Charles Reznikoff has an Idea
He persisted in learning how to fall:
work his way up the inclined ladder, higher and higher,
and then drop to the ground.
The small, somewhat clumsy body would fall upon the hard-packed sand,
pick itself up,
and Saul – his body jerking –
would work his way up the ladder again.
The trick, he explained, was to land lightly
and not sting the soles of one’s feet.
Why? the narrator asks. “I want to!”
So much of what we do is for the simple of pleasure of doing it. But later when asked we give reasons, when there are none; we say we’re in training, that we’re toughening up, or we concoct some fantasy we crib from Cervantes. Why? Are we frightened of pleasure – is Judaeo-Christian morality still planted deep into our soil? This is possible, as we may never completely uproot the past….
Let’s have another go: is it that our minds must always have their say? Like bullies left out of playground games. What, the mind is a tyrant, a kind of Joe Stalin? Umm, not quite. It’s possible, yes, it is possible. But no, it’s because the mind never stops, and like a river of the weir, it splashes over all our experiences; it just can’t help it, and through its course creates them anew.
Here’s some more lines from the same poem:
Once, when I was in his home, I stood at the window
looking into the yard:
it was full of wagons, the shafts high in the air;
along the back fence cats were walking
gracefully,
and now and then one jumped to the ground
landing lightly on its feet.
So first we get the excitement (that kick!) of an answer that is just right; then the excitement (that kick! again) of an explanation. Though it’s up to us, the reader, to decide if its merely a coincidence.
work his way up the inclined ladder, higher and higher,
and then drop to the ground.
The small, somewhat clumsy body would fall upon the hard-packed sand,
pick itself up,
and Saul – his body jerking –
would work his way up the ladder again.
The trick, he explained, was to land lightly
and not sting the soles of one’s feet.
By the Well of Living and Seeing
Why? the narrator asks. “I want to!”
So much of what we do is for the simple of pleasure of doing it. But later when asked we give reasons, when there are none; we say we’re in training, that we’re toughening up, or we concoct some fantasy we crib from Cervantes. Why? Are we frightened of pleasure – is Judaeo-Christian morality still planted deep into our soil? This is possible, as we may never completely uproot the past….
Let’s have another go: is it that our minds must always have their say? Like bullies left out of playground games. What, the mind is a tyrant, a kind of Joe Stalin? Umm, not quite. It’s possible, yes, it is possible. But no, it’s because the mind never stops, and like a river of the weir, it splashes over all our experiences; it just can’t help it, and through its course creates them anew.
Here’s some more lines from the same poem:
Once, when I was in his home, I stood at the window
looking into the yard:
it was full of wagons, the shafts high in the air;
along the back fence cats were walking
gracefully,
and now and then one jumped to the ground
landing lightly on its feet.
So first we get the excitement (that kick!) of an answer that is just right; then the excitement (that kick! again) of an explanation. Though it’s up to us, the reader, to decide if its merely a coincidence.
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