Recently on Marilyn's discussion boards...
From tvelection:(to be edited for a few days)
Interpretations (D. Taylor)
You’ll find me in a starry night, in the warm spring air that wraps around ---after dinner at a restaurant when the streetlights softly glow, in that satiated warmth, our eternal patience glimpses through matter and into subtle awe.
Yet now on the old street, there seems to be no inspiration anymore, this present location we sought and presented to our experience, as a passer-by on the sidewalk, sweating without exertion in the oppressively humid air. Among the dull, unimaginative, brown-tile-brick apartments and a freshly leveled barren landscape of brown sod rolls, all baking in the sun, languishing in the discomfort of newly dismal moments, it feels stern . . . Lutheran, squinting into noon’s hard-edged glare, a lackluster immediacy of the present moment. We’ve given this scene no character, no retrospective sense, no orientation of habit. A set but not the play. Any meaning given is also limitation, the partiality of words, subjects, and perspectives. Yet the meaning is greater than the sum of physical parts. We experience a world and in living make it into somewhat more than it is, for “better” and “worse,” as signs of our potential, a tenuous conscious awareness. What is the source of our arts? Music, painting, writing, or acting? Our underground springs of pain-tinged joy that express our mystery.
Inexpressible intangibles, unsignified, notseparatedoutyet, in early morning’s impenetrable world of low fog, nature "scene" as art: a view from the highway, the clouds at dusk, the ocean, snowfall ---images filled out with wonder, communicate something more than they are, in use, meaning, and context. There’s always a latent or implicit expression that’s not anywhere in the scene but in one’s accompanying it. A communal experience of mind and matter; we interpret our own sense into wordful meanings. Sublimity is the joy beyond beauty; even the plain, brown, sun-roasted apartments you never really “knew,” never “possessed,” forgetful shrines for so many lost memories. He kissed her for the first time there on the stoop, eventually carried her over that threshold too, tripped right through the doorway. That old apartment building? Oh how it shines in the sunlight!
In Memory of Las Vegas Tragedy (D. Taylor)
There’s no explanation that will ever be satisfactory and yet we demand to know why, to give a reason to the unjustifiable. Seeing the faces of so many good people, young people, new mothers and fathers, also daughters and sons, individuals . . . beautiful smiles in pictures . . . and what will we do for them now? Why is it ever too late? Unexpected events occur, and we react. We've shown-up too late to prevent a calamity. They were “people like us” with much to say, to do, and to be. Nothing can be done now. It wasn’t that long ago, if only we could bring them back, that we had "that" technology ---to wield a natural justice from our better selves, to give nature a mind, a conscience to compensate for what’s lacking in some and undeveloped in others.
Those attendees, those individual lives weren’t doing anything particularly dangerous, there to hear country music they enjoyed, should still be here, living in our “uncommon” days, not having been forced-out. The weight of it crushes other’s lives in ways many have felt yet can hardly imagine, in a rippling pain of slow days. Such tragedy takes one outside of habit, out of sorts, to sit on a floor having never done so before, away somewhere, numb in grief ---disbelief, that this must be, that this is true. Some kill, some save, what is humanity but a collective contradiction. There’s nothing to instruct here. Don’t go to big concerts? There are hundreds weekly. Wrong place, wrong time? No, it was a concert, sounds like the right place. We watched the news of tragedy knowing that they all should still be with us, walking into their homes and not into dreams. Everything just the way they left it, in expectation of return but for one lowly act of violent selfishness. Had the violent and cruel only met those they harmed, a victim who was kind to them, would they be so eager? As in wars, anonymous masses are dehumanized in the mind, as the “others,” unknown expendables, to hate or to hurt, “good” people one has never met (or even ones they have). No justice in that, none at all. What possesses one to act violently and Intentionally hurt innocent others? We imagine how it could have been stopped, so obvious after the fact. Put this world of grief in reverse that we can correct our ignorant cousin on how to be human ---and give back a loss that was too much to bear.