A small treatise on original sin

9:37 AM Posted by James Owens



Meet the new boss
Same as the old boss
--The Who, “Won’t Get Fooled Again”

I would love to see a presidential inauguration preformed with The Who’s anthem to political realism blasting in the background – because, of course, we get fooled every stinking time. It would be right up there with that reference on The Simpsons to “an early draft of the Constitution that included the word ‘suckers’.”

Yeah, I know, it’s not fair to say that Barack Obama will be the same as George Bush, when he hasn’t even been tested yet and the differences seem so obvious, and when his first few days have seemed to augur good things to come. The election of the first African-American to the presidency is an index of tremendous social change blah blah blah

(A friend says I’d better take out that last sentence, but I’m leaving it in. There was “tremendous social change” in the ‘60s --- but Obama’s election, as African-American, is cosmetic, a weak echo of the Civil Rights Movement, no real shift in attitudes that will affect the lives of ordinary people in minority communities. Think of self-congratulating, middle class liberals, plotting their daily commute from jobs in the high-rises back to their beds in the suburbs and making sure they don’t drive through the slums….)

On the other hand, while I do assume that all politicians are de facto lying, thieving pimp-weasels, I can’t help approaching the prospect of Obama’s presidency with guarded and provisional optimism. I voted for him (but I would have voted for Donald Duck instead of the opposition). I really believe his intentions are good. A welcome relief from the openly malefic trolls of the Bush administration, Obama would like to straighten things that are crooked, not take advantage of the wrong for personal and political gain.

Conditions really can change – I know that, and maybe they will change – at least locally and until the political pendulum swings back in the other direction. That is the problem, in America, at least – the pendulum swings, and no one’s good intentions (or bad intentions, even) slow it down much or alter its course for very long. Nevertheless, Obama may do some good, and those who are helped by his efforts will be grateful.

He may do some good, and it is certainly better to do some good than none – but how deeply will that good penetrate into the underlying structure of American society? Not very deeply. There is no revolution on the horizon -- and, besides, revolutionaries always transform themselves into caricatures of the power-figures they started out hating. It is inevitable, because of the force they must exert....

I am attracted to the analysis of Late Capitalism (especially the US kind) that sees the “liberal” and the “conservative” as successive states of being that covertly support, even require, each other. Bush and Obama may seem to be in antithetical opposition, but they are really two poles that generate the alternating current that runs the big iron machine grinding human potential into raw commodity for the pleasure of a small wealthy class. The machine roars on, irrespective of anybody’s intent, and soon enough the regulating pendulum will swing in the other direction.

I sound like a disappointed, sour old Communist. Maybe that’s because I’m a disappointed, sour old Communist. Not in the sense of the apparatchik, never that – something closer to José Miranda’s Marx and the Bible. (I guess that book is looking worn these days, but it has been important to me.) The Communism of the Sermon on the Mount.

Obama is a smart guy, and seems to have some potential as an intellectual-statesman on the Western European model. Maybe he would even see what I’m getting at here, and, judging from his books and speeches, agree to some extent. We’ll see. I would be absolutely delighted to be wrong about every word in this post.

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4:27 PM Posted by James Owens

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for A-

There are things one can never have,
no matter how much you want them.
This is that world,
not some other.
I look up into the swirling snow and think,
as only you know I do, of Lucretius.
The atoms fall forever, from nothing into nothing,
sometimes coming together.
This is what there is…
I feel you behind me,
and I speak your name into the snow,
and I am still now, careful not to move,
not to turn,
unwilling to see, again, that you are not here.

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Unmarked joy

4:17 PM Posted by James Owens

Two translations from Rilke's French at Language and Culture

(Scroll down)

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10:12 AM Posted by James Owens

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L’Ensemble Silent

À quoi donc mesure-t-on
ce qui passe et, tour à tour,
semble trop long ou trop court
à l’imprévisible saison
de nos cœurs peu utilisables?
N’importe que vous dormez
ou que vous vous mettez à table,
on finit par se conformer
à l’inénarrable.
Quel silence autour de nos vies,
malgré tel mot qui voudrait
vivre. On pleure, on crie,
mais l’ensemble se tait.


Rilke, La Migration des Forces

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The Silent Whole

What measure holds firm
against what is and goes
and passes too fast or too slow
for the unforeseeable term
our hearts are still just usable?
Even if you are asleep
or sitting at the table,
in the end you take the shape
of the untellable.
What silence around our lives,
despite some word that seeks
to live. We shout, we cry.
Das Alles never speaks.


(my translation)


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The Silent Whole

Against what, then, do we measure
whatever happens and, in turn,
seems too long or too short
for the unpredictable season
of our barely useable hearts?
Whether we are sleeping
or just sitting at the table,
we end up by comforming
to the unutterable.
Such silence around our lives,
despite this word that wants
to live. We cry, we shout,
but the whole says nothing.


Translated by A. Poulin

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11:43 AM Posted by James Owens

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Memory of War

When lightning wallowed in the orchard’s lap—
that quick, raw violence from the clouds almost
offhand, it seemed to us whom the hard crack
knocked out of sleep, guessing—we went and touched
the ruined tree as if it asked for touch
or fed a human hunger for broken things:

a bright smell of stripped apple wood whetted
the dawn air, as last ends of storm lit up
the shattered limbs and naked spines of trunk,
pure white against the winter leaves’ worn black,
a sharp smooth architecture of weapons, aimed,
right then, where we stood, sky-threatened and new.

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10:57 AM Posted by James Owens

Just back last night from a week away. Here are the names of some towns in Eastern Kentucky, a place I love:

Clayhole
Zippo
Flat
Bonny Man
Hazard
Typo
Defeated Creek

There are also a lot of churches in that part of the world, and many of them are named after women who were important to their founders, women who are affectionately referred to as "little" -- for example, the Little Sarah Church, the Church of Little Rachel, etc. Just outside Skeetrock, Virginia, one finds the Church of Little Hope.

I've nothing else to say about that.

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psycho-narrative dislocation

8:40 PM Posted by James Owens

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I have a story (ha!), "Hard Little Shadows in the Early Morning Sunlight," at Farrago's Wainscot
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