...Getting up, he hurried into his study, returned at once with two cigarette lighters which he set down on the coffee table. "Look at these. Look the same, don't they? Well, listen. One has historicity in it." He grinned at her. "Pick them up. Go ahead. One's worth oh, maybe forty or fifty thousand dollars on the collectors' market."
The girl gingerly picked up the two lighters and examined them.
"Don't you feel it?" he kidded her, "The historicity?"
She said, "What is 'historicity'?"
"When a thing has history in it. Listen. One of these two Zippo lighters was in Franklin D. Roosevelt's pocket when he was assassinated. And one wasn't. One has historicity, a hell of a lot of it. As much as any object ever had. And one has nothing, Can you feel it?" He nudged her. "You can't. You can't tell which is which. There's no 'mystical plasmic presences,' no 'aura' around it."
"Gee," the girl said, awed. "Is that really true? That he had one of those on him that day?"
"Sure. And I know which it is. You see my point. It's all a big racket; they're playing it on themselves. I mean a gun goes through a famous battle, like the Meuse-Argonne, and it's the same as if it hadn't, unless you know. It's in here." He tapped his head. "In the mind, not the gun. I used to be a collector. In fact, that's how I got into this business. I collected stamps. Early British colonies."
The girl now stood at the window, her arms folded, gazing out at the lights of downtown San Francisco. "My mother and dad used to say we wouldn't have lost the war if he had lived," she said.
"Okay," Wyndam-Matson went on. "Now suppose say last year the Canadian Government or somebody, anybody, finds the plates from which some old stamp was printed. And the ink. And a supply of --"
"I don't believe either of those two lighters belonged to Franklin Roosevelt," the girl said.
Wyndam-Matson giggled. "That's my point! I'd have to prove it to you with some sort of document. A paper of authenticity. And so it's all a fake, a mass delusion. The paper proves its worth, not the object itself!"
-The Man in the High Castle Chapter 5 By Philip K. Dick
Last Saturday I got one of the best birthday presents ever and definitely the best non birthday birthday present ever. Tem took me to see Wendell Berry speak in Kentucky.
I have to be honest I wasn't has excited to see him as I was the idea that she thought of and wanted to take me to see him speak. That was amazing.
When we arrived in this small town we were early. We grabbed some lunch at a bar downtown and walked over to the Berry Center to hear him. The place was small and packed the room was hot with still air. We listened to four or so other poets before he went on. One of them retold a story about taking his friend to a cemetery to grieve and when they arrived there were two unmarked graves the person didn't know which to grieve in front of. This reminded me of the quote above. How strange we as humans put meaning on things that would otherwise be meaningless without the information in our heads. It's just a headstone until someone tells you who lies beneath.
Wendell spoke last and his entrance was everything I wanted it to be. He was simply sitting in the front row of the crowd all along. He stood up and read some of his work.
I can't seem to find the title of the first piece it was about fields and woods and the importance of leaving the woods beside the man made fields. I loved it and I can't seem to find it.
The second was The Sycamore
In the place that is my own place, whose earth
I am shaped in and must bear, there is an old tree growing,
a great sycamore that is a wondrous healer of itself.
Fences have been tied to it, nails driven into it,
hacks and whittles cut in it, the lightning has burned it.
There is no year it has flourished in
that has not harmed it. There is a hollow in it
that is its death, though its living brims whitely
at the lip of the darkness and flows outward.
Over all its scars has come the seamless white
of the bark. It bears the gnarls of its history
healed over. It has risen to a strange perfection
in the warp and bending of its long growth.
It has gathered all accidents into its purpose.
It has become the intention and radiance of its dark fate.
It is a fact, sublime, mystical and unassailable.
In all the country there is no other like it.
I recognize in it a principle, an indwelling
the same as itself, and greater, that I would be ruled by.
I see that it stands in its place and feeds upon it,
and is fed upon, and is native, and maker.
-Wendell Berry
I literally heard this man read this poem. That's something no one can take from me and it's something beautifully given to me by Tem.
We walked around the center, we saw this man's life's work. We saw his awards, shelf after shelf of his books a photograph of President Obama, Michelle, and Wendell.
What an amazing life and yet how unbelievably lackluster.
I loved it. I love how this poet chooses to stay in his town in Kentucky. I love how he sits front row not back stage. I love how he allows old friends to interrupt his reading even though he's the whole reason for the occasion.
Afterwards we visited Alan and the night had me laughing uncontrollably it would have been the capstone for the weekend if it wasn't only Saturday. Sunday we went to see Waitress together and that was generous of her to invite me, not because of the price of the ticket (although that was very generous) but to allow me to share in something meaningful to her. For her to open that part of herself up to me I know how much that show means to her on many levels. For her to invite me into that was very generous it was the perfect ending to a perfect non birthday gift weekend.
Yesterday Tem told me she feels lucky to have me in her life. Her eyes fixed on mine her sweatshirt sweatpants comfortable beautiful self close to me, those words coming from someone I desire to hear them from felt better than anything physical.
That moment.
I like her a lot.
I wanted that moment all day, all week.
Cats, comforters, calm music, cuddling.
The perfect way to spend a gray Columbus Saturday.
I drove her to the airport, I was less than pleased to take her to be taken away. The drive was irritably brief. I handed her luggage to her and the farewell didn't seem fair and I certainly wasn't well.
Friday I tell myself, She'll come back (I trust) Friday.
I can not wait to see her again.
Natalia Lafourcade - Tú sí sabes quererme
The girl gingerly picked up the two lighters and examined them.
"Don't you feel it?" he kidded her, "The historicity?"
She said, "What is 'historicity'?"
"When a thing has history in it. Listen. One of these two Zippo lighters was in Franklin D. Roosevelt's pocket when he was assassinated. And one wasn't. One has historicity, a hell of a lot of it. As much as any object ever had. And one has nothing, Can you feel it?" He nudged her. "You can't. You can't tell which is which. There's no 'mystical plasmic presences,' no 'aura' around it."
"Gee," the girl said, awed. "Is that really true? That he had one of those on him that day?"
"Sure. And I know which it is. You see my point. It's all a big racket; they're playing it on themselves. I mean a gun goes through a famous battle, like the Meuse-Argonne, and it's the same as if it hadn't, unless you know. It's in here." He tapped his head. "In the mind, not the gun. I used to be a collector. In fact, that's how I got into this business. I collected stamps. Early British colonies."
The girl now stood at the window, her arms folded, gazing out at the lights of downtown San Francisco. "My mother and dad used to say we wouldn't have lost the war if he had lived," she said.
"Okay," Wyndam-Matson went on. "Now suppose say last year the Canadian Government or somebody, anybody, finds the plates from which some old stamp was printed. And the ink. And a supply of --"
"I don't believe either of those two lighters belonged to Franklin Roosevelt," the girl said.
Wyndam-Matson giggled. "That's my point! I'd have to prove it to you with some sort of document. A paper of authenticity. And so it's all a fake, a mass delusion. The paper proves its worth, not the object itself!"
-The Man in the High Castle Chapter 5 By Philip K. Dick
Last Saturday I got one of the best birthday presents ever and definitely the best non birthday birthday present ever. Tem took me to see Wendell Berry speak in Kentucky.
I have to be honest I wasn't has excited to see him as I was the idea that she thought of and wanted to take me to see him speak. That was amazing.
When we arrived in this small town we were early. We grabbed some lunch at a bar downtown and walked over to the Berry Center to hear him. The place was small and packed the room was hot with still air. We listened to four or so other poets before he went on. One of them retold a story about taking his friend to a cemetery to grieve and when they arrived there were two unmarked graves the person didn't know which to grieve in front of. This reminded me of the quote above. How strange we as humans put meaning on things that would otherwise be meaningless without the information in our heads. It's just a headstone until someone tells you who lies beneath.
Wendell spoke last and his entrance was everything I wanted it to be. He was simply sitting in the front row of the crowd all along. He stood up and read some of his work.
I can't seem to find the title of the first piece it was about fields and woods and the importance of leaving the woods beside the man made fields. I loved it and I can't seem to find it.
The second was The Sycamore
In the place that is my own place, whose earth
I am shaped in and must bear, there is an old tree growing,
a great sycamore that is a wondrous healer of itself.
Fences have been tied to it, nails driven into it,
hacks and whittles cut in it, the lightning has burned it.
There is no year it has flourished in
that has not harmed it. There is a hollow in it
that is its death, though its living brims whitely
at the lip of the darkness and flows outward.
Over all its scars has come the seamless white
of the bark. It bears the gnarls of its history
healed over. It has risen to a strange perfection
in the warp and bending of its long growth.
It has gathered all accidents into its purpose.
It has become the intention and radiance of its dark fate.
It is a fact, sublime, mystical and unassailable.
In all the country there is no other like it.
I recognize in it a principle, an indwelling
the same as itself, and greater, that I would be ruled by.
I see that it stands in its place and feeds upon it,
and is fed upon, and is native, and maker.
-Wendell Berry
I literally heard this man read this poem. That's something no one can take from me and it's something beautifully given to me by Tem.
We walked around the center, we saw this man's life's work. We saw his awards, shelf after shelf of his books a photograph of President Obama, Michelle, and Wendell.
What an amazing life and yet how unbelievably lackluster.
I loved it. I love how this poet chooses to stay in his town in Kentucky. I love how he sits front row not back stage. I love how he allows old friends to interrupt his reading even though he's the whole reason for the occasion.
Afterwards we visited Alan and the night had me laughing uncontrollably it would have been the capstone for the weekend if it wasn't only Saturday. Sunday we went to see Waitress together and that was generous of her to invite me, not because of the price of the ticket (although that was very generous) but to allow me to share in something meaningful to her. For her to open that part of herself up to me I know how much that show means to her on many levels. For her to invite me into that was very generous it was the perfect ending to a perfect non birthday gift weekend.
Yesterday Tem told me she feels lucky to have me in her life. Her eyes fixed on mine her sweatshirt sweatpants comfortable beautiful self close to me, those words coming from someone I desire to hear them from felt better than anything physical.
That moment.
I like her a lot.
I wanted that moment all day, all week.
Cats, comforters, calm music, cuddling.
The perfect way to spend a gray Columbus Saturday.
I drove her to the airport, I was less than pleased to take her to be taken away. The drive was irritably brief. I handed her luggage to her and the farewell didn't seem fair and I certainly wasn't well.
Friday I tell myself, She'll come back (I trust) Friday.
I can not wait to see her again.
Natalia Lafourcade - Tú sí sabes quererme