Red Cedar
More apocalypse, less angst
Bowl of Roses – Rilke
(This is the poem I read this morning as I work my way through The Essential Rilke one piece at a time. I was tempted to pair it with an photograph of roses – but I think the imagery here is striking I wanted to leave it to paint its own visions. This poem is properly read outloud – it demands life off the page – so find a quiet place and read it to yourself or someone else.)
Bowl of Roses
by Rainer Maria Rilke
You saw angry ones flare, saw two boys
clump themselves together into a something
that was pure hate, thrashing in the dirt
like an animal set upon by bees;
actors, piled up exaggerators,
careening horses crashed to the ground,
their gaze thrown away, baring their teeth
as if the skull peeled itself out through the mouth.
But now you know how these things are forgotten:
for here before you stands a bowl full of roses,
which is unforgettable and filled up
with ultimate instances
of being and bowing down,
of offering themselves, of being unable to give, of standing there
almost as part of us: ultimates for us too.
Noiseless life, opening without end,
filling space without taking any away
from the space the other things in it diminish,
almost without an outline, like something omitted,
and pure inwardness, with so much curious softness,
shining into itself, right up to the rim:
is anything as known to us as this?
And this: that a feeling arises
because petals are being touched by petals?
And this: that one opens itself, like a lid,
and beneath lies nothing but eyelids,
all closed, as if tenfold sleep
had to dampen down an inner power to see.
And, above all, this: that through the petals
light has to pass. Slowly they filter out from a
thousand skies the drop of darkness
in whose fiery glow the jumbled bundle
of stamens becomes aroused and rears up.
And what activity, look, in the roses:
gestures with angles of deflection so small
one wouldn’t see them if not for
infinite space where their rays can diverge.
See this white one, blissfully opened,
standing among its huge spreading petals
like a Venus standing in her shell;
and how this one, the blushing one, turns,
as if confused, toward the cooler one,
and how the cooler one, impassive, draws back,
and the cold one stands tightly wrapped in itself
among these opened ones, that shed everything.
And what they shed, how it can be
at once light and heavy. a cloak. a burden,
a wing, and a mask, it all depends,
and how they shed it: as before a lover.
Is there anything they can’t be: wasn’t this yellow one
that lies here hollow and open the rind
of a fruit of which the same yellow,
more intense, more orange-red, was the juice?
And this one, could opening have been too much for it,
because, exposed to air, its nameless pink
has picked up the bitter aftertaste of lilac?
And isn’t this batiste one a dress, with
the chemise still inside it, still soft
and breath-warm, both flung off together
in morning shade at the bathing pool in the woods?
And this one here, opalescent porcelain,
fragile, a shallow china cup
filled with little lighted butterflies,
and this one, containing nothing but itself.
And aren’t they all doing the same: only containing themselves,
if to contain oneself means: to transform the world outside
and wind and rain and patience of spring
and guilt and restlessness and disguised fate
and darkness of earth at evening
all the way to the errancy, flight, and coming on of clouds
all the way to the vague influence of the distant stars
into a handful of inwardness.
Now it lies free of cares in the open roses.
In the garden today…..
A short post to round off the weekend – it’s been awhile since I’ve written about the garden, and even longer since I’ve done any appreciable work out there – but now it’s time for fall clean-up!
My co-worker commented the other day that she hates fall clean-up because it’s cold out and there’s no reward in the form of spring anticipation – but with the lovely weather this morning I was glad to have a little excuse to be outside for a couple of hours. And of course, reward is all a matter of perspective – I was prepping for garlic – and I can’t help being excited for that!
There’s some changes afoot in our backyard right now – I decided some time ago to get rid of the pink-flowering dogwood tree and the berberis in the bed beside the studio. Last month I dug out the berberis, today was the dogwood’s turn to go. Taking advantage of the tree and shrub sale at GardenWorks, I picked up two plums (an Italian and a Yakima) to stick in that side bed, and plan to build the rest of it up with flowers in the spring. (You can see how bare that side of the yard looks now in the photo above)
Besides that I:
- pulled the mildewy squash plants out
- pulled out the pole beans and took the large bean pods to dry for seed
- pulled up the scraggly tomato plants
- spread bags of mushroom manure (freebies from a neighbour) in two of the boxes – later this month I’ll do the other four boxes to top them up
- additionally added soil and compost to one of the boxes in preparation for planting garlic!
Along with the two plum trees, I’ve got two new blueberry bushes and about 100 spring-flowering bulbs to put in when we get back from NYC. Plus the garlic, and the rest of the clean-up that needs to get done before the real rains come.
Here’s an August garden photo for contrast:
One long struggle in the dark.
As much as I like everything I’ve read *about* Lucretius, I have to admit that I have really been struggling with the actual text of On the Nature of Things. You see, it’s a poem from about 70 BCE which seeks to explain the Epicurean basis for understanding the world.
The Epicureans were followers of Epicurus who formed communes under his direction and for hundreds of years afterwards. Epicurus had a number of insights about our relationship to the supernatural, to the earthly world and to our own corporeal being – and he is considered by some to be the founder of modern scientific thinking. All interesting stuff, though unfortunately most of his writings have been lost over time and so we rely on poems like this one by Lucretius which is a couple hundred pages long and seeks to explain the order in which matter is organized (swerving atoms), the goals of human life (finding pleasure), our relationship to death (which should mean as little to us as what happens before we are born), proper observance of the gods (they don’t really care about us, so let’s not base our lives on trying to please them in frightened supersition) and a host of other topics core to Epicurean thought.
What struck me upon first reading of the text was the physical science that Lucretius describes – that is a world based on matter (atoms being a constituent of everything), nothing comes from nothing, the universe is a closed system – and most important to the modern scientific method: we must rely on observations based in the senses rather than superstition to determine the facts of our world. Within the course of the poem he engages in some debate with other theorists of his day – Heroclitus, Empedocles, and Anaxagoras – calling them out on their deficiencies in reasoning out the elemental nature of the world. Lucretius maintains that atoms are all around us, travelling at great speeds in relatively stable patterns – but every once and awhile they “swerve” which can set new chains of being into motion and stop the order of life from being so predictable. From what I have read *about* On the Nature of Things this particular concept bears some similarity to “the indeterminacy postulated by modern quantum physics” – stunning the modern reader (we are often so smug in believing that all our thinking is new aren’t we?).
Note: There is a book out this fall called The Swerve: How the World Became Modern by Stephen Greenblatt who credits Lucretius as the unsung hero of modern thought. Several articles have run in the past month about this book and the influence of Lucretius (through the rediscovery of his book in the 1400s) on the development of human culture. Such is one today in the Independent. (I am on the library wait list for this book).
On second reading, Lucretius’ thoughts on the soul and mortality jumped out at me. I attribute this to a 3-lecture series from Notre Dame University I watched in between reads – (for anyone who hasn’t grokked iTunes University… it’s an amazing resource and all free). In any case – Lucretius posits a soul made up of anima (based in the body) and animus (based in the mind which is located in the heart) which is comprised of special atoms that infuse us with our nature and consciousness. But although these souls are constituted of *something*, that something disperses when we die and becomes the constituents of other things. Thus Lucretius ends the superstitious cycle: there is not life after death, no possibility of Hades, no reason to fear retribution in the afterworld. And, he says, why would you fear death when you don’t worry about before you were born – for these are the same state? (I loved that bit – I’ve never considered the before life and the after life to be the same before reading that).
The whole Epicuran approach is fascinating to me – that life is about seeking pleasure (but not the pleasures which make us unhappy through excess or unnaturalness), that to be happy we must free ourselves from superstitions which bind us in fear. that we must ground ourselves in all the senses to find the truth. And I appreciate how Lucretius (and Epicurus) don’t just throw the baby out with the bathwater on faith – the Gods don’t get struck down in this rational approach – but it’s just commonsense that the Gods are too busy and lofty to care much about each and every one of us individuals. Their communal approach to a life which included women and slaves in the public sphere is also striking for its day.
We’re discussing this work in class tomorrow morning and I expect to add more to this post afterwards (or create a new one) – plus I am using this text for my first term paper – even though (or especially because) I have struggled with it so. One of the great things about having so many and such varied readings – is that for the first time in a long while I am realizing the value of slogging through difficult material, seeking supplementary sources and digging deeper for the rewards of understanding and integrating new idas. This is a work that I’m feeling a deep respect for, even as I feel that I am only skating on the surface of it for the time being.
New Basics.
Here is the latest of my sewing endeavours – a first experiment with knit fabrics in the form of a charcoal rib-knit that I got at DressSew for $6 per metre. Unfortunately I have a tendency to make things too large – it has something to do with where my measurements sit in the middle of two pattern sizes – I always choose the larger when I should probably choose the smaller. But I really hate the idea of things being too small -so instead they come out too big. On the other hand, a slouchy tunic is a nice thing to have in a wardrobe so I’m not complaining too much about this one. My favourite detail about the whole thing? I got to use some ceramic star buttons that Brian bought me last year at a community craft sale.
In any event – this is my newest self-made wardrobe addition and I’m happy to have finally broken through my fear of knit fabrics!
What cruelty without wisdom
(The above is highlights of a marionette version of Antigone produced this year…..)
Antigone is the reading which has affected me the most (in the tragic sense) thus far in our curriculum. A young woman who has lost almost everything – her father and mother, her two brothers in one terrible waitron day, her royal place as her uncle Creon assumes the throne. And now the ultimate insult – she is barred from attending her brother Polynices in performing burial rites to appease the gods of her tradition.
A tale about the transition from kinship to state-rule, a tragic ode to star-crossed lovers, a reminder that no matter how powerful a head of state believes himself to be – the gods can always do him one better. Antigone is a nasty work in which King Creon pays the ultimate price – losing his son, his wife, and the faith of his people.
Some notes for class discussion:
Antigone: The representation of kinship and loyalty to family. She insists on observing burial rights for her brother even though his is believed to be a traitor to his state. Sentenced to death by Creon, Antigone is guided by her innate sense of justice and morality and thus is unable to escape her fate.
Creon: Embodiment of the state and the right of kingly rule. It is Creon who decrees that Antigone must die for her attempt to observe burial rights, arguing that he has the right to determine for the people what must happen. Creon spends an inordinate amount of time focused on whether or not his subjects are being bought off with money:
Money! Nothing worse
in our lives, so current, rampant, so corrupting.
Money — you demolish cities, root men from their homes,
you train and twist good minds and set them on
to the most atrocious schemes. No limit,
you make them adept at every kind of outrage,
every godless crime — money!
Because this is a recurrent theme, one wonders if the point Sophocles is making is that with the rise of the state (and the dwindling of traditional kinship ties), subjects are more easily bought and sold and therefore less trustworthy.
Haemon: Son of Creon and fiance of Antigone, Haemon attempts to reason with his father but is ultimately overtaken by his youthful passion. He represents the argument for a more inclusive state and leadership, a ruler who listens to the people. The scene in the play with the most pathos is that which finds Haemon clinging to Antigone (who has hanged herself rather than starve to death behind a brick wall) before charging at his father and then killing himself with his own sword. Haemon demonstrates the hazards of dismissing his subjects and his own family by delivering the ultimate punishment in the form of self-sacrifice.
Antigone’s death: The death Creon chooses for Antigone is emblematic of what she represents. In his final verdict, Creon determines that Antigone should be walled away with a few provisions to keep her going for a few days but ultimately she will be left to starve. This is clearly a metaphor for subsuming family/kinship relations in the service of the state; they cannot be destroyed outright but must wither away in a forgotten place. Antigone refuses this fate by committing suicide, thus striking at the intention of Creon even in her death.
Tiresias: This blind prophet attends Creon near the end to remind him that men can not override the gods and the great traditions. Reason and wisdom must be the governing principles.
Underlining the tragedy of Antigone – the final chorus reminds us that:
Wisdom is by far the greatest part of joy,
and reverence toward the gods must be safeguarded.
The mighty words of the proud are paid in full
with mighty blows of fate, and at long last
those blows will teach us wisdom.
Let the rest of us hope that the blows which lead us to wisdom are not delivered so harshly as Creon’s.
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Post-class discussion notes
I was surprised in class by how many people wanted to come down firmly on one side or the other of the Antigone-Creon conflict rather than appreciating the rigidity in each character is the tragedy and the lesson. In particular I was curious about the argument made by some that without firm rule of law there is no order or society and that to have civilized existence, there is no room for action based on moral imperatives. Which to me ignores our basic human nature and impulse for social connection… rather than break the law to help out a family member (by stealing medicine – for example), we must categorically follow elected (or traditional) rulers. This is a position I (obviously, if you know me) can not accept as I believe not only do we have the moral imperative to act according to conscience, but I also believe that it is people breaking the rules and pushing on the edges which bring greater change over time. It is only through Antigone’s wild actions that Creon is forced (too late for him, unfortunately) to reckon with what true governance of the people means.
I have long wondered about some people’s willingness to agree with, and follow along with whatever the state suggests – simply because these are our elected leaders. I’m not sure if many of the people who recommend this course have actually met many of our elected leaders, or paid much attention to what they have to say – because clearly so much of the time they don’t speak from a rational place but are blinded by their own prejudices and ideologies. People like Stephen Harper are good at faking rationality – it’s something to do with his impassive appearance I suppose – but there is nothing rational in wanting to make Canada more like the United States (a stated goal of Harper) where so much more of the population lives in poverty. For even if it makes a few float higher, it sinks the boat for the rest of us which is antiethical to a person who claims to be responsible for “the people”. Likewise the refusal of the current government to acknowledge climate change or the environmental degradation of industry – the only framework in which this can be argued for (or ignored in the case of the Con’s inaction) is one in which money is all that matters – as if (to paraphrase Chief Seattle) you can eat money when all the rest of it (rivers, oceans, lands) are sucked dry. Though I suppose those with money will just stockpile food – which makes it okay for them.
Opinions on the current regime aside, I have never believed in an authority greater than my own sense of reason and responsibility. Which also means that I reserve the right to non-violent action for change. Not only that, but I believe a democracy must make room for all citizens to be heard and that democracy is strengthened by protest as it indicates citizen involvement in the shaping of their country. Antigone’s protest ultimately has the power to re-orient Creon as a ruler, but given his tragic end (destroyed by the death of his son and wife), he serves instead as an apocryphal reminder to the rulers who follow.
Red Cedar 