Tuesday, March 29, 2011

"Timshel" a Coincidence?

 Oh, the weight of words, the power of coincidence.

Mumford and Sons' song, "Timshel" means more than just a passing song of strength through isolation with nice harmonization, but literally my path out of the desert, and most recently my ipod anthem.

Not really understanding (and by not really, I mean at all) what "Timshel" means... I read this passage. This occurred right after having a particularly emotional reaction to this beast of a beautiful book.

http://timshel.org/timshel.php

From East of Eden by John Steinbeck

“Do you remember when you read us the sixteen verses of the fourth chapter of Genesis and we argued about them?” 

“I do indeed. And that’s a long time ago.” 

“Ten years nearly,” said Lee. “Well, the story bit deeply into me and I went into it word for word. The more I thought about the story, the more profound it became to me. Then I compared the translations we have—and they were fairly close. There was only one place that bothered me. The King James version says this—it is when Jehovah has asked Cain why he is angry. Jehovah says, ‘If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? and if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door. And unto thee shall be his desire, and thou shalt rule over him.’ It was the ‘thou shalt’ that struck me, because it was a promise that Cain would conquer sin.”
Samuel nodded. “And his children didn’t do it entirely,” he said. 

Lee sipped his coffee. “Then I got a copy of the American Standard Bible. It was very new then. And it was different in this passage. It says, ‘Do thou rule over him.’ Now this is very different. This is not a promise, it is an order. And I began to stew about it. I wondered what the original word of the original writer had been that these very different translations could be made.” 

Samuel put his palms down on the table and leaned forward and the old young light came into his eyes. “Lee,” he said, “don’t tell me you studied Hebrew!” 

Lee said, “I’m going to tell you. And it’s a fairly long story. Will you have a touch of ng-ka-py?”
“You mean the drink that tastes of good rotten apples?” 

“Yes. I can talk better with it.” 

“Maybe I can listen better,” said Samuel. 

While Lee went to the kitchen Samuel asked, “Adam, did you know about this?”
“No,” said Adam. “He didn’t tell me. Maybe I wasn’t listening.” 

Lee came back with his stone bottle and three little porcelain cups so thin and delicate that the light shone through them. “Dlinkee Chinee fashion,” he said and poured the almost black liquor. “There’s a lot of wormwood in this. It’s quite a drink,” he said. “Has about the same effect as absinthe if you drink enough of it.” 

Samuel sipped the drink. “I want to know why you were so interested,” he said. 

“Well, it seemed to me that the man who could conceive this great story would know exactly what he wanted to say and there would be no confusion in his statement.” 

“You say ‘the man.’ Do you then not think this is a divine book written by the inky finger of God?”
“I think the mind that could think this story was a curiously divine mind. We have had a few such minds in China too.” 

“I just wanted to know,” said Samuel. “You’re not a Presbyterian after all.” 

“I told you I was getting more Chinese. Well, to go on, I went to San Francisco to the headquarters of our family association. Do you know about them? Our great families have centers where any member can get help or give it. The Lee family is very large. It takes care of its own.” 

“I have heard of them,” said Samuel. 

“You mean Chinee hatchet man fightee Tong war over slave girl?”
“I guess so.” 

“It’s a little different from that, really,” said Lee. “I went there because in our family there are a number of ancient reverend gentlemen who are great scholars. They are thinkers in exactness. A man may spend many years pondering a sentence of the scholar you call Confucius. I thought there might be experts in meaning who could advise me. 

“They are fine old men. They smoke their two pipes of opium in the afternoon and it rests and sharpens them, and they sit through the night and their minds are wonderful. I guess no other people have been able to use opium well.” 

Lee dampened his tongue in the black brew. “I respectfully submitted my problem to one of these sages, read him the story, and told him what I understood from it. The next night four of them met and called me in. We discussed the story all night long.” 

Lee laughed. “I guess it’s funny,” he said. “I know I wouldn’t dare tell it to many people. Can you imagine four old gentlemen, the youngest is over ninety now, taking on the study of Hebrew? They engaged a learned rabbi. They took to the study as though they were children. Exercise books, grammar, vocabulary, simple sentences. You should see Hebrew written in Chinese ink with a brush! The right to left didn’t bother them as much as it would you, since we write up to down. Oh, they were perfectionists! They went to the root of the matter.” 

“And you?” said Samuel. 

“I went along with them, marveling at the beauty of their proud clean brains. I began to love my race, and for the first time I wanted to be Chinese. Every two weeks I went to a meeting with them, and in my room here I covered pages with writing. I bought every known Hebrew dictionary. But the old gentlemen were always ahead of me. It wasn’t long before they were ahead of our rabbi; he brought a colleague in. Mr. Hamilton, you should have sat through some of those nights of argument and discussion. The questions, the inspection, oh, the lovely thinking—the beautiful thinking. 

“After two years we felt that we could approach your sixteen verses of the fourth chapter of Genesis. My old gentlemen felt that these words were very important too—‘Thou shalt’ and ‘Do thou.’ And this was the gold from our mining: ‘Thou mayest.’ ‘Thou mayest rule over sin.’ The old gentlemen smiled and nodded and felt the years were well spent. It brought them out of their Chinese shells too, and right now they are studying Greek.” 

Samuel said, “It’s a fantastic story. And I’ve tried to follow and maybe I’ve missed somewhere. Why is this word so important?” 

Lee’s hand shook as he filled the delicate cups. He drank his down in one gulp. “Don’t you see?” he cried. “The American Standard translation orders men to triumph over sin, and you can call sin ignorance. The King James translation makes a promise in ‘Thou shalt,’ meaning that men will surely triumph over sin. But the Hebrew word, the word timshel—‘Thou mayest’— that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if ‘Thou mayest’—it is also true that ‘Thou mayest not.’ Don’t you see?”
“Yes, I see. I do see. But you do not believe this is divine law. Why do you feel its importance?”
“Ah!” said Lee. “I’ve wanted to tell you this for a long time. I even anticipated your questions and I am well prepared. Any writing which has influenced the thinking and the lives of innumerable people is important. Now, there are many millions in their sects and churches who feel the order, ‘Do thou,’ and throw their weight into obedience. And there are millions more who feel predestination in ‘Thou shalt.’ Nothing they may do can interfere with what will be. But ‘Thou mayest’! Why, that makes a man great, that gives him stature with the gods, for in his weakness and his filth and his murder of his brother he has still the great choice. He can choose his course and fight it through and win.” Lee’s voice was a chant of triumph.
Adam said, “Do you believe that, Lee?”
“Yes, I do. Yes, I do. It is easy out of laziness, out of weakness, to throw oneself into the lap of deity, saying, ‘I couldn’t help it; the way was set.’ But think of the glory of the choice! That makes a man a man. A cat has no choice, a bee must make honey. There’s no godliness there. And do you know, those old gentlemen who were sliding gently down to death are too interested to die now?”
Adam said, “Do you mean these Chinese men believe the Old Testament?”
Lee said, “These old men believe a true story, and they know a true story when they hear it. They are critics of truth. They know that these sixteen verses are a history of humankind in any age or culture or race. They do not believe a man writes fifteen and three-quarter verses of truth and tells a lie with one verb. Confucius tells men how they should live to have good and successful lives. But this—this is a ladder to climb to the stars.” Lee’s eyes shone. “You can never lose that. It cuts the feet from under weakness and cowardliness and laziness.” 

Adam said, “I don’t see how you could cook and raise the boys and take care of me and still do all this.”
“Neither do I,” said Lee. “But I take my two pipes in the afternoon, no more and no less, like the elders. And I feel that I am a man. And I feel that a man is a very important thing—maybe more important than a star. This is not theology. I have no bent toward gods. But I have a new love for that glittering instrument, the human soul. It is a lovely and unique thing in the universe. It is always attacked and never destroyed— because ‘Thou mayest.’”

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

In the Madhouse

Keep it Cool-U.S Royalty

A revisit to past inspirations.

 I never never, let me just say-never, reread books. There are so many brand new books that I haven't cracked that why should I ever want to go back reread words I have already read in a story I already know the ending. Well. I started thinking. Supposedly I claim East of Eden as one of my favorites...and I couldn't tell you a thing (aside from major themes) about the plot, characters, style, ending, nothing. So two hours later. I am rereading my first book.

Also, I would go ahead and classify myself as a sub-par English graduate as I throughout my career never appreciated Steinbeck. East of Eden was the first to show me that homeboy truly did have talent and not just another wordy dead white guy. His words are beautiful. And for all chapters he dedicates describing his stories' foundations (the scenery, the history, the background, the ancestral heritage), it's remarkable how he fuses descriptive with anticipation and just sidesteps droning and dull altogether. Here's an early example:

"They called him a comical genius and carried his stories carefully home, and they wondered at how the stories spilled out on the way, for they never sounded the same repeated in their own kitchens." East of Eden, Chapter 2.

My version: The Steinbeck Centennial Edition, paperback with a reinforced cover detailed with inside flaps, the covers wears a simple pen drawing of a still countryside. But on the inside, the first page. A quick little quip about Steinbeck is ignored with a little drawing. Similar to a water mark, squint and you'll be able to make out it's a pig with wings. A "pigasus."

I love that the publishers included this next short passage (and maybe if I wasn't such a sub-par English major back in my day, this would be old news):

Throughout his life Steinbeck signed his letters with his personal "Pigasus" logo, symbolizing himself "a lumbering soul but trying to fly." The Latin motto Ad Astra Per Alia Porci translates "To the stars on the wings of a pig."

This man forever has my respect. And I am now have an appetite to devour all (shoot for all, hopefully get to most)  of his delicious works.





Song of the Moment:
Yo La Tengo: Don't have to be so sad.
Matador Turns 21.
A song that will fade easily into the background, but you're rewarded if you take the effort to really listen.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Ergurgled.

Ergurgles. When you live as far north as I do, you realize the cons far outweigh the pros, but there is always one thing you're grateful for on a daily basis: in the mornings, you are guaranteed a seat on the train because your commute is that fucking long. But on days, rare as though they may be, if I don't get a seat... well then the silver lining has faded to gray, no eggs ever hatched, and Humpty, well, I know he will never get up again.

It's been a week of this and, I tell ya, hope does not spring eternal. In fact, I don't think it's barely limping. Silly lazy hope. So day 4 of this: Thursday, and I'm grumbling. It's not just standing for 45 minutes that is so upsetting, it is the the being squashed, prodded, pushed, breathed on, cursed at, sweated on and glared at and all around violated by complete strangers for 45 minutes that is upsetting.

42 minutes into this commute and it's almost Friday. My mantra for the morning. My ipod is playing a soft melody in the background. Lamenting the death of my spirit, appropriate right now as the temperature drops in the 10 minutes I have been waiting and another 20 degrees for each train that whips by on Express...cruelly taunting my platform with it's many vacant seats.  A hesitant train pulls up, obvious the conductor wishes he could speed on by on express as opposed to dealing with the throngs of people amassed on the platform. We herd in, already bouncing off strangers and already making enemies, defending a tiny space and protecting our personal bubbles.

I zone out. 42 minutes left of this hellish trip. We pull up to Chicago. The first major unloading point. My unloading point is next. It's almost Friday. I remind myself. I've got a nice diddy playing in my ears. A good, positive beep bopping almost encouraging a smile. 3 minutes. One more stop. The doors open. I'm in one of those spots in the car, where there is no possible way to get out of anyone's way. Because everyone is exiting from all directions, right through you. So the best thing you can do is squish in one direction and make everyone funnel out the same way. Seems logical. Seems simple. Seemingly. I try and squish my way down, channeling some foreign invisibility powers, and move towards the other non-exiting people. But this one sir... this one gentle sir... decides to take the path of most resistance and instead of following the crowd through the path created just for exiting, his one most pressing need at the moment is addressed and he decides he has to go in front of me. Now... I understand sometimes exiting a crowded train can spark unnecessary anxiety. Whether or not you're gonna make it? If people will move? Are you going the right way? Did you forget anything? What if I trip over a baby's head? People can become blind-sided to their one goal of just stepping foot outside this crowded, rocking beast. So I move. I let him go in front of me. I let him interrupt my perfect squishing and peel me off my immovable mass of people. I unsquish. I exhale my invisibility and repeat the process. Except this time... there is less time and space for full squishing. I look over at this rogue friend. An older man, a man who has clearly lived a fruitful life and that's not at all apparent in one of his many frown lines. His lower lip hanging out, clearly over exerted from a lifetime of smiling pleasantries. He stares me down, even from his stooped level; I reciprocate by conveying with my eyes that this is as far back as I can go. I gesture. I inch back. He, for all his noted skills above, cannot read my body language. And...shoves me! I follow his old, wrinkly, ashen hand as it makes contact with my abdomen and anticipate his touch. He shoves me! I met his gaze and I guess I had the last laugh because there was nowhere for me to go. There was no room!

With all this, I smile. The audacity of that man compounded with the futility of the situation, I smiled. I smiled until I got off 3 minutes later and had to ignite my own battle for freedom. Almost Friday. Ergurgles.

Ergurgles...

Those lovable little blue muffins we (of my generation identify) as Smurfs were named by the creator's vision of what it sounded like when a person stepped on a mushroom. Squish. Schmoosh. Smoosh. Smurf.
Thus, smurfs were born.
I wish there were a more imaginative story for the delivery and birth of Ergurgles, but there isn't. It just... was. 
Typed out of frustration and mis-coordination for more better and proper words came the great and all-purpose ergurgles. 

For as long as I've (the I which I rarely use, but more fondly refer to myself as Pumpkin) had this blog, there has been several focal points, themes, directions and misdirections. Well, I'm adding another one to that. Ergurgles will now be my awkward occurrence section. Kinda like the obituaries or horoscope in a newspaper: kinda trashy or sad, but yet you're drawn to them. 

Ergurgles.

Monday, February 14, 2011

The Fear you won't fall...

Sometimes the deafening vacuum of silence is too much to shoulder. Cooking for one is just an exercise in the hopes that one day it will be two. And the fear you won't fall becomes too close of a reality.


The Fear you won't fall-Joshua Radin

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Because...

If I had a boat-James Vincent McMorrow
Sometimes we all feel...
A little stranded
A little lost
A little deserted

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Duck Duck.... baby

I don't live in a Dream- Jackie Greene

Your hand in my hand

Love Lust- King Charles
Little Miss Magic-Jimmy Buffett
Midnight Train-Buddy Guy

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

New Favorite Thing

Timshel-Mumford and Sons

Madder Red- Yeasayer

Episode 1 Playlist