Richibi’s Weblog

Just another WordPress.com weblog

Category: words of wisdom

true love – an insight

love-s-scerets-1896-jpglarge

                          “Love’s Secrets (1896) 

                    William-Adolphe Bouguereau

                                     _________

the only way you can hate someone 
you’ve loved is if your love was selfish,
true love can never not love, ever

Richard

 

Advertisements

“the nerdwriter” on e.e. cummings, and Donald Trump

selfportrait.jpg

    “Self-portrait with sketchpad (1939) 

             e.e. cummings

                  ________

one of e.e. cummings‘ poems that I 
didn’t know of, i carry your heart  
with me(i carry it in]“, but that is 
apparently one of his most 
accessible, is explored and 
wonderfully deconstructed in this
video, which’ll also prove how much 
we need nerds, people who’ll open 
up areas of profound but murky 
matter for us 

  [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]

         i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
         my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
         i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
         by only me is your doing,my darling)
                                                                i fear
         no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
         no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
         and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
         and whatever a sun will always sing is you

          here is the deepest secret nobody knows
          (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
          and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
          higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
          and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

          i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

                                                  e.e. cummings
                                                         


when I grow up, I want to be a nerd

Richard 

psst: listen to how “the nerdwriter”, Evan Paschal, 
         deconstructs Donald Trump

the judgment of richibi

the-judgment-of-paris-1.jpg!Large.jpg

        “The Judgment Of Paris (1625) 

                         Peter Paul Rubens

                                       ___________

at the end of a long overdue visit to 
friend’s home the other night, she 
asked me, did you notice their facial
skin, which of us do you think had 
the best complexion, you can be 
honest, she insisted

we had intended to watch the finals
of a voice competition we’d both 
been following, over a glass of 
wine, or two, each, when a friend 
called, from, essentially, the door,
with a second friend in tow on their
way to a concert in the city

the friend of the friend, a lovely,
effervescent woman, from Poland
originally, with a story to tell of
growing up behind the Iron 
Curtain, was also a beautician in 
spa she runs in a nearby resort
city

the first friend, equally effervescent, 
had been telling my own friend of the 
intervening events since last they’d  
met, while I lapped up, more or less  
by default, this other alternate Soviet 
reality, perfumed as it was irresistibly 
throughout with the friend’s  
friend’s mellifluous Polish accent

I hadn’t paid any attention whatsoever
to skin quality apart from accepting  
a spa courtesy card for my mother, who 
would, naturally, be interested 

my dearest dear, I answered, I am  
not going anywhere near that one
look what happened to Paris when
he fell into that trap

what happened, she asked

the Trojan War, I answered  

the Trojan War, she asked

Paris was the son of Priam and Hecuba
king and queen of Troy, explained, he, 
one of its princes, he’d been awarded 
Helenwife of Menelausking of Sparta, 
by Aphroditegoddess of lovehe’d 
chosen Aphrodite to be the most 
beautiful among the goddesses, that 
was her prize

but let me step back a little, I  
interrupted, you need more context

Eris, goddess of discord, had not been 
invited to the marriage of Peleus and 
Thetis, I recounted, he a Greek hero, 
she a sea nymph, parents both later to 
Achilleshero at Troy, slain, incidentally, 
by that very Paris, you can read all about 
it in the Iliad“, I highly recommended

during the festivities, Eris tosses a 
golden apple among the assembled 
divinities, which reads

            “to the fairest” 
 
you can hear the stirrings of the much 
later Sleeping Beautyincidentally, in 
this earliest of tellings, reconfigured 
from the original myth

AthenaAphrodite and Hera, all assume
they are meant to receive the apple, and 
ask Zeus, father and husband, to decide

you’ll have to get someone else to touch 
that one, he replies, much as I did

and delegates the task, with the help 
of Hermes, the messenger god, to the
the guileless Paris, son of Priam and 
Hecuba, Trojan king and queen, as I 
said, he, Parisprince

Paris was tending sheep on Mount Ida
when, fatefully, by a spring, the nubile 
goddesses appeared vaunting their 
unadorned splendours, stark, flagrant, 
manifest, to the musical accompaniment 
of the Graces, Faith, Hope and Charity, 
also the Horae, the Hoursgoddesses 
of the seasons, maidens all in complicit  
attendance

Paris, mere mortal, would never have 
stood a chance 

but to sweeten, nevertheless, the 
deal, were it not yet sufficiently sweet, 
Hera promises Paris Europe and Asia 
should he choose her, Athena
conquest in war, Aphroditegoddess 
of love, was set to give him the most
beautiful woman in the world

Paris opts for Aphrodite, and is 
awarded Helenthe face that
launched the thousand proverbial 
ships, the wife, not incidentally,  
and completely inconveniently, of 
the King of Sparta, Menelauswho 
attacks thereupon Troy with his 
brother, Agamemnon, and their 
allied legions, to reclaim 
Menelaus’, whether abducted, or 
indeed unfaithful, wife, no one 
has ever conclusively determined
Paris having been Paris

no one won 

no one survived but Odysseus
but that’s another story

I walked home shortly afterwards, 
crossed my own Aegean, ten or
eleven blocks back, red lights, 
nighttime traffic, watched the voice 
competition I’d taped in any case at 
homewhooped it up along with my
favourite contestants, drank to my
narrow miss, had gotten away, I
considered, with the equivalent of 
Europe and Asia, if only in my 
mind

beauty might be in the eye of the 
beholder, I surmised, but it can 
have its thorny indeed 
consequences

Richard

to Socrates – on monotheism‏

sacrifice-of-isaac(1).jpg!Large

      “The Sacrifice of Isaac (1598)

                        Caravaggio

                               ________

by very definition, the inevitable
result of monotheism, Socrates,  
is war, if there is one authority it  
will eventually be opposed by a 
contrary, however picayune, 
however trivial, opinion, see the 
Protestant Reformationsee Islam, 
for instance, now
 
after which there is disintegration
 
before Christianity, there were gods, 
a pantheon of them symbolically
alive among the rivers, the trees, 
the mountains, read Ovid for an
exhilarating description, wars were 
waged for territory, not conscience  
 
Judaism, the religion of the Jews,
evolved for their own existence a
deity, Yahweh, who was their one 
god, disdainful of foreign others,
an uncharacteristic attitude among 
other religions then, becoming one 
of the very first monotheistic, and
consequently existentially 
compromised faiths, if not the 
first
 
the intent was to rally ideological 
support among its adherents so 
that they could protect the lands 
of Israel and Judahtheir ancestral 
homesas they would have it, a 
sanctification of the territorial 
principle
 
their Bible, the Torah, a vengeful 
work, and the basis for the 
Christian Old Testament, 
demanded of its followers 
unblinking and cruel allegiance,
the sacrifice of Isaacfor instance,
a father required to sacrifice his 
own son, however might it ‘ve
been at the last minute averted by 
the intercession of an angel sent 
by that very Lord
 
Christ came along to turn the other
cheek
 
which didn’t last long 
 
indeed Montesquieu, an early 
philosopher of the French
Enlightenment, tells of the 
King’s librarian of Chinese 
texts, who had been converted 
to Catholicism in China, but 
who was nonplussed upon his 
arrival in Christian France to find 
that the French did not do onto 
others as they would have them 
do unto themselves, nor did they, 
more catastrophically, turn the  
other cheek
 
for that matter see what Christian 
Europe did to the Americans
 
Christ’s own followers, once they’d 
achieved political prominence, after, 
admittedly, 300 years of persecution 
by the prevailing Roman authorities, 
set their own deity, God, on high, 
indeed beyond the rivers, the 
mountains, the trees into the very 
ineffable, the inscrutable abstract, 
and squelched any opposition for  
the next thousand and some years,
the philosophical underpinnings of 
which was the work of your 
contemporary, Plato, Socrates, his 
ideal of the Ideal
 
Augustine signed those recalibrated 
papers with his City of God“, it took 
the Renaissance to make a dent in its 
armour, and another several centuries 
to declare the Christian God dead, 
Time magazine in the ’60s, on the 
heels of Nietzsche‘s nihilistic  
pronouncement some 70 years earlier, 
that God had exited history
 
what we are left with, Socrates, is every 
wo/man for hirself, therefore the Age of 
Human Rights, for better or for worse
otherwise many of us would’ve been 
guillotined, burnt at the stake, stoned 
to death, by now
 
what do you think
 
I’ll bet I can tell, you think that every 
wo/man owes allegiance to what s/he 
believes in, even to inexorable death, 
however impractical, unfortunate, or 
fateful, if your exemplary life has  
anything to say about it 
 
 
cheers
 
Richard

the flow (with a representative performance of Bach)

"The Kitchen"  - Pablo Picasso

The Kitchen (1948)

Pablo Picasso

________

having forgotten that I’d left a candle
in the kitchen, I thought, is that what
you’re going to strike me with,
Alzheimer’s

and then I thought, who’s you

certainly not some Creator with a
white beard and a vengeance, or
even, for that matter, without a
vengeance, even empathy, a
buddha, a guardian angel

no, “you” would be the order of
things, the flow

I spread my arms, and ceded to
it

to be one with the flow, I thought,
that’s the Force, there was no
getting around it

to be at one with the Force,
listen

then I remembered the chicken
drumsticks in the ginger cherry
sauce I’d left in the oven

which turned out nevertheless
perfect

Richard

psst:

for perfect coconut rice,
1 cup of coconut milk,
available in most high-end
food stores, one of water,
one of rice, of course, your
pick, bring to a boil, lower
heat, simmer covered for
45 minutes, an hour, or as
soon as you remember
you left it on the stove,
turn off heat, add a
tablespoon of butter, lime
juice

serve with chicken
drumsticks in ginger
cherry sauce

and, of course, wine

“Whatever Works” – Woody Allen


"Clown with Flowers"- Marc Chagall

Clown with Flowers (1963)

Marc Chagall

______

after Existentialism, Camus, Sartre,
after “God Is Dead”, there was
Woody Allen, to let us know that,
you know, Whatever Works“, you
can either jump out ‘ a window or
make the best of it

I am, of course, Boris Yellnikov,
though my girl from Mississippi
hasn’t shown up yet

nor for that matter has my
psychic

maybe I should jump out ‘ a
window

what do you think

watch

Richard

“No Ideas But In Things” – Jessica Greenbaum‏

   "Lady with a Squirrel and a Starling" (c.1527) - Hans Holbein the Younger

Lady with a Squirrel and a Starling (c.1527)

Hans Holbein the Younger

__________

it’s been a while since I’ve offered
up a poem, it’s been a while since
I’ve read one, and I miss them

but this one inadvertently this
morning struck a conversational
tone I found particularly engaging,
easy to read, though with cadences

no paragraphs

Jessica Greenbaum uses longer
iambic pentameters than I do, you
might note, decidedly more
punctuation

but she sings her lines, her daily
prose, as if they were poems

that’s what I especially like

Richard

_____________

No Ideas But In Things

We checked the vents and hidden apertures of the house,
then ran out of ideas of where it might be open to the world.
So we couldn’t figure out how the squirrel was getting in.
We each had methods that succeeded in shooing him,
or her, out the door—but none of them lasted. Whether
it was the same squirrel—terrified when in the house, and
persistently so—or various we couldn’t tell because,
tipped off by a glance, he zigzagged from froze-to-vapor,
vanishing, Zorro-like, until signs would tell us he had
revisited the sideboard to dig in the begonia. (Escaping
Newcastle in a search for coal.) We plotted his counter-
escape, laying a path of pecans to a window opening
on the yard. A few days would pass, and, believing him
gone, we felt inexplicably better than when we began.
Then, from another room, the amplified skritch of nutmeg
being grated—and, crash. Bracelets off dresser tops, bud
vases, candy dishes, things houses have that the back yard
doesn’t. You don’t think of squirrels knocking things over,
but inside it was like living with the Ghost and Mrs. Muir.
When we couldn’t trust the quiet or prove his absence,
we cast him as that hapless shade: worry. Our own gray
area, scat-trailing proof of feral anxiety. But after a few
cycles of release-and-catch I grew bored with the idea,
with its untamed projections. Since he dashes up walls,
(yanked, like a pulley), or seeks treasure in a five-inch pot,
daily, why not adopt him as optimism’s travelling rep?
I tried. But the sun comes up, we step toward the stove,
and he shoots out like a cue ball, banks off the kitchen door
—what mayhem is caused by going to make coffee!—
and the day, again, begins with a shriek. We are now in
week three and I accept that, inside, the squirrel is going
to stand for something else. And so is the May rain
and so is the day you took off your coat and the tulips
joined in with the cherry blossoms and the people came out
and the pear-tree petals floated down in polka dots
around the tulips, and even around the cars. We name life
in relation to whatever we step out from when we
open the door, and whatever comes back in on its own.

Jessica Greenbaum

watching water boil‏

 "Water Album - Ten Thousand Riplets on the Yangzi" - Ma Yuan

Water Album – Ten Thousand Riplets on the Yangzi

Ma Yuan

____

I’ve got something for you, I said to
a friend when she fretted again about
a condition, one of several, dare I say,
eating away at her, though from the
inside, I believe, instead of the outside,
if you know what I mean

my tremor, she explained, something
I’d indeed earlier noted, and
commented on

my doctor said it wasn’t Parkinson’s
and I want a second opinion, she said,
he’s referred me to a neurologist

what did your doctor say it was, I
asked

just nerves, she answered

I’ve always thought it was just
nerves, I said, stress

but I don’t think I’m stressed, she
replied

you’re stressed right now, I retorted

have you been meditating, I asked,
like I suggested

no, she said, I just can’t get into it

I know, I know, I responded, listen,
this is why I called, I just figured
this out, I’ve been boiling water to
rinse my dishes for a while now,
ever since the water alert several
years ago when the water went
brown, I’ve got one or even several
pots behind me on the stove heating
while I’m washing the dishes, most
often I’m finished before the water
boils

I still have my plastic gloves on, I
don’t want to take them prematurely
off, so I either watch the water boil
or look at the mountains from my
window, both of which can get
tiresome

the mountains mostly win out but
then I have to turn back to check
on the water, and I’m back where
I started, watching the water boil

a watched pot never boils, this’d
be great for your condition

excuse me, she said

watch a pot of water boil, I said,
you probably won’t watch it from
start to finish, but

she started to laugh

you can start watching after several
minutes, you don’t even have to

she continued to laugh

watch it till it boils, every day you
can add minutes

she didn’t stop laughing

doesn’t that sound logical, I asked,
all she’d need was will, which’d get
rid of her tremor, I concluded

later I could’ve added that if you’re
diligent, which is to say patient, calm
you’ll start to more precisely define
the word “boil”, have 32 names for
it like Eskimos do for snow

from simmer, shimmer, steam and
hover, stir, roil, ripple and shudder,
to “Double, double, toil and trouble,
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble”,
for instance

a note to myself, do the same thing
with “mountain”

Richard

something to start the year with, 2015

the Tony Awards

the Tony Awards

________

on winning a Tony for Black and Blue“,
1989,
Ruth Brown said

“what I am is God’s gift to me,
and what I’ve made of myself
is my gift to Him”

words that easily could become a
resolution

we are gifts, think about it

all the very best

Richard