Trains, Punks, Pictures and Books You Maybe Shouldn't Read, Picture Show Blog
Call me sentimental, but that last image really is something.
--CQ
Showing posts with label wanderlust. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wanderlust. Show all posts
Friday, April 12, 2013
Monday, February 11, 2013
Right Train / Right Time
From NPR's Picture Show Blog: 100 Words: In A Russian Arctic City.
At any point in time, we are at a confluence of sorts. That is to say, at every moment in our lives, we are taking in and processing multiple stimuli, which sounds awfully clinical, but there is a great deal of humanity at work as well. We hear the rush of the train in the distance. We feel the wind kick up dirt around our ankles on the platform. We watch a child, wide-eyed, watching the world around her then out of wonder and fear reach up for her mother's hand. We feel the softness of our clothes against our skin, but are barely, if at all, conscious of them until something's out of place. We see the numbers and hands on the clock face and it gives us a sense of order. We catch ourselves, and wonder why we're watching/thinking what we are.
The human part is what we do with it all--what we make of it. What does it all mean, man? On some level, we process no differently than a cat on the windowsill, watching the birds outside, feeling hungry. But the cat isn't going to make conjectures about the emotional state of said birds. He isn't going to wonder why he's in that particular window, watching those particular birds.
In our reading life, too, are we always at a nexus. What we've read before informs what we're reading now, and if we're reading multiple books at the same time, it's no wonder those things come to strangely (and then again, not-so-strangely) inform one another. And of course, this thinking extends well beyond the reading life to the entire artistic life, then even further to life as a whole.
I worry, in times like these, that I only make sense to myself. It's a matter of finding the right words. I feel like we all know these things, somewhere in our bones, but it's a matter of being reminded of them. Maybe that's what artists, in fact, are--The Great Reminders.
When I was an undergrad, in a poetry class we talked about Dave Etter's "A House by the Tracks." I can find neither train nor track of this poem online, so here's a snippet from me own personal hard-copy archives (Thanks, DC):
Snow falls, stops, starts again.
Santa Fe Wabash Seaboard
The freight train earth cracks in two.
Nickel Plate Nickel Plate
There are curses on the courthouse wind.
B&O L&N
South of town a farmer has been shot
by a hunter with a Jim Beam face.
Illinois Central Illinois Central
(piggyback piggyback)
. . .
I could make some very human conjectures as to why this poem has always stayed with me, but for our purposes here, suffice to say it first implanted the idea Ruefle mentions of developing consciousness coinciding with the perfect ripeness for a particular book/poem/sentence/photo/painting/moment. Etter uses passing trains to punctuate the speaker's lines, and the result is exactly what it had to be for the poem to be successful (which, as Richard Hugo would point out, is complete nonsense but also true).
The point, to which I'm always long on getting, is: sometimes, we find the Right Train at the Right Time.
Let's get back to those photos on the way to and in Vorkuta, Russia. The piece as whole, the photographer says, has a great deal to do with bearing witness to a painful past (my interpretation of his 100 words). Here, I'll enter, saying Yes, we all must bear witness to an often painful past, and that past informs our present and likely our future. The present moment is the intersection of that past with everything currently happening around us and in us, and the interplay of those things cannot help but affect what will come next.
And now, we're going to bring in The Dude. Because what isn't The Dude relevant to?
I've been reading The Dude and the Zen Master, and it has proved to be the Right Train for me at this particular moment in time, with all its connections, implications, and extensions. A good deal of what I've read so far has been about the vehicles we use to move through life (how fucking appropriate, right?). I want to share with you some passages from pages 37-39:
Jeff: So even if you're dealing with a topic that's not joyful, that's painful or sad, or whatever, if you approach it out of a joyful, generous, loving place, then everything comes out in a freer way.
And not too much later, Bernie comes in:
No matter how hard we try, situations come up that we'll want to separate from and leave behind us.
But if you are going somewhere else, let me say this much: At least change the boat and the oars. Say I get to the other side, what do I do? Well, I got here thanks to this beautiful boat with this set of oars, so I'll just hold on to them and carry them wherever I go. Isn't that weird? Now I've got the burden of carrying around whatever got me here.
Holy fuck. Mind = Blown.
But I knew this. I've learned it before. And I'm always having to relearn it.
Be reminded of it.
The toppled train car on the way to Vorkuta, surrounded by the bones of the people who built the tracks.
My own not-so-beautiful, rickety boat full of holes I'm always scrambling to patch with what feels like limited resources, surrounded by miles and miles of open water.
Why would we choose to carry these things with us? Because it's so damn hard to let go. We like to hold on to what got us here, safe and familiar, and we could go through our lives without ever having to learn how to use a new vehicle.
Then, we break down. And we end up staying in one place.
So do we abandon the things that got us here? Maybe in some cases, for our survival, we have to. We can't carry the falling-to-pieces boat over the mountains by ourselves, stopping every few feet to pick up the scraps and place them back in the hull. I'll fix it, we tell ourselves. You'll see. One day, I'll be able to fix it.
Maybe what we really need to do when the boat is falling apart is let it go, let it rest beside the water we just crossed and find another way of moving through the next part of our journey, where we may need a train or car or bike. Or maybe, just our own two feet. And a friend to talk with, with whom to kill the time. Maybe once it's off our backs, we can stop seeing only the splinters and holes. We can see it for essentially all it is--what got us to where we are now. It needn't be more than that.
I don't know if all of this would have meant what it means to me if certain things weren't swirling in my atmosphere. Then again, maybe we're always at the perfect ripeness, the right state of consciousness, to find the meaning we need to:
We just have to be reminded of it.
So/ Erie Lackawanna
--CQ
At any point in time, we are at a confluence of sorts. That is to say, at every moment in our lives, we are taking in and processing multiple stimuli, which sounds awfully clinical, but there is a great deal of humanity at work as well. We hear the rush of the train in the distance. We feel the wind kick up dirt around our ankles on the platform. We watch a child, wide-eyed, watching the world around her then out of wonder and fear reach up for her mother's hand. We feel the softness of our clothes against our skin, but are barely, if at all, conscious of them until something's out of place. We see the numbers and hands on the clock face and it gives us a sense of order. We catch ourselves, and wonder why we're watching/thinking what we are.
The human part is what we do with it all--what we make of it. What does it all mean, man? On some level, we process no differently than a cat on the windowsill, watching the birds outside, feeling hungry. But the cat isn't going to make conjectures about the emotional state of said birds. He isn't going to wonder why he's in that particular window, watching those particular birds.
In our reading life, too, are we always at a nexus. What we've read before informs what we're reading now, and if we're reading multiple books at the same time, it's no wonder those things come to strangely (and then again, not-so-strangely) inform one another. And of course, this thinking extends well beyond the reading life to the entire artistic life, then even further to life as a whole.
I worry, in times like these, that I only make sense to myself. It's a matter of finding the right words. I feel like we all know these things, somewhere in our bones, but it's a matter of being reminded of them. Maybe that's what artists, in fact, are--The Great Reminders.
When I was an undergrad, in a poetry class we talked about Dave Etter's "A House by the Tracks." I can find neither train nor track of this poem online, so here's a snippet from me own personal hard-copy archives (Thanks, DC):
Snow falls, stops, starts again.
Santa Fe Wabash Seaboard
The freight train earth cracks in two.
Nickel Plate Nickel Plate
There are curses on the courthouse wind.
B&O L&N
South of town a farmer has been shot
by a hunter with a Jim Beam face.
Illinois Central Illinois Central
(piggyback piggyback)
. . .
I could make some very human conjectures as to why this poem has always stayed with me, but for our purposes here, suffice to say it first implanted the idea Ruefle mentions of developing consciousness coinciding with the perfect ripeness for a particular book/poem/sentence/photo/painting/moment. Etter uses passing trains to punctuate the speaker's lines, and the result is exactly what it had to be for the poem to be successful (which, as Richard Hugo would point out, is complete nonsense but also true).
The point, to which I'm always long on getting, is: sometimes, we find the Right Train at the Right Time.
Let's get back to those photos on the way to and in Vorkuta, Russia. The piece as whole, the photographer says, has a great deal to do with bearing witness to a painful past (my interpretation of his 100 words). Here, I'll enter, saying Yes, we all must bear witness to an often painful past, and that past informs our present and likely our future. The present moment is the intersection of that past with everything currently happening around us and in us, and the interplay of those things cannot help but affect what will come next.
And now, we're going to bring in The Dude. Because what isn't The Dude relevant to?
I've been reading The Dude and the Zen Master, and it has proved to be the Right Train for me at this particular moment in time, with all its connections, implications, and extensions. A good deal of what I've read so far has been about the vehicles we use to move through life (how fucking appropriate, right?). I want to share with you some passages from pages 37-39:
Jeff: So even if you're dealing with a topic that's not joyful, that's painful or sad, or whatever, if you approach it out of a joyful, generous, loving place, then everything comes out in a freer way.
And not too much later, Bernie comes in:
No matter how hard we try, situations come up that we'll want to separate from and leave behind us.
But if you are going somewhere else, let me say this much: At least change the boat and the oars. Say I get to the other side, what do I do? Well, I got here thanks to this beautiful boat with this set of oars, so I'll just hold on to them and carry them wherever I go. Isn't that weird? Now I've got the burden of carrying around whatever got me here.
Holy fuck. Mind = Blown.
But I knew this. I've learned it before. And I'm always having to relearn it.
Be reminded of it.
The toppled train car on the way to Vorkuta, surrounded by the bones of the people who built the tracks.
My own not-so-beautiful, rickety boat full of holes I'm always scrambling to patch with what feels like limited resources, surrounded by miles and miles of open water.
Why would we choose to carry these things with us? Because it's so damn hard to let go. We like to hold on to what got us here, safe and familiar, and we could go through our lives without ever having to learn how to use a new vehicle.
Then, we break down. And we end up staying in one place.
So do we abandon the things that got us here? Maybe in some cases, for our survival, we have to. We can't carry the falling-to-pieces boat over the mountains by ourselves, stopping every few feet to pick up the scraps and place them back in the hull. I'll fix it, we tell ourselves. You'll see. One day, I'll be able to fix it.
Maybe what we really need to do when the boat is falling apart is let it go, let it rest beside the water we just crossed and find another way of moving through the next part of our journey, where we may need a train or car or bike. Or maybe, just our own two feet. And a friend to talk with, with whom to kill the time. Maybe once it's off our backs, we can stop seeing only the splinters and holes. We can see it for essentially all it is--what got us to where we are now. It needn't be more than that.
I don't know if all of this would have meant what it means to me if certain things weren't swirling in my atmosphere. Then again, maybe we're always at the perfect ripeness, the right state of consciousness, to find the meaning we need to:
 |
| on the cover of The Dude and the Zen Master |
We just have to be reminded of it.
So/ Erie Lackawanna
--CQ
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
I'm Leaving Tomorrow, but I Could Leave Today
In keeping with this week's theme (read: obsession).
But I know that you know,
--CQ
Monday, February 4, 2013
Things We Know (But Have to be Reminded Of)
Well, after an unexpected blog hiatus, thanks to:
1. lack of internet access at the farm, and
2. some interesting news that prompted a couple days' haze and drinking, the journey continues.
What have we missed since then? So much and so very little.
Let's think back to the Saunders interview in NYT. He said something in there that's become eerily resonate, as things we know but have to be reminded of often do.
“It would be so interesting if we could stay like that,” Saunders said, meaning: if we could conduct our lives with the kind of openness that sometimes comes with proximity to death.
Bummer, man. That's a bummer. Mind if I do a j? (says the Dude.)
That's just it though, isn't it? That's pretty much what all the fuss is about--the constant conflict between what is undeniably temporary (life) and our bewilderment/anger/resentment/struggle for acceptance of that fact.
But Saunders is right: that constant proximity to death can create an openness, an honesty, if given the chance. We can work to stay in tune with our brevity, and that openness can make it all seem a little lighter, a little easier to bear. Pleasurable, even--the way a long hike with a heavy pack strains you, but you know you only have a few miles left, so it still manages to be invigorating. (All about the journey, baby, it's all about the journey. But we know that, don't we.)
So as yet another little stretch of my journey is now, undeniably, coming to a close, I'm again thinking about what's over that next ridge. I can't see it yet, but I'm pretty sure there's something. Something different, something beautiful even. The best part, what's keeping me from stumbling or stopping for a break, is at the moment I'm largely unconcerned with what it is specifically--could be anything, could be nothing.
Nah, what I'm concerned with right now is the old farm house through which I'm passing, with its chicken coup to the east and field of rye to the west. I'm thinking about the way the sunflowers stood tall out front last summer, then sagged by late fall, and now the ground where they were lies empty. I'm watching the cardinals outside my window dart between trees. I'm watching yesterday's snow melt in the shadows as the sun creeps higher and the air warms.
I'm watching the wind kick up dust on the gravel road that snakes toward the ridge. It will still be here in May, but I won't be. I'll be somewhere beyond it, taking in the scene and trying to say something about it.
Before it's too late,
--CQ
1. lack of internet access at the farm, and
2. some interesting news that prompted a couple days' haze and drinking, the journey continues.
What have we missed since then? So much and so very little.
Let's think back to the Saunders interview in NYT. He said something in there that's become eerily resonate, as things we know but have to be reminded of often do.
“It would be so interesting if we could stay like that,” Saunders said, meaning: if we could conduct our lives with the kind of openness that sometimes comes with proximity to death.
Bummer, man. That's a bummer. Mind if I do a j? (says the Dude.)
That's just it though, isn't it? That's pretty much what all the fuss is about--the constant conflict between what is undeniably temporary (life) and our bewilderment/anger/resentment/struggle for acceptance of that fact.
But Saunders is right: that constant proximity to death can create an openness, an honesty, if given the chance. We can work to stay in tune with our brevity, and that openness can make it all seem a little lighter, a little easier to bear. Pleasurable, even--the way a long hike with a heavy pack strains you, but you know you only have a few miles left, so it still manages to be invigorating. (All about the journey, baby, it's all about the journey. But we know that, don't we.)
So as yet another little stretch of my journey is now, undeniably, coming to a close, I'm again thinking about what's over that next ridge. I can't see it yet, but I'm pretty sure there's something. Something different, something beautiful even. The best part, what's keeping me from stumbling or stopping for a break, is at the moment I'm largely unconcerned with what it is specifically--could be anything, could be nothing.
Nah, what I'm concerned with right now is the old farm house through which I'm passing, with its chicken coup to the east and field of rye to the west. I'm thinking about the way the sunflowers stood tall out front last summer, then sagged by late fall, and now the ground where they were lies empty. I'm watching the cardinals outside my window dart between trees. I'm watching yesterday's snow melt in the shadows as the sun creeps higher and the air warms.
I'm watching the wind kick up dust on the gravel road that snakes toward the ridge. It will still be here in May, but I won't be. I'll be somewhere beyond it, taking in the scene and trying to say something about it.
Before it's too late,
--CQ
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Music Tuesdays
Lord Huron's Lonesome Dreams
I stumbled across Lord Huron through this article from NPR:
10 Artists You Should Have Known in 2012.
(Side note--I promise not everything I use will be from NPR.)
Like the write-up suggests, this album did indeed have me scrambling for my backpack. It's sonic wanderlust, through and through.
The band's website has all of the tracks posted on the homepage. Check it out. Let me know what ya think. And meet me out west.
"Please don't say I'm going alone,"
--CQ
I stumbled across Lord Huron through this article from NPR:
10 Artists You Should Have Known in 2012.
(Side note--I promise not everything I use will be from NPR.)
Like the write-up suggests, this album did indeed have me scrambling for my backpack. It's sonic wanderlust, through and through.
The band's website has all of the tracks posted on the homepage. Check it out. Let me know what ya think. And meet me out west.
"Please don't say I'm going alone,"
--CQ
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