Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Hillman says it's time to be more than just a hero

I have been reading James Hillman, the archetypal psychologist with Jungian roots, for a number of weeks now. His work is difficult for me, not because it feels alien – not at all, actually – but rather because it demands a kind of thinking, feeling, seeing, imagining that goes against the grain of habitual western thought & judgment patterns, the type which both my formal & self-taught education have incalculated into my psyche. I'd read Hillman before, a few years ago, but I seem to understand him more easily now.

An idea that is central to what I mean about his work turning things upside-down would be the way he insists upon the heroic idea of getting on with life, both inner & outer, as only one way of being-in-the-world that has validity, a way that often, in fact, causes inflation of the ego self & dismisses much of what contributes to what he calls "soul-making". Hillman is a man who thinks controlling everything (an impossibility), getting "on top" of the ladder in every instance, is a manic way of proceeding in the world. He calls for slowing down, for living a depression as opposed to merely killing it, for looking at the face of things as oppose to always classifying, for seeing in failure a chance, not to learn a "lesson" so much as to expand & explore & get to know psyche & imagination. He has this idea of the poetic basis of the mind as the seat of soulful being. He sees us each as many persons whose Christian roots, whether consciously or unconsciously, have us repressing so many sides of our personalities in instances where doing so is inappropriate. He contends always thinking in terms of opposites – good/bad, dark/light, negative/positive – traps us into not taking things for what they are. If I say light is good, for example, thinking in opposites will have me saying dark is bad, as opposed to getting at its differences. Pleasure/pain oppositions gets me stuck designating anything painful as bad & to be avoided, where as much comes from pain that shouldn't be avoided, that contributes to valid expansion. It's not that he champions unhappiness; rather he believes in its necessity over & beyond merely showing us via opposition happiness.

It is interesting to me that he says if you "look" at a depression as opposed to just try to repress it, you create soul. The idea is not to identify with the depression, but rather to LOOK at it. Oh dear – I'm using such abstract language here. At any rate, it appears to have a lot to do with what Keats called "negative capacity", & with resting with images long enough to gain insight into them. It is about soul (in the dirt) as opposed to spirit (in the clouds). It is about imagining as opposed to literalizing…

Sunday, March 20, 2005

Correspondence?


But what about the 'burning desire' to contact the author? The author: pseudonym? anonymous? amorphous? intangible? You would only be contacting yourself.


Wilson Duff to Lilo Berliner
20 August 1973
(Quoted by Phyllis Webb in "Nothing But Brush Strokes", 1995)

I meant to write a letter to cyber space today - really to the other & again the other on the other side of cyber space. I got caught up in all sorts of deliciously dilletante activities of small consequence, large indulgence - walking the streets around here with their brickbox houses & snowy porches, then descending to the river's edge, changing directions out of an exhilarating & kindly warmish wind - flipping through poems (by Susan Musgrave) & straining through a charmingly angry article about psychobiologic critisism by the quaintly brilliant Phyllis Webb - discussing which song & why now & Hey!!! Teacher!!! Leave those kids alone - appraising the contents of the vegetable drawer & adding what was missing to a list for Yves to go foraging after - taking in a reading by some Jamaican author on the Sunday CBC radio that was (I had to admit it) admirably funny, alive...So the letter turned into a note which turned into a quote which pushed for a note...

Saturday, March 19, 2005

The stick to beat me with...

I was given the stick by Jenni (j.hughes) – here are my answers




You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you want to be:


The Awful Rowing Toward God – Anne Sexton

Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?


Oh quite a few – Alyosha in Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov; the idiot in Dostoyevsky's book The Idiot; Bartlby [!!!!] Who always 'preferred not' in a Melville short story;le petit prince; the cockroach in Kafka's The Metamorphosis, etc. Gotta face it – I'm a sucker for the naïve sweetheart, at least when he's fictional. Now about the self-fictionalizing bad boys I've had the hots for over the years…


The last book you bought is:


"Nothing But Brush Strokes" by Phyllis Webb

The last book you read:


"Queen Rat" by Lynn Crosbie

What are you currently reading?


*Soul-making -The Desert Way of Spirituality by Alan Jones

*Re-visioning Psychology – James Hillman

*Collected Poems 1970-1985 – Susan Musgrave

*Water and Light – Phyllis Webb

*Living at the Movies – Jim Carroll

Five books you would take to a deserted island:

The Norton Anthology of English Literature, 2nd Edition; The Riverside Shakespeare, Complete Works; Anne Sexton, Complete Poems; Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson; Introduction to Fiction – Editors Jack David & Robert Lecker (all choices subject to change, depending on the day I find I'm leaving – this would be today)

Who are you going to pass this stick to (3 persons)? And Why?


Geez, I've got to make some blogger friends!!!

Thursday, March 17, 2005

Speaking Poetry


In her dreams, my cat is this night
in which I sit and write about
a cat I don’t have…


I

Miu: the Egyptians knew what to make of you
disarmingly curled beneath the gilded chair
of the Mistress of the house
as nights fell down with no sound of rodents gnawing in the pantry,
as nights opened into operatic silences deep enough
to nurture potent speculations
about your true otherness
beyond aloof huntress
with the tangling teeth –
knew what to make of you
who didn’t speak poetry
as if to spare them the chore of making
less of you than dreaming suggested they could.

And then those peculiar white elephants of hope,
and windows opening behind the stars,
as mute paws with claws retracted
padded across burning sand daily
as if across snow –
slant imprints left in their soft facts,
their staid, too tidy prayers.

II

On Telegraph Hill
above Metaphor Road,
a lighthouse holding
a mummified cat.

Miu, also known as
Felis silvestris libyca,
sits fixated incognito.

At ten past midnight,
psychic weather & asymmetry
have their way with loose verbs.

Fog moves in on little feet.

III

Still dreaming,
the dark cat shifts in my lap.
She seems to have set the two of us afloat
in a millennia mosaic that fits
like a warm coin in the palm of my skull.

I’m loathe to call her anything now…

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

About the name of this Blog

Squatter's Scraps -- it's a phrase I've been carrying around for years. I've a song with it as a title, back from the days when I was doing lyrics for a local Montreal band. I have a series of poems called by the same name. But it is sort of one of those found phrases that describes how I feel about what I am in the 20th & now 21rst centuries: a squatter's scrap among squatters' scraps. Doesn't matter if I'm thinking of myself in relation to the world, to the fragmented historical, artistic & intellectual landscapes I've inherited, even to my concrete day to day existence, my apartment, my adoptive city, my mate, my pin money: I'm a squatter with rather blow away roots, with stakes in all sorts of things that I've laid claim to without being able to own, with patchwork & chipped belongings I've picked up along the way. I figure that the posts I'll be putting here will have the ambivalent quality of squatters' scraps too -- bits & pieces twistily ephemeral yet actually there for all that, from a description of my day, to a second or third or thousandth hand idea I've picked up somewhere, to the "new" lain out on the unknown past -- "the past is what the present is doing now" (Alan Jones). I don't think of this as depressing - more as the condition of our postmodern existence - hell - the human condition of the majority at any time.

A favourite scrap: Jeff Buckley singing Halleluiah...

Greetings

I've decided to take the blog plunge - rambling, babbling, querying to follow.