Between Going and Coming
“Writing is a futile attempt to preserve what disappears moment by moment.”― Marge Piercy
Tomorrow is the birthday of one of my favorite poets, Octavio Paz. With all the poetry I studied at UC Berkeley (where Paz also studied in the 40s….GO BEARS) it wasn’t until 2003 when guitarist extraordinaire Ben Chasney, under his moniker Six Organs Of Admittance, released his pivotal work For Octavio Paz that I started reading his work. Paz was a historic character during an incredible period in history, growing up with a grandfather, Ireneo Paz, who wrote one of the very first novels about the indigenous Mexican people as well as stories about the legendary “Robin Hood of El Dorado” Joaquin Murrieta (Paz grew up spending long times in his grandfather’s library), and a father who was the assistant to Mexican revolutionary Emiliano Zapata…whose family was devastated after the Mexican revolution. Both progressive politics and literature were woven into his character from the beginning.
Paz was a Mexican diplomat, an ambassador to India…he supported the Republican fight against fascists in Spain while also being a schoolteacher in the Yucatan. He once said, “(it) is very important to have many professions, to have experience in life. To be diplomat, to be butcher, to be diver and to be a journalist. Because the journalist sees life as action and movement.” His poetry was his voice, his political sword..and ultimately his tool to study humanity and to ponder the potential of a better way of being.
Even his earlier politicly driven poems contained recipes for higher ways of thinking about our lives. In his book length poem called The Labyrinth of Solitude, which focuses mostly around “Mexican identity,”1 he writes:
“Solitude is the profoundest fact of the human condition. Man is the only being who knows he is alone, and the only one who seeks out another. His nature - if that word can be used in reference to man, who has ‘invented’ himself by saying ‘no’ to nature - consists in his longing to realize himself in another. Man is nostalgia and a search for communion. Therefore, when he is aware of himself he is aware of his lack of another, that is, of his solitude.”
As Paz developed as a poet, he focused his work more on contemplations about art and Eastern-themed meditations about higher consciousness. For me, these type of literary moments are what draw me to Paz, where his seasoned poetic voice rings the loudest for me. Poems like Between Going And Coming, Last Dawn, Your Eyes, and Spaces are so nourishing…they have the ability of slowing time with dark warm colors.
When Paz received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1990 it was “for impassioned writing with wide horizons, characterized by sensuous intelligence and humanistic integrity.” His poetry reads today with the freshness it had when it bled from his quill. His voice continues to uplift, to frame the human condition, to inspire and refresh.
Meet the Blues Hall of Fame's 2022 inductees, from Johnnie Taylor to Otis Blackwell
Some good inductees for this year’s Blues Hall of Fame including the great chitlin circuit master Johnnie Taylor, pianist/songwriter Otis Blackwell (haven’t heard of him? He wrote: Don't Be Cruel, Return to Sender, All Shook Up, Great Balls of Fire, Breathless….damn), 1920s “Dirty Blues” woman Lucille Bogan (more about her here), Little Willie John, and a bunch of classic recordings.
UPDATE: I had initially written that Otis Blackwell had written Fever (and I am not alone in this thought) HOWEVER, I received an e-mail from my friend Chris Owen who said: "Fever" was actually written by Eddie Cooley, who worked with Otis Blackwell over the course of many years. I think Otis Blackwell just helped finish it (according to wikipedia, but it does more resemble other Eddie Cooley songs than many other Otis Blackwell song so I think its fair to say that). THANK YOU CHRIS!
Eye-opening Van Gogh exhibit at Santa Barbara Museum of Art
Is it me, or is the fact that Van Gogh was born in the 1800s (169 years ago TODAY) seem just wrong. His paintings have such a modern feel and are still so very influential in our modern world. He was of a time unto his own. This new exhibit looks great…and the idea of hanging out with some of his paintings seems so much better than the current touring immersive experience that dominates his google search.
David Meltzer’s ‘Rock Tao’ offers an insider’s view of ’60s music subcultures
My friend Josh Rosenthal recently gifted me a copy of No Eyes, David Meltzer’s book-length poem about Lester Young. I have been reading it in pieces and it really is a special thing. Former KUSF Music Director (ok…that was in the early 80s, but I still think of her that way) Denise Sullivan discusses a newly published work of his from the 60s: “It’s a book as mysterious, ageless and full of contradiction as rock music itself.”
Donald Glover Hires Malia Obama as a Writer on His New Show
Malia’s first big break, and I bet she has some great stories to tell.
Straight shooter: the early work of Ansel Adams
“Ansel Adams: Pure Photography, works narrow in vision and small in scale offer another view of a photographer associated for much of his career with stately landscapes. Pure Photography takes its name from the manifesto of an influential group of modernist photographers called Group f/64. A Bay Area movement founded by Adams and filmmaker and photographer Willard Van Dyke…their aim was to move photography out of the pictorialist style.”
Ice volcanoes on Pluto may still be erupting, New Horizons suggests
“More heat under the dwarf planet's surface could even hint at the potential of life. Now, a new analysis examines images of an area containing two main mounds that scientists have proposed are ice volcanoes. In the study, the researchers conclude that the surface around these mounds was likely formed by fairly recent activity of the ice volcanoes, or cryovolcanoes.”
As One Listens To The Rain
By: Octavio Paz
Listen to me as one listens to the rain,
not attentive, not distracted,
light footsteps, thin drizzle,
water that is air, air that is time,
the day is still leaving,
the night has yet to arrive,
figurations of mist
at the turn of the corner,
figurations of time
at the bend in this pause,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
without listening, hear what I say
with eyes open inward, asleep
with all five senses awake,
it's raining, light footsteps, a murmur of syllables,
air and water, words with no weight:
what we are and are,
the days and years, this moment,
weightless time and heavy sorrow,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
wet asphalt is shining,
steam rises and walks away,
night unfolds and looks at me,
you are you and your body of steam,
you and your face of night,
you and your hair, unhurried lightning,
you cross the street and enter my forehead,
footsteps of water across my eyes,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the asphalt's shining, you cross the street,
it is the mist, wandering in the night,
it is the night, asleep in your bed,
it is the surge of waves in your breath,
your fingers of water dampen my forehead,
your fingers of flame burn my eyes,
your fingers of air open eyelids of time,
a spring of visions and resurrections,
listen to me as one listens to the rain,
the years go by, the moments return,
do you hear the footsteps in the next room?
not here, not there: you hear them
in another time that is now,
listen to the footsteps of time,
inventor of places with no weight, nowhere,
listen to the rain running over the terrace,
the night is now more night in the grove,
lightning has nestled among the leaves,
a restless garden adrift-go in,
your shadow covers this page.
An infinite
Resignedness
Rains where the white
Mists opalesce
In the moon-shower...
― Verlaine
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Labyrinth_of_Solitude