while a reptilian {well, so it seemed although it was all metal as far as I could see] scanning arm curled around my chest and then uncurled, sighing every time it changed position. Then I lay on my stomach as it did the same all over again.

The preliminary word is that all is well. The M.D. will study the various pictures/printouts more carefully and let me know her summary in a couple of days. I was happy to stay on the treadmill for six minutes which I had not been able to do before the stent placement. And all without twinge in the replaced hip. So Hurray!!

As I lay unmoving under the dinosaur's necck, I thought what an amazing city this is -- which I often think. Thought yesterday in fact as I walked in Soho and the Village. Who knows what wonders of science are happening in some small suite of rooms on the first floors of these big buildijngs? Who knows which buildings hold a tiny 50 or 100 seat theatre where fascinating, or godawful, or mostly mediocre, new plays are being produced every week. Who knows in what half-rennovated brownstone a batch of people are watching man-in-the-street videos and Martha Stewart show segments and turning them into transcripts? Who knows what a lot of other strange and wonderful things are hapening down any street at any time of the night or day? To me this is the meaning of a major city as contrasted with a small town where, mostly the buildings hold less complex, less unexpected secrets.

By the way that picture in yesterday's blog wasn't a fit of ego. The guy helping me learn how to redo my blog told me that to put a picture in my profile, I need to have one on my blog. So it will, Ithink, eventuallly go on the profile page...once I can figure out how to put it there.

Sensual, sensuous, pleasure

After two weeks of bone chilling temperatures, the day started great when I awoke about 2:00 a.m. and realized my sleep was distrubed not because I was cold and needed up pull up another quilt, but because I was too warm. I opened the window a crack and traded my warmest pajamas for cooler ones, then fell contentedly asleep. By 9:30 when I went out for coffee the breeze was almost wam, the sky perfect blue.

In the afternoon when I went to the Apple Store in Soho and had ten minutes extra, the sun was bright so I walked around a couple of blocks ... it felt like spring was near [this illusion always happens about now. It will turn raw once again soon.] Then after my hour of tutoring -- the new header look of this blog is the begining of what I'm learning -- over a few more weeks it will look much more interesting] -- it was still bright and warm so I wandered about, partly looking for a new fabric store and not finding it but finding many wonderful windows to look into. I had my camera but took no pictures, I was just enjoying the sensuality of semi-warmth after the biting cold.

Sensual pleasure which seem to me a little cerebral. The air was wonderful; I enjoyed it both because it felt so nice and because I knew it was a brief paue for pleasure. "Sensuous" seems less intellecutal and more personal, a bath, wonderful perfume, cheesecake, chocolate. When those words come up we can't help adding an x, and think also of "sexual" which can be both sensual and sensuous ... and simply splendid, of course. But for most of us sexual is less dependable than sensual and senusuous ... the latter we can enjoy alone, just poor the bath, light the candle, make some toast, sit in the sun.

On the subway ride home I began reading th newest Quilting Arts Magazine, the excellent lead article by the wonderfully named Lyric Kincaid who says: "We are aware of the feel of cloth from the time we are born and wrapped in our first blanket. It is our daily, intimate connection with fabric that allows textile art to evoke such an immediate response. As textile artists we work with a medium that has a powerful conection to the sense of touch. " Quite simply, we make art that is truly sensual and senuous and many of us do it almost intuitively because, indeed, we are sensual beings. We women, far more than most men, enjoy sensual pleasures without apology, often we feel and especially my generation has felt, it was our role to provide the sensual pleasure to others around us. We light the candles, bake the bread, wear perfume beautiful colored clothes; we buy soft sofas and make quilts for our beds. Sometimes we lose ourselves in busy-ness and forget to walk in the sun or really enjoy the cup of tea. Our skin is our largest sensory organ, even without sound or sight, sensual pleasure is ours for simply paying attention.