A Rimbaud Kind of Day
12.1.2012
Rimbaud by Ariane Pasco/Nice Art
Sunday was a Rimbaud kind of day.
In the morning I posted an aerial image on Facebook of l’Île de la Cité and the Seine in Paris that my friend Anne Hines Reese had posted earlier. This worldwide Facebook interconnectivity is such an astonishing thing. You can participate in a salon that reaches beyond your city, beyond your country, beyond your continent, and discuss whatever subjects fascinate you, with like-minded people.
So I shared this beautiful aerial photo of Paris that morning, and was struck by how much the island looks like a boat from this angle, which made me think of Rimbaud’s poem, “Le Bateau Ivre.” We have a book of his poems in our apartment, but I didn’t have the book at hand in my studio, so went online, looked up the poem, found an English translation, and posted just one stanza below the photo.
"What a Surprise," street art by Kashink
I think a lot about time, especially the spirit of time. Sunday: the Sun’s day: Apollo’s day: a good day for entertainment and enjoyment, a good day to take a break from work.
Richard and I set out for a long walk from our fifth arrondissement through the fourth through the eleventh to the twentieth. It was a sunny day, bright blue sky, and all along the rue de Charonne we passed newly pasted-up work by one of our favorite street artists, Kashink. Each of her double-eyed colorful heads had either a number or an image on the brow. Richard photographed each one and I wondered aloud if the numbers corresponded to street addresses. We checked, but no. A mystery. We’d have to ask Kashink.
At the corner of rue de Charonne and Boulevard de Charonne, I had a drunken boat conversation with a local clochard wearing a plush cheetah as a stole (C'ést votre petite amie? Oui! Et elle est féroce. Oui! he roared), while Richard shot his portrait, then paid him €2 for the privilege.
Richard took me to a wonderful old brick factory building on Villa Riberolle, an alley that dead ends at Père-Lachaise cemetery, where artists had either squatted or leased space. We’d considered renting one for a studio that doubled for photography and writing, but I needed something closer to home, or I’d never have used it.
In the Name of Love #4, by Roswitha Guillemin
We walked on to a squat on rue Stendahl to catch the closing day of Walls and Rights (Richard had photographed opening night), an exhibition filled with the work of street artists in support of gender and sexual equality, and AIDS research. We talked with three members of the seven-member art collective, No Rules Corp. And to two artists, Roswitha and Christine, who were long-time friends who have been sending each other postal art for 20 years or so.
Ariane Pasco of Nice Art
Then an artist named Ariane (my favorite mythical figure) walked up to me and handed me a collage with a portrait of Rimbaud on it. A gift! Astonishing! It was black, white and gray with rosy red marks and torn on the edges and I instantly loved it. And at the same time was struck with wonder: I’ve never posted a poem or even a line by Rimbaud on Facebook before. How very odd that the only day I happened to do this, Ariane should give me her collage with the poet’s face on it. I exclaimed over this to her, and to Roswitha and Christine.
Roswitha told me that one day she went to a Serge Gainsbourg event in Paris, and that same day, an envelope with an image of Serge Gainsbourg arrived at her house from her friend Christine. They’d never discussed the French actor/singer. It was just…
What do you call this? The word synchronicity doesn’t seem to capture its magic. I’m looking for a new word to describe this phenomenon, the “aha!” moment that happens when it shows itself so clearly and deliciously.
I asked the organizer of the show if she had some cardboard that I could place around the collage to protect it on our long walk home. Yes, she said, and brought me a roll of cardboard, which I wrapped in a clean trash bag.
But first we stopped at a restaurant at Place Gambetta. As we sat eating a Caesar salad and onion soup, I looked up at the side of the entrance. There, in big letters: Absinthe Traditionnelle Rimbaud.
Okay, let’s just call it magic.
Later at home, in a phone call with my brother, Jon, I told him the story and he described a similar experience of what he calls “the connectivity of the universe,” with his green building company and community. Then he proceeded to answer a question that Richard and I have in a way you might call lightning (an idea so brilliant I can’t talk about it until we make it happen)—lightning, yes! And magic.
I think I’m going to name days from now on.
Sunday was Rimbaud Day.
The Drunken Boat
by Arthur Rimbaud,
translated by Rebecca Seiferle, editor, The Drunken Boat
As I descended impassible Rivers,
I felt no longer steered by bargemen;
they were captured by howling Redskins,
nailed as targets, naked, to painted stakes.
What did I care for cargo or crews,
bearers of English cotton or Flemish grain—
having left behind bargemen and racket,
the Rivers let me descend where I wished.
In the furious splashing of the waves,
I — that other winter, deafer than the minds
of children — ran! And the unanchored Peninsulas
never knew a more triumphant brouhaha.
The tempest blessed my sea awakening.
Lighter than cork, I danced the waves
scrolling out the eternal roll of the dead—
ten nights, without longing for the lantern's silly eye.
Sweeter than the flesh of tart apples to children,
the green water penetrated my pine hull
and purged me of vomit and the stain of blue wines—
my rudder and grappling hooks drifting away.
Since then, I have bathed in the Poem
of the Sea, a milky way, infused with stars,
devouring the azure greens where, flotsam-pale
and ravished, drowned and pensive men float by.
Where, suddenly staining the blues, delirious
and slow rhythms under the glowing red of day,
stronger than alcohol, vaster than our lyrics,
ferment the red bitters of love!
I know heavens pierced by lightning, the waterspouts
and undertows and currents: I know night,
Dawn rising like a nation of doves,
and I've seen, sometimes, what men only dreamed they saw!
I've seen the sun, low, a blot of mystic dread,
illuminating with far-reaching violet coagulations,
like actors in antique tragedies,
the waves rolling away in a shiver of shutters.
I've dreamed a green night to dazzling snows,
kisses slowly rising to the eyelids of the sea,
unknown saps flowing, and the yellow and blue
rising of phosphorescent songs.
For months, I've followed the swells assaulting
the reefs like hysterical herds, without ever thinking
that the luminous feet of some Mary
could muzzle the panting Deep.
I've touched, you know, incredible Floridas
where, inside flowers, the eyes of panthers mingle
with the skins of men! And rainbows bridle
glaucous flocks beneath the rim of the sea!
I've seen fermenting— enormous marshes, nets
where a whole Leviathan rots in the rushes!
Such a ruin of water in the midst of calm,
and the distant horizon worming into whirlpools!
Glaciers, silver suns, pearly tides, ember skies!
Hideous wrecks at the bottom of muddy gulfs
where giant serpents, devoured by lice,
drop with black perfume out of twisted trees!
I wanted to show children these dorados
of the blue wave, these golden, singing fish.
A froth of flowers has cradled my vagrancies,
and ineffable winds have winged me on.
Sometimes like a martyr, tired of poles and zones,
the sea has rolled me softly in her sigh
and held out to me the yellow cups of shadow flowers,
and I've remained there, like a woman, kneeling . . .
Almost an island, balancing the quarrels,
the dung, the cries of blond-eyed birds on the gunnels
of my boat, I sailed on, and through my frail lines,
drowned men, falling backwards, sank to sleep.
Now, I, a boat lost in the hair of the coves,
tossed by hurricane into the birdless air,
me, whom all the Monitors and Hansa sailing ships
could not salvage, my carcass drunk with sea;
free, rising like smoke, riding violet mists,
I who pierced the sky turning red like a wall,
who bore the exquisite jam of all good poets,
lichens of sun and snots of azure,
who, spotted with electric crescents, ran on,
a foolish plank escorted by black hippocamps,
when the Julys brought down with a single blow
the ultramarine sky with its burning funnels;
I who tremble, feeling the moan fifty leagues away
of the Behemoth rutting and the dull Maelstrom,
eternal weaver of the unmovable blue—
I grieve for Europe with its ancient breastworks!
I've seen thunderstruck archipelagos! and islands
that open delirious skies for wanderers:
Are these bottomless nights your nest of exile,
O millions of gold birds, O Force to come?
True, I've cried too much! Dawns are harrowing.
All moons are cruel and all suns, bitter:
acrid love puffs me up with drunken slowness.
Let my keel burst! Give me to the sea!
If I desire any of the waters of Europe, it's the pond
black and cold, in the odor of evening,
where a child full of sorrow gets down on his knees
to launch a paperboat as frail as a May butterfly.
Bathed in your languors, o waves, I can no longer
wash away the wake of ships bearing cotton,
nor penetrate the arrogance of pennants and flags,
nor swim past the dreadful eyes of slave ships.
Le Bateau Ivre
Comme je descendais des Fleuves impassibles,
Je ne me sentis plus guidé par les haleurs :
Des Peaux-Rouges criards les avaient pris pour cibles
Les ayant cloués nus aux poteaux de couleurs.
J'étais insoucieux de tous les équipages,
Porteur de blés flamands ou de cotons anglais.
Quand avec mes haleurs ont fini ces tapages
Les Fleuves m'ont laissé descendre où je voulais.
Dans les clapotements furieux des marées
Moi l'autre hiver plus sourd que les cerveaux d'enfants,
Je courus ! Et les Péninsules démarrées
N'ont pas subi tohu-bohus plus triomphants.
La tempête a béni mes éveils maritimes.
Plus léger qu'un bouchon j'ai dansé sur les flots
Qu'on appelle rouleurs éternels de victimes,
Dix nuits, sans regretter l'oeil niais des falots !
Plus douce qu'aux enfants la chair des pommes sures,
L'eau verte pénétra ma coque de sapin
Et des taches de vins bleus et des vomissures
Me lava, dispersant gouvernail et grappin
Et dès lors, je me suis baigné dans le Poème
De la Mer, infusé d'astres, et lactescent,
Dévorant les azurs verts ; où, flottaison blême
Et ravie, un noyé pensif parfois descend ;
Où, teignant tout à coup les bleuités, délires
Et rythmes lents sous les rutilements du jour,
Plus fortes que l'alcool, plus vastes que nos lyres,
Fermentent les rousseurs amères de l'amour !
Je sais les cieux crevant en éclairs, et les trombes
Et les ressacs et les courants : Je sais le soir,
L'aube exaltée ainsi qu'un peuple de colombes,
Et j'ai vu quelque fois ce que l'homme a cru voir !
J'ai vu le soleil bas, taché d'horreurs mystiques,
Illuminant de longs figements violets,
Pareils à des acteurs de drames très-antiques
Les flots roulant au loin leurs frissons de volets !
J'ai rêvé la nuit verte aux neiges éblouies,
Baiser montant aux yeux des mers avec lenteurs,
La circulation des sèves inouïes,
Et l'éveil jaune et bleu des phosphores chanteurs !
J'ai suivi, des mois pleins, pareille aux vacheries
Hystériques, la houle à l'assaut des récifs,
Sans songer que les pieds lumineux des Maries
Pussent forcer le mufle aux Océans poussifs !
J'ai heurté, savez-vous, d'incroyables Florides
Mêlant aux fleurs des yeux de panthères à peaux
D'hommes ! Des arcs-en-ciel tendus comme des brides
Sous l'horizon des mers, à de glauques troupeaux !
J'ai vu fermenter les marais énormes, nasses
Où pourrit dans les joncs tout un Léviathan !
Des écroulement d'eau au milieu des bonaces,
Et les lointains vers les gouffres cataractant !
Glaciers, soleils d'argent, flots nacreux, cieux de braises !
Échouages hideux au fond des golfes bruns
Où les serpents géants dévorés de punaises
Choient, des arbres tordus, avec de noirs parfums !
J'aurais voulu montrer aux enfants ces dorades
Du flot bleu, ces poissons d'or, ces poissons chantants.
- Des écumes de fleurs ont bercé mes dérades
Et d'ineffables vents m'ont ailé par instants.
Parfois, martyr lassé des pôles et des zones,
La mer dont le sanglot faisait mon roulis doux
Montait vers moi ses fleurs d'ombre aux ventouses jaunes
Et je restais, ainsi qu'une femme à genoux...
Presque île, balottant sur mes bords les querelles
Et les fientes d'oiseaux clabaudeurs aux yeux blonds
Et je voguais, lorsqu'à travers mes liens frêles
Des noyés descendaient dormir, à reculons !
Or moi, bateau perdu sous les cheveux des anses,
Jeté par l'ouragan dans l'éther sans oiseau,
Moi dont les Monitors et les voiliers des Hanses
N'auraient pas repêché la carcasse ivre d'eau ;
Libre, fumant, monté de brumes violettes,
Moi qui trouais le ciel rougeoyant comme un mur
Qui porte, confiture exquise aux bons poètes,
Des lichens de soleil et des morves d'azur,
Qui courais, taché de lunules électriques,
Planche folle, escorté des hippocampes noirs,
Quand les juillets faisaient crouler à coups de triques
Les cieux ultramarins aux ardents entonnoirs ;
Moi qui tremblais, sentant geindre à cinquante lieues
Le rut des Béhémots et les Maelstroms épais,
Fileur éternel des immobilités bleues,
Je regrette l'Europe aux anciens parapets !
J'ai vu des archipels sidéraux ! et des îles
Dont les cieux délirants sont ouverts au vogueur :
- Est-ce en ces nuits sans fond que tu dors et t'exiles,
Million d'oiseaux d'or, ô future Vigueur ? -
Mais, vrai, j'ai trop pleuré ! Les Aubes sont navrantes.
Toute lune est atroce et tout soleil amer :
L'âcre amour m'a gonflé de torpeurs enivrantes.
Ô que ma quille éclate ! Ô que j'aille à la mer !
Si je désire une eau d'Europe, c'est la flache
Noire et froide où vers le crépuscule embaumé
Un enfant accroupi plein de tristesses, lâche
Un bateau frêle comme un papillon de mai.
Je ne puis plus, baigné de vos langueurs, ô lames,
Enlever leur sillage aux porteurs de cotons,
Ni traverser l'orgueil des drapeaux et des flammes,
Ni nager sous les yeux horribles des pontons.
Reader Comments (22)
Hi, Paris Play!
I'm out here in the field with Kashink, freezing our butts off as I photograph her and two other artists painting (commissioned) murals on the wall of a schoolyard in the first arrondissement.
She explains that the symbols on the brows of her four-eyed people are a.) a cross, or sword, which is her coming to grips with the religion in which she was raised; b.) an infinity symbol, which we took for a figure eight, and; c.) the number 13, which is her lucky number. The symbols come up for her at random, and there is no reason for any individual to have any particular symbol.
Now back to you, in a warm dwelling.
I realized just this morning that I'm always in search of that connectivity: the face in the cloud, the hawk that swoops "with meaning," a pattern that repeats itself on the ground, then on a poster, then in a book. You and Richard are part of the weave of "anything's possible" — what a wonderful way to start the day. Thanks too for the original French of Rimbaud's poem. It was fun to try to translate it in my head. (I can always understand more French than I think I can, as long as it's written down.) The English sounds like barked commands in comparison.
An astonishing treat. Right there!!! Merci
Hello Richard and Kaaren,
It's always a such delight to see your articles!
Kaaren, I love your way of writing, I feel so connected with your stories. I confess this is the way that I would love to write and post more; maybe a Gemini peculiarity?
I often have moments with these astonishing coincidences in my life, and I agree with your brother about the connectivity of the universe, This is one of the most beautiful things that I have been learning in my life.
Thanks for those inspirational asides.
Love,
Fernanda
Great Rimbaud translation, I'd say; at least the Englishing reads well! As for your own journey, I was particularly taken with the clochard and Richard paying him for the right to photograph him . . . also charmed by the curious pairing of Rimbaud and Simone de Beauvoir on the cafe's street board. En toto, a delight and, as always, an inspiration!
Yipes, just re-read my comment (along with the new ones). Didn't mean the English translation was bad....au contraire! (Which autocorrect is insisting is contra ire, which, in a sense, is even more accurate in this case.) The translation is, in fact, inspired. I'm merely referring to the sound of the rhyming French as opposed to....wow. Can't really get out of this one, can I?
Fine. I think French is prettier to the ear than my own beloved Italian. There. I said it.
Anna,
This is such a beautiful comment, the weaving of sensory connectivity, cloud, hawk, poster, book. Yes, we do live an "anything's possible" life every day.
Something I may not have made clear enough in the post: that though I translated one stanza by going online, for the translation of the entire poem, I asked Rebecca Seiferle, the editor of a fine literary magazine, The Drunken Boat, since she is a poet and (obviously) knows Rimbaud's work well. I love the sound of the original poem, too, but in a close reading of Rebecca's translation, think it's really accurate and musical as well.
No! I can't believe you said that: PREFER the sound of French to Italian? I'll bet that will change when you get to Rome. But that is our bias--French sounds more beautiful to Richard and me than any other language.
Thank you so much, Anna.
Much love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Richard,
I'm fascinated to hear that 13 is Kashink's favorite number. Since that is the number of times the moon goes around the sun annually, it's a Great Goddess number in ancient myth. A sure sign of a patriarchal culture: the belief that the number 13 is unlucky. How can a number so basic to the movement of our moon be unlucky?! But you know all this. Glad to hear it of Kashink.
Stay warm,
Kaaren
Dear Joan,
Hearing from you: a blessing out of the blue!
Thank you so much,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Dear Fernanda,
I feel the same about your sensibility. And yes, I think it has mythological roots. Hermes, the ruling god of Gemini, is the god of writing and spiritual vision and connectivity. Also, the god of naming. And that brings up a subject that we must talk about in person. Richard and I had dinner with a great friend last night, and talked about what this phenomenon should be called. Synchronicity captures the resonance between separate events in the moment, but doesn't capture the aha! of recognizing it. Magic isn't quite it either, since that is a more inclusive term. The connectivity of the universe is a part of it. But the word we want captures all three of these: resonance, magical aha!, interconnectivity. So naming it is our next challenge.
Thank you so much for your appreciation and for taking the time to let us know!
Love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Dear Floyce,
Thank you! I so agree with you, it's a great translation.
And the clochard was such a treat. He'd been talking to two women at an outdoor cafe table, or should I say, trying to talk with them. They seemed peeved at his presence. Yet he was the most spectacular presence on the street. We wanted to honor him with conversation, a photograph and payment for the delight he gave us. And wine and the wearing of a leopard over the shoulders seemed all of a piece with it being a Rimbaud kind of day.
As two of the biggest French literary stars, Rimbaud and Beauvoir seemed happy to hang out together on the cafe sign. But we forgot to note which drink was named after her.
Thank you so much and love to you,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Thanks for Rimbaud Day.
James Baldwin also lived in Paris, as you know, where he was renowned for his kleptomania. He perhaps deserves a Baldwin Day.
And if you wish to familiarize yourself with him, by all means do not read Giovanni's Room, as it is a lousy novel, and you will conclude Baldwin is a lousy writer, which he is not.
Read Notes of a Native Son, and other of his essay books. There lies his strength and his beauty.
Love ya,
Bruce
Dear Bruce,
You're welcome!
I did know that Baldwin lived in Paris, but not that he was a kleptomaniac. (Might it have been food he stole, out of hunger?)
You are the king of provocative remarks. So I'll read both "Giovanni's Room" and "Notes of a Native Son" and report back on my fave.
And then maybe we'll have A Baldwin Kind of Day.
Much love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Kaaren & Richard,
As I read along, I was reveling in the beauty of these golden links in the chain of your Rimbaud day, feeling appreciative of your usual generous sharing in Paris Play. In my mind I was searching for an adequate word for this experience. Anna's response, "You and Richard are part of the weave of "anything's possible", stood out for me. This is my experience with you and P.P. After all, there is the "Rimbaud absinthe traditionelle cocktail" and there's the "Marguerite Bistro."
Kaaren, you excel at making lofty ideas comprehensive for me, therefore, applicable; "... the word we want captures all three of these: resonance, magical aha!, inter connectivity." Magical was the word that kept coming to mind, yet still didn't cut it. I call this experience being in the flow. The flow of life. It is how it is meant to be. Natural. Your three components make the process a science, a conscious approach. I'm proactive, daily, about establishing myself in the flow, and maintaining my resonance in order to remain in the flow.
Richard, I appreciate the field research that you made for P.P. fans, while freezing off your derriere, to get the meaning of Kashink's symbols. It's satisfying to know.
Kaaren, I am also in awe of the inter connectivity, the worldwide salon that Facebook is. I greatly enjoy it.
I am looking forward to my new day tomorrow and enjoying the flow of resonance, magical revelations and that amazing inter connectivity that life has to offer.
Love,
Marguerite
Wonderful post! "...and rainbows bridle glaucous flocks..." I can only shake my head in wonder.
Here are some of my own synchronicities (or numinous moments of wonder):
1. While driving from LA to Seattle I was going down the long slope of the mountain leading into the bottom of California's San Joaquin Valley. That part of the route is called "The Grapevine" and the little town at the bottom is also called Grapevine. Just as I passed the sign that said "Welcome to Grapevine," the tune on the radio was Marvin Gaye's "I Heard it on the Grapevine."
2. I was driving home from work and the DJ on the radio was talking about Cat Stevens' tune called "O Caritas." Right in front of me was a car with a license plate that said "Caritas."
3. Someone at work said "Whatever happened to Maria Schneider?" [of "Last Tango in Paris"]. Just a few minutes later I turned on the radio and heard an interview with sax player/band leader Maria Schneider.
4. I was at a bar with my wife for Happy Hour and we were talking about my cousin who is one of the world's leading authorities on Orca whales. I looked up at the TV and saw a commercial with footage of a breaching whale.
5. I was in my car stopped at a traffic light. A man on the sidewalk suddenly stooped over and started doing some push-ups while waiting for the light to change. A block later I saw a billboard with a picture of a man doing push-ups.
6. I was designing an art feature for Debra Scolari, for my magazine, TheScreamOnline. One painting (Metamorphi) portrays a dragonfly. Later in the day my wife and I had a chocolate sweet in a little specialty shop in the neighborhood. The design on the dessert plate was of two dragonflies. We then stopped in a shop that had custom greeting cards on handmade paper. The first card I saw had a dragonfly on it.
7. A few years ago I purchased "The Illuminated Rumi" by Coleman Barks and Michael Green. Before I had even cracked the book, I got up one morning to answer a letter from my sister. She had written to me for advice and I spent an hour handwriting a letter back. I used the Rumi book on my lap as a surface on which to write. When finished, I addressed an envelope, put the letter in, and sealed it. I then opened the Rumi book in the middle somewhere and began to read. Right before my eyes were Rumi's words reflecting the very wisdom I had imparted to my sister.
8. Edward King wrote a short story called "Goodnight, My Love" for TheScreamOnline. It is about a tailor who used to make suits for the Benny Goodman band (among others). I sent the story to Al Stewart who used to play trumpet with Goodman, and whose photography of musicians I featured in the magazine. He wrote back to say that when the band would appear in NYC, they used to stay at the King Edward Hotel.
9. And the most amazing case of synchronicity you will ever hear: "The Point."
RIMBAUD IN ADEN
1
The pink roofs and the sun on the mud,
the knife on the edge of the table,
the doorway, the food, the few sticks and tough bread,
heat like an oven. The
heat like an oven. Nothing quite
like it. The heat. Everything
outlined by heat. Transforming the
world. Rimbaud closes his eyes to slits and
thinks. He's got big hands. He's
black as a native now. Become his
book.
2
Off into anywhere. He
wanted to escape the West. Well,
he did. Nothing
quite like it. Some sand and rocks and
the heat. He's
totally different. Straight-backed.
Determined. To the end of night.
Independent. Full of plans.
We don't envy his
apprenticeship with
this extent of privation. A
desert saint, blessed with
fever. Always penniless. A
monk might have been
easier. He's cut away
everyone. Every comfort and
support. Makes mad
journeys. Among well-known
killers of white men. No one
kills him but Reality. Slowly.
Gritting his teeth as
tight as the edge of a scimitar.
No one follows him there.
___________________________________________________
(From The Puzzle, Poems 1992-3, The Ecstatic Exchange, 2011)
Dear K & R:
Wonderful, as ever. You're helping to create a new form, memoir as blog with photos. But it's more than just your stories; it's a celebration of life, art, love, and Paris.
As for the poem, which I encountered in college French, it's ramboatious!
BTW: My favorite Baudelaire poem is Enivrez vous.
Cheers,
Mike
Dear Marguerite,
You are such a loving person. Thank you.
Being in the flow: a key concept that the great Hungarian writer-thinker-scientist, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, wrote a book about, "Flow- The Psychology of Optimal Experience." There's a great Ted Talks by him on You Tube:
<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fXIeFJCqsPs>
I think this kind of magical synchronicity is more likely to happen when you're in the flow state. But the synchronicity and your awareness of it is another phenomenon. We still haven't found the name for it. It really is the "anything's possible" state of mind that we've all experienced and all want more of. Keep on flowing might be a better phrase than Keep on trucking, huh?
Love and looking forward to having tea with you in Marguerite Bistro here next year,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Dear Stuart,
You are clearly in tune with the Philosopher's Stone. I'm going to quote the opening paragraph of "The Point," your story about synchronicity, since it amplifies so eloquently what the Rimbaud essay was about:
"Into everyone’s life come significant messages that mostly go unheeded. Either we are not in tune with the events or greater forces around us or we choose to dismiss such signals as unimportant: mere coincidences, flukes, accidents. Sometimes a special channel opens up that allows one to tap into a current of energy, an insight — call it what you will — which creates a new awareness never before experienced. These signals may not even be experienced on a conscious level — in fact, most often they are recorded in the subconscious. Since most of us operate unconsciously, these messages cannot be heard. Those currents are always there, all around us, accessible 24 hours a day, yet most of us are deaf and blind to them. In “discovering” electricity, Benjamin Franklin merely perceived what was there all the time. He acknowledged its existence, translated it into somewhat understandable terms, and the rest of the world took it from there."
That's it! Thank you for such a wonderful account. My wish for you: that you find the time to finish your novel, "The Book of the Stone."
Love,
Kaaren (& Richard)
Dear Daniel,
That is a knockout poem about the second half of Rimbaud's life. I've read about it, but in this poem I feel as if I'm inside him experiencing the heat and privation of his life in North Africa.
It is also different in style from other poems of yours. Harder, more earth-bound, tougher, inhabiting the persona (or really, the soul) of another poet. It's not like Rimbaud's earlier Dionysian style either--more like his later years as a soldier and merchant, when he turned away from writing poems.
Thank you so much.
Love,
Kaaren (& Richard)