Random Photo: The History of Philosophy

crated philosopher crop 4 sat

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.


Museum of Joy: Feast of Guadalupe (2)

guadalupe tattoo

December 12 is the Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe.

Museum of Joy: Feast of Guadalupe


Today is the Feast of the Apparition of the Virgin of Guadalupe.

Random Photo

trees against hill bw floyd forks 3

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.

A Dickey Cento: A Woman Comes True

dickey with life mask twk crop2 shad2James Dickey

A Woman Comes True

I kneel in the quick of the moon.
Inside the one flame of that stone,
the stone held in air by my heartbeat,
the dead have their chance in my body.

In a sickness of moonlight and patience,
in a motion long buried in water,
my nearly dead power to pray
mimes the hypnotized language of beasts.

A tremendous, suffusing,
open shadow of gold,
from the iron depths of cold water,
a woman comes true.

The fear-killing moves of her body,
fabulous, rigid, eternal,
with the timing of rust,
stops the gaunt turning of metal.

In a sovereign floating of joy,
in the pale, risen ghosts of deep rivers,
in the purest fear on earth,
How can she come, but in glory?

James Dickey is remembered,  if he is remembered at all in these latter days, for writing the novel Deliverance, on which a memorable movie of the same name was based, but Dickey was primarily a poet. The collage poem or cento The Woman Comes True is made of lines mined from his Poems 1957-1967.

My copy of the Dickey book is stamped NO LONGER THE PROPERTY OF DENVER PUBLIC LIBRARY which means I probably bought it at Capital Hill Books on the corner of Colfax and Grant St. in Denver sometime in the late eighties or early nineties. Somehow it’s survived all the moves I’ve made since then. Having quilted Dickey’s lines into my own piece, I feel rather like a small bird who has furnished his nest with feathers stolen, somehow, from a particularly large and a grumpy raven. My eyes are on the sky, scanning for a black silhouette.

The Question: To Post or Not to Post

eden ollie one arm 21c blacked out faces cropThe cute, defaced.

Some of you may have noticed I’m haven’t been posting much. There are reasons for that. Here’s one reason:

I am experiencing a great ambivalence about using the Internet, and putting “content” on the Internet, not just on the Tent Show, but in particular on Facebook and Twitter, because every word, image, click is a donation, an abdication of self and others to the great hydraulic engines of surveillance capital.

“Great hydraulic engines of surveillance capital” is a high-falutin’ way to put it, but here’s the spot where it rubs: I take many, many pictures of my grandchildren, and I used to post these pictures on Facebook for friends and relatives to view. Now I have trouble persuading myself to share these images via Facebook, even though Facebook is the primary conduit between me and most people I know, particularly my family. But the thought that thousands of images and posts of and about my grandchildren will belong to Facebook, and be the dominating narrative of their childhood, as “curated” by Facebook, is deeply disturbing. All done without their adult consent. And people all “around me” continue to post such things to Facebook with apparent thoughtless abandon.

I want to share all the pretty pictures of my grandkids too, but this is where I feel most the acute sense of apprehension about posting anything online. Particularly anything personal, but even a meme or viddy posted is a data point collected. I don’t feel the personal danger, but that the whole enterprise has gone wrong, or been wrong from the start, and that contributing my mite to monetized parasocial media like Facebook is giving to the wrongness, not subverting it. Rather, the medium absorbs and converts any subversive intent into commerce.

So, Pilgrims, I’m asking what you think (crowd-sourcing, in today’s parlance). I should disregard the apprehension I feel, and post rants on the Tent Show and pics of grandkids on Facebook, with rueful ruthlessness? Resign myself to/embrace the role of me and mine as spare change in the algorithmic cloud banks of Mark Zuckerberg’s back pocket? Is there a middle way? Or no way?

My grandkids are really impossibly cute.




Thank You

broken tree text give thanks JhengHai