Friday, March 18, 2011

Goodbye - Hello

Saying Goodbye to Paris

My refrigerator holds an assortment of photos and clippings . . . comics that made me chuckle, stories that resonated with me . . . and poems that moved me . . . . Here is one. Its been on my fridge for a very long time . .  It came out of the Oregonian and is cracked and yellowed with age. So I copied it here for you to enjoy:


A poem:

by Li-Young Lee, Chicago

So we're dust. In the meantime, my wife and I
make the bed. Holding opposite edges of the sheet,
we raise it, billowing, then pull it tight,
measuring by eye as it falls into alignment
between us. We tug, fold, tuck. And if I'm lucky,
she'll remember a recent dream and tell me.

One day we'll lie down and not get up.
One day, all we guard will be surrendered.

Until then, we'll go on learning to recognize
what we love, and what it takes
to tend what isn't for our having.
So often, fear has led me
to abandon what I know I must relinquish
in time. But for the moment,
I'll listen to her dream,
and she to mine, our mutual hearing calling
more and more detail into the light
of a joint and fragile keeping.


Poetry is a delicate creation, always personal . . . For it means something slightly different to each and every observer . . . our pathways are our own . . . our moccasins fit only our feet . . . and we interpret the artistic communications of others through the lens of our own understandings . . . It is always a challenge to understand perfectly . . .

This story was like a dream itself ... .... reminding me that we are but temporal, and all that we think we own . . . is just momentarily in our grasp . . . our existence, and what we love, is beautiful and delicate and ephemeral as life, a mere wisp of mist streaming over the dew laden grass before the rising of the heat of day . . . and occasionally we remember that everything we have and we give is not ours at all . . . but something like the mist, which will return to us in the end . . . 

. . . . like music . . . each note a sensation. . . like the touch of a feather that glances off the shoulder, where the wings once appeared, with strength and courage .  . What is music but the tender expressions of a being trying to become real and visible through the misty shields that come between beckoning souls. What is art, of any style, but the longing of an angel to say . . . "I am here . . . together we make a whole . . . the picture will be clear . .  if together we stand . . . " And in the meantime we make the beds and share our dreams . ..

I like this particular musician, Score Creationism. This is what he said in regards to this story-telling album (Let There Be Notes): "In the beginning music was created.  Man learned this and was punished.  Scores/Soundtracks for movies, games, or your life." That tickles me and the music gives a story of creation involving a little more than we are used to hearing . . . . Its worth listening to because its quite beautiful, and moving . ..  and I enjoyed it very much.

Hello . . .  Portland

Gorgeous . .  surreal . . . uplifting . .  flutes . . . bells . . . song that welcomes the listener into the new day .  . lifting up into beautiful melody .. . harmonious and adventurous . . . A wonderful listen. 

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