July 2, 2010. Friday.
Situation: Last night I had a rough time at work, a fight with a co-worker (Wade), and afterwards I fell asleep in front of the TV, slipping in and out of consciousness, and not going upstairs to bed until the Colbert Report was running a second time. So I was surprised when I woke up – I wasn’t sure when, because the clock in my room had stopped, but I can tell from the clock on my computer now that it must’ve been before 8 o’clock. Squeak turns up her nose at the canned cat food I give her, but then I see that the dish tower containing her dried cat food, which is her main food, is empty; fortunately, I bought more cat food yesterday, and I’m able to refill it. Outside, while I’m letting out the chickens and throwing feed on the ground for them, then wondering whether or not the pool filter needs back flushing (something Moi usually does), Mway starts to get impatient. When I pick up the stick from the porch, she starts leaping and gamboling around the yard, expecting me to throw it there (as I did yesterday afternoon before going to work), and she ends up knocking over the chickens’ water dish.
State of the Path: I vaguely look over at the day lilies – the flowers weren’t open, but – I can’t remember now – it seems that the spot they are in was awfully shady and the flowers were dried up (looking out my office window now, I see that the day lilies by the summer house still have not opened up this early in the morning). Without thinking too much about it, I head straight down the main path, my mind a blur amidst all the plants with their various leaves criss-crossing this way and that. I do notice the Canada thistles in the middle of the field, and reflect on how they’re doing their best to find a place to grow and blossom among so much goldenrod. Down at the seeps of bug land, it seems to me that the grasses are a bit bedraggled – but, I don’t know, this is just a vague impression I have now in thinking about it. Other than this, I more or less just charge down the path, looking at nothing and thinking of nothing except getting to the clearing as quickly as possible.
State of the Creek: I do take some time, however, to look fairly closely at the creek. When we arrive at the tree stand, Mway, instead of heading to the creek like she has so many times in the past, simply turns right onto the path, just like she did yesterday. I step forward to look at the creek, and I see why she didn’t go down to it – all the water below the tree stand is gone, the pool has dried up, a fact Mway must have discovered two days ago. I start checking on each pool of water. There is still a little water sitting in the creek bed at the log jam, but the next pool of water, below the black walnut tree, is also dry. So that’s two fewer pools of water than a couple days ago. Below the big trees, where the creek bends, the double pool of water still has water in it. I then go over to the crest of the skating pond; the pool of water below the swale from bug land is still there, but its lower half has completely dried. While I’m there at the skating pond, I brace myself to step through the goldenrod to check on the cattails – that’s surely what they are, with their “brownish cylinder of female flowers” (as described by Audubon) sticking up. I wonder if there’s any water in the pond. I doubt it very much, but I don’t bother to step into it to check.
The Fetch: Up at the clearing, I see that the spot where I’ve been standing to toss the stick is very well trampled down, showing nothing but brown grass and a few remaining stems of smashed- down goldenrod, so I take my stance at another spot. My muscles are not sore today, probably because I took a break from swimming yesterday, but I still don’t feel much like throwing the stick, and Mway has me throwing it many more times than I care to. Between throws, I try to take in the vista from the clearing: I look down at the cattails in the skating pond, which look very striking from here, and I look around at the red berries that appear very bright these days on the sumacs. But before I can look very long at something, Mway arrives back with the stick, ready for the next toss. After many tosses, she starts playing “Put it down,” and she does this a lot, showing no signs of quitting. Finally I have to simply turn around and start heading back to the house.
4 comments:
No, I don’t think I have any criticism on Joyce – but I don’t think all the professors working for hundreds of years on deciphering what Joyce is saying will help explain your obsession. The only thing I do have is an annotation of Ulysses by Don Gifford and Robert J. Seidman, as well as a guide to Finnegans Wake.
The other influence upon this journal is jazz music – although, again, it may not look like it. You know I’m a musician. But perhaps you didn’t know this: when I mention going to work at night in this journal what I’m doing is going out on what musicians call a gig. That’s a lot of time spent improvising, and perhaps because I do this so often I cannot help but view our walks as a “playing through the changes,” as we jazz musicians describe it. I mention this a little in my introduction. The analogy is this, and it is not casual, for it is one of the inspirations for the journal in the first place. The pattern of the land, the path down to the creek, is the melody and chord structure of a tune. Each walk is a repetition through that structure, but no walk is quite the same because of the different things I may observe: every day presents another solo. But, in keeping with what I said before, in Beckettian fashion, the tune is not very interesting, the solos are going on for too long, the musician is mediocre and he is floundering through the changes, executing the notes poorly, playing a lot of cliches including here and there a lick stolen from Monk or Miles), people are asking “why is this musician playing at all?” But over time, it is my hope, perhaps they may not just ask this question in derision and will also ask “Why is there not, after all, just silence?”
Perhaps you could at least leave out the pieces of Ulysses for me to consult. No, I didn’t know you worked as a musician, though I knew Moi did, because I sometimes see her leave the house with her violin. I do understand, and appreciate, your working though, because I’ve read enough to understand that this is how you get money to go to the grocery store to get, not only your own food, but also mine, which I then work for, partly by keeping a watch on things, but mainly by fetching the stick. I don’t understand, however, all this talk about nothing and silence. I’ve never seen “nothing,” and it seems to me, even when it’s quiet, there’s some sort of sound somewhere – in the middle of the night if not the chirp of crickets, the whisper of the wind, the whoosh of a highway, then Moi’s gentle breathing -- begging to be listened to. M
While re-reading this blog entry today, I’m struck by how much it exemplifies what Sartre says in Being and Nothingness about the origin of negation, basically, that nothingness is an objective fact that arises from us seeing that something is not or no longer there – it is the condition of limitation. Eventually he goes on, after analyzing the structure of consciousness and temporality, to state that we, that is, our consciousnesses, are nothingness in the midst of the plenum of being – he says something like that we go around “squirting” nothingness about. (And, of course, because of this, we are free). In other words, the Nothingness in the title refers to us. I think somebody could extrapolate from Sartre and make a case that “consciousness” applies to all the various parts of the universe – from quarks, to molecules, to gases, to rocks, flora and fauna – only human beings make the most ado about it. This sounds to me like something David Chalmers would want to do (see August 1 post), and he’d get the idea for it and some useful tips to guide him along if he’d just take the time to read this blog, which mentions him by name. I would do it myself, but obviously I have other work that takes up all my time. All I can say right now is that, if she thought about it, M. has indeed seen “nothing” – what was it but nothingness (the human beings that weren’t there, the work that couldn’t be done) that spurred her to learn to read?
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