between name and thing

Go ahead. Say it. Go ahead. Name it.

You’re confident, aren’t you, that you can say it, put it into words, explain it?

Better than those you’re with. Smarter, faster, more clever than any of the others. 

Right? Isn’t that it? Come on up. Collect your prize. You’re the best.

Naming appears as a queer connexion of a word with an object.—And you really get such a queer connexion when a philosopher tries to bring out the relation between name and thing by staring at an object in front of him and repeating a name or even the word “this” innumerable times. For philosophical problems arise when language goes on holiday.

—Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations, §38

We barely know how to speak. Words are foreign objects temporarily occupying our mouth then moving out, leaving town, no forwarding address.

Perhaps one of our greatest problems is learning the language of whole-speech. That rare communication when we say what we mean and mean what we say. When language seems to hold reality in its pronunciation.

That odd occurrence when spoken things come into being.

When words matter.

Becoming flesh.

Dwelling in our midst.

Telling truth.

abgrunde

The difficulty is to realize the groundlessness of our believing.

It’s Saturday. Finish Legends of the Fall by Jim Harrison. I am left with quiet feeling of keen residual grounded appreciation for such storytelling.

And then:

At the foundation/ground [Grunde] of well-grounded belief lies belief that is not grounded.

—Ludwig Wittgenstein

And: 

Insofar as being essentially comes to be as ground/reason [Grund], it has no ground/reason. However this is not because it founds itself, but because every foundation—even and especially self-founded ones—remain inappropriate to being as ground/reason. . . . Being qua being remains ground-less. . . . As what is to be thought, it becomes, from out of its truth, what gives a measure. The manner in which thinking thinks must conform to this measure.

Being “is” in essence: ground/reason [Grund]. Therefore being can never first have a ground/reason which could supposedly ground it. . . . Being “is” the abyss [Abgrunde] in the sense of such a remaining-apart of reason from being. To the extent that being as such grounds, it remains groundless.

—Martin Heidegger

(—epigraph,  Groundless Grounds, A Study of Wittgenstein and Heidegger, by Lee Braver, 2012)

Sitting in chapel/zendo, one can appreciate that Being “is” the abyss, ungrounded and ungrounding, the way time and all telling reside in the cornering stillness/silence of narrative cessation.

No need to look for each other. What is looking is groundless discovery without recognition.

Only love suffices.

The utterance “I love you”  — if finding breath, rejoins.

why violence is a poor option and unsatisfactory solution

Sound of rain gives way to cool sunshine along maine coast as many are said to gather to protest the odd man elected to executive branch top position. I am agnostic. I don’t know what is taking place. Nor am I interested in the caberet on the streets of D.C. and elsewhere. Someone, I suspect, will eventually decide a simpler ballistic route of resolution rather than the ponderous and frustrating route of legislation, debate, and judicial ruling. 

We are, by and large, a violent country. And greed knows no reigning in of runaway profits and immunity from wrongdoing. I do not approve of violent solutions to problems, but I recognize inevitability in the eyes of the disillusioned and disappointed. It will probably be one of his close followers.

Perhaps there will be a change of heart on the part of a heartless top tier leadership. I don’t know. Maybe. It’s a better solution for the country. We like to believe that there’s a merciful God who will effect thoughtful and sane reconciliation. I like that thought. We’d adjust. Let them keep their billions and billions of booty. Just go away.

Really, just go away.

  “And we are not afraid” 1922 by Nicholas Roerich

Consider a new life, far from your old one.

òχι (no)

 Enough of this foolishness with the false-Jesus and his disreputable disciples in this blasphemous administration.

Gospel	Matthew 5:33-37

Do not swear: say 'Yes' if you mean Yes, 'No' if you mean No

Jesus said to his disciples: ‘You have learnt how it was said to our ancestors: You must not break your oath, but must fulfil your oaths to the Lord. But I say this to you: do not swear at all, either by heaven, since that is God’s throne; or by the earth, since that is his footstool; or by Jerusalem, since that is the city of the great king. Do not swear by your own head either, since you cannot turn a single hair white or black. All you need say is “Yes” if you mean yes, “No” if you mean no; anything more than this comes from the evil one.’  (14june2025)

No.

I mean “No!”

(If you need me, I’ll be in the chapel/zendo of the hermitage.) 

poetry is what is (being) written

 Maybe poetry 

is difficult 

because it tells 

a truth 

beyond emotion 

beyond description

What is 

that truth ...

Yes, 

that is 

what is 

poetry

it’s just not funny

Did you hear the one about the war between Israel and Iran?

No.

Too bad, it’s a long one and the punchline is a familiar name from across the river in Queens.

No thanks. I don’t want to hear it or his name.

the bilious dyspepsia

Some people don’t like saints. They don’t like the emphasis on Mary. Some people don’t like Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, Catholics, Jews, Orthodox, agnostics, atheists, liberals, conservatives, Irish, Italians, Arabs, Hispanics, or used car salesmen.

No telling about taste.

Nor about preferences or prejudices.

Tomorrow’s the feast of Anthony of Padua. I like that I remember that. Part of my youthful calendar of names and dates. There was a festival in Brooklyn. It seemed every other kid was named Anthony.

There’s no explaining taste or preference or opinion. It just seems to be there.

Iran was attacked by Israel today. A United States senator was wrestled to the ground and handcuffed by federal hotshots in the posse of the secretary of homeland security. 

We’re not sure anymore what side of anything the president and his unmerry band of desperadoes are on, nor why they seem to be filled with so much bile.

I don’t know.

It might not last much longer.

The bilious dyspepsia. (δυσπεψία)

The country.

The unhappy citizenry.

trust broken beyond repair

After reading these concluding words, go back and read his whole piece.

It is sober reading.

The young Guardsmen and women called up are not so different from those who marched onto the Ohio campus decades ago. They come from small towns and sprawling cities, from Akron and Topeka and Sacramento. They have lives and families waiting for them, futures that may never fully recover the weight of what they are asked to do. And yet, they are given orders: “hold the line,” “maintain order,” “be a presence.” Promises that safety will be kept, that the violence will be contained. Promises that echo hollow when the air grows thick with tension. 

 

The protesters they face are not disorganized mobs but citizens claiming their rights with quiet defiance ,standing still amid tear gas, facing rubber bullets, holding their ground with the same fragile courage as the girl in the denim skirt. This is not chaos but a reckoning. A nation confronting the erosion of its own democratic soul. 

 

The past is never past. History waits patiently, like a tuning fork inside the chest, vibrating beneath the surface. The pressure builds. The air grows heavy. 

 

We are reminded that the forces of repression do not arrive fully formed but begin with orders whispered into the ears of young soldiers,orders that demand loyalty over conscience, obedience over reflection. And once the trigger is pulled, once the line is crossed, the consequences ripple outward,lives lost, families shattered, trust broken beyond repair. 

 

The administration today openly undermines the foundations of law and democracy. It embraces authoritarian language and tactics, flouting the Constitution while demanding fealty. This is not the stuff of quiet governance but the beginning of a dangerous experiment in state power.

As in 1970, the question remains: who will remember the lessons of Kent State? Who will resist the siren call of violent order? Who will stand with those who refuse to be silenced? 

 

The answer is not assured. The future depends on the choices made in these charged moments, on the willingness of individuals to see beyond orders and slogans, to recognize the fragile humanity beneath the uniforms, and to refuse the repetition of tragedy. 

 

The wounds of Kent State bleed into the present, and the nation’s conscience is tested once again.

(--from The Girl in the Parking Lot, How the Past Became a Warning We Ignored, by TOM JOAD, JUN 12, 2025, Substack)

our current symphony without sympathy

 I have thrown a United States serving Senator to the ground, handcuffed him, disgracing civility and democratic discourse, argument, and legitimate disagreement.

I threw him down because he is Hispanic, first and foremost, and only secondarily that he is a Senator of the pervert party that hates this country and doesn’t want it to be great again.

Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name

unpronounced poem unwritten

 Anyone not a poet

Understands poetry

Is annoying

Go ahead

Don’t write a poem

See?

Instead, look

Out over open

Harbor, bite a beignet

Write no words

How easy it is

To be the poem

Not written

No pen, no paper

No measured meter

ob (li) v i o us (ly)

 Little known fact

Up and down

In and out

This and that

Meet in middle

Relinquish their names

Become known as

“Right here”

Going nowhere slse

weren’t mine

 But somebody’s birthday breakfast overlooking Rockport Harbor.

Whew, that’s done.

as simple as this

 What I

Cannot hear

Is near

don’t think about it

 pure consciousness

refuses to say

what it is not

it is not

that you think

all the spews that fit their imprint

 I didn’t know elite liberals 

want nuclear war because 

they have top-of-the-line

 fallout shelter bunkers

Thanks Tulsi Gabbard 

for this news

You are a terrific woman 

working for terrific men

(what’s their names)

you know who I mean

rhymes with sputen

sounds like rump

what a great time to be here

 i'm glad I was born in america

I like egg creams and Nathan’s 

stickball and stoop ball 

and now, fascistic boss -- such a 

rarity -- so few in the world

I get to keep all my wealth

toss rubber bullets at women 

kill kids with aids and cancer

mock college presidents, insult

free press, choke the elderly --

this is so different, such a lark

and such a handsome president

I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else

my christian brothers and sisters

bend the knee to blond spray tan

after kicking Jesus to the curb

closing hospitals and health clinics

telling god to get the f**k outa here

it is so impressive, the swagger

the sneering superiority, the death-

knell ringing over countryside

of course god will be there as god will be there

We’re not sure what to do

Give in to chaos

Or, oppose it, strenuously

I asked God

God said oppose it

Ok, let’s 

Well, that’s that

The agents of chaos

Don’t stand a chance

Eh God?

Eh?

God?

else

 Some think the current president of this country

is a criminal, mentally disturbed, morally depraved

I don’t agree with that assessment. I think he is

someone who suffers from reality and mortality

Like many of us he will soon die. He doesn’t know

what to do about this fact, so he brays and struts

shovels in mounds of money, mocks people, and

just doesn’t care about anybody else, no one else

Else, else, else — an interlude:

else

1

a

: in a different manner or place or at a different time

how else could he have acted

here and nowhere else

b

: in an additional manner or place or at an additional time

where else is gold found

2

: if not : OTHERWISE 

leave or else you'll be sorry

—used absolutely to express a threat

As someone who prays, please tell him for me I pray for him

that his fear does not cripple all of us, that his hate does not

immobilize all of us, that his greed does not suffocate all of us

 that his false bravado does not put bullets in blood circulating bodies

“Soon dead” the Korean zen master would say. I suspect he meant it

to cheer us up, wear clean underwear, pick up tossed shirts behind door

look around, take in sight of what surrounds, feed cats, let dog out

Listen . . . The Silence . . . Beneath and surrounding everything —

The president is probably not as awful as he pretends to be, not by

a long shot — he probably wishes he married a farm girl who bakes

bread and makes soups and drives to the gas station to fill up unleaded

Ordinary life is so much more attractive than dress-up and pretend, more

satisfying than wanting everyone to fear you, praise you, owe you —

It must be exhausting -- It must be deflating and nauseating to always

want to be so big, so important, so superior, so incomparable 

to everyone — to know that, as you die, there’s nothing you can do, 

nothing to bargain with, nothing to say that matters (except ‘I love you’)

nothing remaining, nothing of you to fill off-shore account, nothing left --

just you, what you were, what you are, what you understand of

the universe, of time, of being, of the last pair of eyes looking into yours,

of caring, otherwise,

going in style

grenade

Let’s look on the bright side. Mr. Trump has pulled the pin on a grenade which is now stuck in his hand. 

I hope he finds the pin, puts it back, puts the grenade down, and walks away.

Hell, as Commander in Chief, you would think he’s aware of the explosion about to go off, the annihilation. 

Stop, Now!

flight from one's usual environment

 “I don’t know what happens when people die / Can’t seem to grasp it as hard as I try” (Jackson Browne, in “For a Dancer”)

Got to thinking about the Ascension. Read Thomas Aquinas, didn’t clear up much. Reddit chipped in, but also didn’t satisfy.

At times it seems the truth ignores me as if I were not capable of grasping it while everyone else nods and affirms what they are being told about it.

Maybe it's about worms --"Nobody likes me, / Everybody hates me, / Guess I'll go eat worms.”

In prison today conversation turned about usury and the predatory nature of banks, credit card companies, and scamming gangs ripping off the elderly and others’ emptied bank accounts. One participant said it was the oldest profession, (in his view) -- stealing from another.

Whether I eat worms or worms eat me is not relevant here. And theft and scams are now, it seems, official policy of leadership in these dis-United States -- not to exclude the prostitution of both decency and law rife and scandalously coming from disrespectful upper echelon of our social and political ascendants.

And there’s that word again -- ascension.

Where did Jesus go? And from where, as the narrative goes, will he return?

Let me tell you a story.

It’s about the λόγος -- The Ancient Greek word λόγος (pronounced "log-os") has a rich and multifaceted meaning, encompassing "word," "speech," "reason," "discourse," and even "law". In philosophical contexts, it can refer to the principle of order and reason governing the universe. In Christianity, it's translated as "Word" and is often used to refer to Jesus Christ.  (AI Overview)

It’s about order, reason, and word.

It’s also about silence -- 

Disorderly, 

unreasonable, and 

unworded reality.  

 

Silence. 

 

If Jesus was (or is) 

the word of god or 

(Word of God) we have 

to consider whence it comes 

and where it goes.  

 

And here I park all thought

turn off radio, pull out key

(it’s an old truck)

and sit staring at 

the breeze wavering leaves. 

 

They go nowhere but where 

they are, shimmying to rhythm

only they hear and feel

gift of afternoon, dance of 

unexposed energetics pulsing 

 

beyond window behind buddha,

cross, stone, and crucifix, 

Madonna and child, burnt-out

tea candle, ash of incense,  

 

silence. . .

 I’m sorry. What was I saying? A fugue was moving through my consciousness. 

Nothing registers. 

Were you saying something? 

fugue

  /fyo͞oɡ/ 

noun 

1. MUSIC a contrapuntal composition in which a short melody or phrase (the subject) is introduced by one part and successively taken up by others and developed by interweaving the parts.

 

2. PSYCHIATRY a state or period of loss of awareness of one's identity, often coupled with flight from one's usual environment, associated with certain forms of hysteria and epilepsy.

Now, then, let’s get back to our investigation.

It seems to me ...

What? 

You say I’m finished?

You say there’s nowhere else I can go?

Why would that be?

You say there’s nothing left for me? 

Nothing left of me?

What do you mean?

No, really -- What do you mean?

Who do you think you are?

What? 

I can’t hear you.

Hello?

Hello?

Hello?  

[Silentio]

[Exeunt omnes]

monday stop by

Back from prison, Rockport harbor

Visitors come to short wharf

Take picture, look left, right, leave

mere inspiration

Bowl of soup

Piece of pie

Seltzer water

Holy Spirit 

every tree is different, this-attentiveness

From The Paris Review: 

HARRISON

Antaeus magazine wanted me to write a piece for their issue about nature. I told them I couldn’t write about nature but that I’d write them a little piece about getting lost and all the profoundly good aspects of being lost—the immense fresh feeling of really being lost. I said there that my definition of magic in the human personality, in fiction and in poetry, is the ultimate level of attentiveness. Nearly everyone goes through life with the same potential perceptions and baggage, whether it’s marriage, children, education, or unhappy childhoods, whatever; and when I say attentiveness I don’t mean just to reality, but to what’s exponentially possible in reality. I don’t think, for instance, that Márquez is pushing it in One Hundred Years of Solitude—that was simply his sense of reality. The critics call this magic realism, but they don’t understand the Latin world at all. Just take a trip to Brazil. Go into the jungle and take a look around. This old Chippewa I know—he’s about seventy-five years old—said to me, “Did you know that there are people who don’t know that every tree is different from every other tree?” This amazed him. Or don’t know that a nation has a soul as well as a history, or that the ground has ghosts that stay in one area. All this is true, but why are people incapable of ascribing to the natural world the kind of mystery that they think they are somehow deserving of but have never reached? This attentiveness is your main tool in life, and in fiction, or else you’re going to be boring. As Rimbaud said, which I believed very much when I was nineteen and which now I’ve come back to, for our purposes as artists, everything we are taught is false—everything. 

(--Jim Harrison, The Art of Fiction No. 104, Interviewed by Jim Fergus, Issue 107, The Paris Review, Summer 1988) 

It is the feast of Pentecost today.

Perhaps the best representation of what this feast accentuates is about “this” -- This-attentiveness is your main tool in life. [emphasis added]

We also might say today that “emphasis added” is the essential practice of the ordinariness of prayer.

different accentuation

 The lad in Vermont missed it, asked if I caught it on CNN live last night.

Watched it. Liked it. Paid close attention to the stagecraft — the use of the set as 4 or 5 areas of attention highlighted by raising and lowering the lighting and flow into different accentuation.

The script was vintage Morrow — clipped, direct, unbullshitting. Use of fifties jazz group as shifting interludes was effective.  

My having experienced Fred Friendly and Ed Morrow in real time back then gave texture to the play. All in all I understand why everybody and everyone else flocked to see it. Of course, Clooney was perfectly Clooney and Morrow. Was waiting to see if Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts were going to waltz onstage for a cameo, but didn’t happen. First time a live performance of a broadway play in national tv. 

Happy Pentecost to you — may you be inspired!

Dad

Good experience, and good memories, theater. 

decent, descent, decant

 It’s a nice thought

Holiness descending

That, were it true,

Fire of love arrives

Desolate no more

Were it true