Archive for the 'Time' Category

10
Aug
09

August Walk 7:12 PM

There is a certain time of day when one is glad to entertain beautiful thoughts.

“This sunset is here.”

“Orange is something that happens in the sky when you look at it and it glows.”

Or life gains a meaning:

“There is a river I was born into, and I swim in it still, though I know not its name nor where the ocean it opens to lies. I wait for it, still, swimming, on and on and maybe smiling, a tear or a grin, but smiling still.”

You walk, yes you, you walk and the eyes of the sun hurl at you from the depths of the scape, from the roof of the world, or this one. Also I must marvel at the fact that the orange glare of the sun at 7:12 PM is something received from universes away, though eyesight is made possible by mandates from our brain.

August Walk thoughts are like that for me: how are they for you, though?

I would like to know about your August Walk, is it at 7:12 PM?

It doesn’t matter, because beautiful thoughts can be late too, sometimes.
Sometimes they’re very early like dew. Or late like owls.

But thoughts don’t have to be beautiful, they can be just thoughts, and that’s good too. Like this:

“Why, my oh my, dah-boom.”
It still has a rhythm. Look:

Say it and knock on wood.

You can have them at 9:17 PM, too, like me.

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19
Jul
09

To Whom It May Be Of Interest (The Calamus, BIC, and Aletheia)

“Cálamo, deja aquí correr tu negra fuente…”
– Rubén Darío, “En una primera página” 

Translated, or as I would have it so, the above verse by Nicaraguan Rubén Darío reads: “Pen, let your black fountain here flow…” Yet this translation quite kills the poetry of Rubén Darío, for he talks of the cálamo, that now-obsolete instrument which scribes used centuries ago, that little bird feather that one dipped into a bottle of ink. If we think of a cálamo through which a streak of black ink flows like a fountain or a river of thought and imagination, we are indeed seized by a more ferocious and majestic image than that of a mere BIC pen writing on a 8 by 10 office paper.

Oh, Calamus! We can only dream of you now, remembering you as an artifact of a lost time, a time that we were not borne into, and therefore, a time we will never experience. That is, we, mere twenty-first-centuryans, will never be able to see you, dearest calamus, the same way that scribe oh-so-long ago saw you… we will see you through the eyes of  a tourist, taking a vacation from his world of blogs, twitter and e-mails — in other words, this our twenty-first century, to another world, no less fictional than that of a novel —  but no less strong and alive than that of a novel, either! We will give you a significance that the scribe could never have given you, because for him you were merely a tool — but for us, you open up a world, you bring about the unconcealment, the aletheia, as a dear philosopher-friend would say, of a world that created you, forged you with its laboring, paining hands. You bring out the truth of that world, dear calamus put into verse, and for that, you are quite worthy.

And it seems now, with blogs such as this one, with the tweets that float on the airscape of data, with e-mails and e-vites and e-love, in other words: with all the fury of words, ideas, stories, emotions, news, and pornography that floats through the airscapes of the world wide web, that pretty soon even handwriting will become an artifact. And so, I sing to the pen and the paper, to the letter that takes three days to deliver! Time happens to us all, and happen it shall. But let us hope that it does not happen too bad.

With this blog, I’ll try to do some good by trying to write things that strive to be beautiful, or remember the beautiful things that others before me wrote.

Well.

I don’t know if I’ll do that. But maybe I can contribute. Or:

Here I present you a piece of my soul, 
do with it what you wish. 

Or…

“Bendición al que entiende, bendición al que admira
De ensueño, plata o nieve, esta es la blanca puerta.
Entrad los que pensáis o soñáis. Ya está abierta.”
-Rubén Darío, “En una primera página” 

(Be he blessed who understands, be he blessed who admires,
Of dreams, silver or snow, this is the white door.
Enter, you who think or dream. It is already open.)

© 2009 – Rolando A. López.




Hello:

Welcome to my blog. Feel free to read, feel free to comment, and feel free, period.

Someone once said…

"Every questioning is a seeking. Every seeking takes its direction beforehand from what is sought." -Martin Heidegger
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