Obsession

Photo: Big Frank Dickinson (Paris metro)

Obsession

"Obsession is like waiting for a train that never arrives."

~ Big Frank Dickinson

Obsession

Without a doubt the doubt is real.
He carried it in his back pocket and sat on it daily.
Hope deferred, undetermined disappointment – yet,
When troubled he would look away
To a place where his mind could engage
Even momentarily in some kind of distraction
Like when you run your hand over the back of
Your shoulder, more out of boredom than the search
For anything in particular and you discover some irregularity
In the surface of your skin that takes you away
From whatever it was that you had been obsessing on
The focus collapsing from the camera in the sky, zooming
In on that scab, or pimple, or whatever that your finger
has discovered. You can’t actually see it, like you saw ,
Your previous obsession in repeated views, but it takes you away.
As if there were an away; look away, look away, look away
Like a Dixie cup that holds your attention only while drinking,
Then dropped in the trash, now your wandering eye is off and running.
Followed closely behind by a parade of possibilities – each discarded
In turn, not so much because of any lack of intrinsic worth, just boring.
What is it that your mother used to say – life isn’t a bowl of cherries?
Well, even if it were they’d eventually get eaten, and then what?
So, he, … reached in his back pocket
Pulled it out, and ran his mind over its craggy truth
As your worried tongue does over a jagged cracked tooth.

Enough with the travel already ... Rerun #2

RERUN #2 John Ashbery: BEHIND THE MASK


Big Frank has been reading the poetry of John Ashbery. This is poetry that doesn't lend itself to themes, or (as Frost said of Stevens) bric-a-brac. This is poetry of a purer nature that can, if you allow it, wash over you like the waves of the ocean coming in and in: what does that mean? And what does it mean in connection with your thoughts of the last time you were in that ocean, and then the person with whom you were, or else not, and - don't forget about your towel and what's on it . . . back . . . on the beach. The beach of your youth? The beach as in skipping along in slow motion, or the beach as in this whale ain't going nowhere. OK, enough of that. Big Frank is not going to give entire poems but rather snippets, just a few favorite sections of John Ashbery poems - once you read them - you will have to have more (or else not).


from A Man of Words


Those tangled versions of the truth are
Combed out the snarls ripped out
And spread around. Behind the mask
Is still a continental appreciation
Of what is fine, rarely appears and when it does is already
Dying on the breeze that brought to the threshold
Of speech. The story worn out from telling.
All diaries are alike, clear and cold, with
The outlook for continued cold. They are placed
Horizontal, parallel to the earth
Like the unencumbering dead. Just time to reread this
And post past slips fingers, wishing you were
there.


from Grand Gallop

And now it is time to wait again.
Only waiting, the waiting: what fills up the time between?
It is another kind of wait, waiting for the wait to be ended.
Nothing takes up its fair share of time,
The wait is built into the things just coming into their own
Nothing is partially incomplete but the wait.
Invests everything like a climate.
What time of day is it?
Does anything matter?
Yes for you must wait to see what it is really like,
This event rounding the corner
Which will be unlike anything else and really
Cause no surprise: it's too ample.


from Worsening Situation

. . .
One day a man called while I was out
and left this message: "You got the whole thing wrong
From start to finish. Luckily there's still time.
To correct the situation, but you must act fast.
See me at your earliest convenience. And please
Tell no one of this. Much besides your life depends on it."
I thought nothing of it at the time. . . .

Slovak Hiking, Biking, Monasteries and Polish Castles

Big Frank has spent the last couple of days being very active with Konrad, his son, and Aneta, Konrad's girl friend. They live in Zakopane, which is pretty much on the Polish border with Slovakia. So it turns out that he's spent the last two days hiking and biking in Slovakia. Today, it was biking in the Pieniny National Park with staddles both Poland and Slovakia. The bike trail goes along the Dunajec River with has towering limestone cliffs and peaks all along the way. At the end, is an old monastery. Then after returning from the ride they all went to Niedzice - an old 13th century castle where Big Frank actually worked 25 years ago. Look below for photos of it all.

The Trumpeter of Krakow

Big Frank was in Krakow, Poland yesterday visiting his son, Konrad who lives in nearby Zakopane. Krakow is well known for is main square where St. Mary's Cathedral is situated. There is a trumpeter that plays a a tune called heynal in Polish. The legend has it that this tune was originally played by the trumpeter of Krakow during the Mongol invasion of the 13th century. The tune has only five notes and is interrupted at the end just as the trumpeter who originally played the tune was shot in the throat and killed by a Mongol arrow. So Big Frank and Konrad climbed to the top of the church tower (see photo - taller tower is where the trumpeter plays from - through the windows). They took some photos and were there when the trumpeter emerged and played his tune through windows on all four sides of the cathedral. No Mongol archers, however, interrupted the tune and all lived to climb down the stairs afterwards.

Soren Kierkegaard

Above is a photo of the statue of Soren Kierkegaard in the garden next to the Royal Library in Copenhagen. Keirkegaard is generally regarded as the first existentialist philosopher. His work while religious has great resonance in his answers to the question: how should I live? Here are some quotations from his writings:

... love yourself!

Once you label me you negate me.

Nothing is as heady as the wine of possibility.

The most common form of despair is not being who you are.

Our life always expresses the result of our dominant thoughts.

Face the facts of being what you are, for that is what changes what you are.

He who cannot reveal himself cannot love, and he who cannot love is the most unhappy man of all.

It belongs to the imperfection of everything human that man can only attain his desire by passing through its opposite.

There is nothing with which every man is so afraid as getting to know how enormously much he is capable of doing and becoming.

Love is like a snowmobile racing across the frozen tundra. Suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath. At the night the ice weasels come.

To cheat oneself out of love is the most terrible deception; it is an eternal loss for which there is no reparation, either in time or in eternity.

Love is the expression of the one who loves, not of the one who is loved. Those who think they can love only the people they prefer do not love at all. Love discovers truths about individuals that others cannot see.

Above all, do not lose your desire to walk. Everyday, I walk myself into a state of well-being & walk away from every illness. I have walked myself into my best thoughts, and I know of no thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it. But by sitting still, & the more one sits still, the closer one comes to feeling ill. Thus if one just keeps on walking, everything will be all right.

Big Frank in Copenhagen

Big Frank arrived in Copenhagen yesterday. This is mostly about work, but not all about it. Copenhagen is a great city to get around in on a bike, and the Danes are big bike riders. Big Frank rented a bike today and spent the day riding around the city. Here are a few photos that he took. The one directly above is Big Frank's bike.

Rerun #1, "The Gift"

Big Frank has been thinking of reruns. He doesn't actually have a TV, but he used to, and he can remember watching reruns of programs that were trotted out after the season's fare had all been run through. The reruns were the best what had been broadcast. So, Big Frank is going to run a few reruns of his posts. These are, what he thinks, are some of his best. Well, to be frank (Big Frank) they are his favorites. Here's the first:
________________________________________________________
Big Frank has been thinking lately about poetry. Why is it that the content of the poem is relayed at a slant? With prose the thought or feeling is laid out directly. The person says that they have this kind of idea or this kind of feeling. There is a label put on it and some examples and explanation put to it. With poetry there is a recognition that the idea or feeling is bigger than the explanatory power of words -the lexicon cannot carry the load. It is bigger than words, and so something more resonant is sought - images, symbols, metaphor, or ancedotes. It is the first three that most poets rely on, but the anecdote is very powerful when applied to something different. Here's an example from a great poem by Don Paterson:

The Gift

That night she called his name, not mine
And could not call it back.
I shamed myself and thought of the blind
girl in Kodiak

who stood on the stoop each night
to watch the daylight fade
and lift her child down to the gate
cut in the pallisade.

And what old caution love resigned
when through that misty stare
she passed her boy not to her bearskinned husband
but the bear.


Here we have a horrific story that is linked to one lover calling the other by the name of a previous lover. The irretrievable loss of that "gift" is captured in all its intractability in the story of the blind woman mistakenly handing the child - out of love - to the bear. This is poetry. It cannot compare in force or poignancy to a simple prose summary of the slip of tongue. Such poems are rare

Big Frank's Mother's 85th!

Big Frank went back to his namesake's home, Dickinson. It was his mother's 85th birthday and most of the family was there. What a great time! Here are some photos.

TNT

TNT (A Portrait)

Big Frank Dickinson

Clove cigarettes and chocolate creams

And text messages that stretch out into the hundreds (shhh!)

But rarely go to voice.

Tummy problems with sour cream

And insomnia that calls for pills

But rarely any pimples.

Walk-n-Talk most everyday

And bike rides clothed in pink crossbones

But rarely admissions ... (shhh).

Monkey sock dialogues that end badly

And unsuccessful attempts to trip

But rarely does he know (anymore).

Red Audio double T with a spot on the back

And a bill that just keeps growing

But rarely full of gas.

Phone numbers that get suddenly changed

Photos sent on the sly still (shhh)

But rarely faking calls.

Take it back this

And take it back that,

But rarely wears a hat.

Mouth twisted to the side

And teeth nibbling inner cheeks

Rarely cracking knuckles.

TNT NTNT NTNTNT (boom)