not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Saturday, March 22, 2014

beating the lard pail, where image marries self


on a side road between providence bay and tehkumah, march 22, 2014

"One sits and beats an old tin can, lard pail.
One beats and beats for that which one believes.
That's what one wants to get near."

(from Wallace Stevens's "Man On The Dump")


i never grow tired of crows.  if i should grow tired of them then i would be tired of love and this world.  while we dally and blatter in the world of images, the crow so is.

16 comments:

  1. Funny that you so love crows; and I wish they would depart and let the little birds have a chance at nesting.

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    1. maybe it's because i live in a place which is large enough for everyone and every species. there's great opportunity for balance here ... as long as we don't interfere.

      xo
      erin

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  2. I love crows in spite of all the negative old wives tales I was told as a child. They're also one of my favorite birds. Superfabulous photos, Erin. xo

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    1. i can't help but marvel at all of them, marion.

      xo
      erin

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  3. I watch the crows head out over the city every morning as we drive to work. I love them as well. I've noticed they're in pairs more often now.

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    1. deb, this particular day they were in pairs too. it was astounding! and when there were more than two, there were four. it seemed they were double dating. is it mating season? it must be. their pairing was uncanny.

      xo
      erin

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  4. they're not a common sight here, but I love the vociferous croaking... chatty old men

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    1. they are often old men, tom. or sometimes they seem like hoods, tough guys hanging out, all pockets full of intimidation. they often make me laugh.

      the croaking, yes, but sometimes the strangest sounds!

      xo
      erin

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  5. “I ain't never seen a creature like that before, she says. He's so smart, he's-
    More, like a person than a bird? I says.
    Yeah, she says. That's it.
    Whatever you do, I says, don't tell him that. I'll never hear the end of it.”
    Blood Red Road ― Moira Young,

    My favorite bird. I have at least five books about them. Glad they are coming back from being nearly wiped out by West Nile Virus.

    I like stopping by from time to time to see what you have to share about your journey of discovery through your photography and words and I enjoy both.

    D.L. Wood

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    1. D.L., i look up Blood Red Road and find this, "In the first 30 pages, the world ends. Doom rolls in on bloody dust clouds. There’s a kidnapping, a double murder and an oath over a funeral pyre." no wonder the crows!!!

      they're special birds, aren't they? as much as they might be considered death birds, they are equally (because of this perhaps) birds of life. their power sharpens.

      thanks for coming by:)

      xo
      erin

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  6. i want to share with you another marvelous Wu Hsin paragraph (they all are). because it speaks of openness and being...

    (the photographs make me silent, wing beat, heart beat)

    Openness has no location in particular.
    It contains everything.
    It contains thoughts and
    The absence of thoughts.
    It contains feelings and no feelings,
    Sights and no sights,
    Sounds and silence.
    Within openness,
    Everything is invited and
    Everything is accepted.
    There is no way
    To be open because
    There is no difference between
    Being open and
    Being.

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  7. and this, of course, comes to mind, and you know it, i think :-)

    All other creatures look into the Open
    with their whole eyes. Our eyes, instead, go round the other way,
    setting snares and traps on every path to freedom.
    What is outside, we read solely from the animal’s gaze,
    for we compel even the young child to turn and look back at preconceived things,
    never to know the acceptance so deeply set inside
    the animal’s face. Free from death.
    It is all we see. The free animal
    always has its decline behind, its god ahead,
    and when it moves, it moves within eternity the way fountains flow.
    We’ve never had that sort of pure space before us,
    into which flowers endlessly open—no, not for a single day—
    there’s always the interpreted world, and even our
    abstract realms reflect a repeated yes or no:
    never that pure unmonitored element one breathes,
    naturally knows, and never craves. As a child
    one may be absorbed by silence only to be shaken
    out of it again. Or one dies and is it.
    Too close to death, one may see it no longer,
    to stare ahead instead, maybe with the wide eyes of animals.
    Lovers approach it, and would be amazed,
    were not a partner always in the way …
    It opens up behind the other almost by mistake …
    but no one gets beyond the other, and the world comes back again.
    Continuously confronted by creation, we see there
    only a dimmed reflection of the free and open.
    Or some dumb animal, with its calm eyes,
    is seeing through and through us.
    That’s our Fate, to be possessed by the opposite,
    to see an inversion and nothing more.

    (Rilke, from the 8th elegy)

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    1. how perfectly these two quotes speak to one another:)

      rilke adjusts for me the last lines of wu hsin that i want to believe but can not fully receive,

      "There is no way
      To be open because
      There is no difference between
      Being open and
      Being."

      perhaps potentially we might be as open as wu hsin suggests, but from our place of fear and with ego stimulation we turn our attentions elsewhere (torqued) and get lost, becoming closed.

      but still, the interpreted world, for all of our clumsy handling, speaking, seeing and at times being mostly blind, what possibility! i feel if we practice attention we will (at least) have moments of getting near. - what do you think?

      xo
      erin

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  8. oh yes Wu Hsin speaks here of what seems for us to be an impossible ideal, unattainable, yet he maintains that this is our true being, if only we could realize it. but i also think as you do, this is (must be) an open process of continually "getting there", and then those moments of "getting near" are the ones which truly make everything matter. (as in the Jaccottet-quote on James's blog)

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"Words at the limit of hearing, attributable to no one, received in the conch of the ear like dew by a leaf." (philippe jaccottet) or even a quiet presence is appreciated))