^folk, (o)=e

excerpt from my journal:

———————
“I think there’s really something magical about folk music. I’m sitting in Connemara in a pub and there’s these 3 guys just chillin’ with a few traditional instruments (staples. guitar, accordion, folk guitar, mandolin i think…?). Every time I listen to this stuff I get swept away to another world and time, where people performed to share and to keep things alive — when stories were told instead of written… when stories were sung and danced instead of told. Why does this idea hold so much power for me?
Perhaps because I am a writer. I write stories down. I want folklore to be squeezed into 2D, but no one can quite seem to manage it — there’s an element of human flesh and blood and experience in it deeper than anything that can be nailed down on a page in black and unmoving white. The whole give-response mechanism is truly different. Utterly different. It cannot be flattened — it IS music. It flies through the air and buries itself in people’s hearts, and people’s hearts give back… The nature of this creating is continual and communal. An holistic expression of Heidegger’s ‘Being’… ha! I love it.
Joy.”

c. Mary Kathryn Gough, spring 2006, clifden, connemara

Advertisements

Today

I cannot write. Cannot write, cannot write cannotwritecannotwrite.
There is nothing to say, it’s all been read,saidanddone. I cannot write
right: my idealism won’t countenance these mongrel awkwardnesses, won’t
afford them the space, award them the effort, free them for flight —
the gut-dropping, nose-first dive I know it will inevitably be. I cannot write
for that. Not for that. Never. for. that. clipped and terrifying journey.
Each work in turn too small, too frail, too crippled, too pained, too
unfinished… unacclaimed.

But is this the true root of the issue? That I am simply downtrodden
by rejection, by anonymity, by the bruises and blisters, the loss of
braincells resulting from my headfirst dashes at the thick, glass ceiling
above, between me and — who knows what?
Maybe the real problem is that I don’t believe in anything upon anything
else anymore, not after the candle burned out, after the fire died, its smokey
tail lifted away and up to a place I cannot reach or imagine: dissipation.

Now all I can imagine is what I can’t have: the end of the line, that bright and
beckoning finish line, that warm and fulfilling completion that, all said and
done, stops Be-ing, stops weaving, jumping, meaning, feeling, sharing,
hoping: a stagnant place of immobility and grey, building block of infinity
brought to naught, all the curves removed, the shapes nothing without
motion, motive, destination,and the forge fires of Hope.

Death, of a strange kind, is what I seek now, all un-beknownst to
my lackluster soul.

Grey

 

I’m still in this place. Sometimes it seems I never leave.
*

Gallery, 2014

Imagine, if you will
a gallery piece
installed,
a row of plants at progressing
stages of growth, lined up in
pots and flash-frozen in time, breathing cold puffs,
crystalline
almost synthetic.

Imagine also
the moment the exhibit
starts
to disintegrate, freeing
gouged and frozen cells one by
one by one by
one in
unwilling surrender to Death
nutrient-free, famished, value
less.

Imagine, if you will
our lives, taken
out of sine, cosine, curve:

motion
less.

 

~ KG

*

Phenomenological Movement Journal

Katie Huffman / PHIL 340 / Halteman

Journal # 1.5 (date?) ; Response to the Phonomenological Movement

Several Quotations I reacted to very strongly:

“When epistemological inquiry sought to answer the question of how the subject, filled with his own representations, knows the external world and can be certain of its reality, the phenomenological critique showed how pointless such a question is” (p.131).

“To that extent, the method of phenomenology, in contrast to all scientific methods, is a method which has no foundation, the way of a “transcendental experience,” not an empirical induction. For it must first create its ground for itself” (p.160).

“Now all these relativities, even out captivity in our own life-world, which has become historical, lose their disconcerting meaning when the eidos “life-world” as such and the range of it’s variation is known” (p161-162).

“The idea of a gathering of all the past into the “absolute” present of an “absolute knowledge” proves itself to be absurd. Just as the future, which fades away into the uncertain distance, is incorporated into the immediate flow of the ego as an infinite horizon, so does the past, which also fades into the distance” (p.162).

The idea of philosophy and the use of language being the self-healing of self-inflicted wounds (p.177) was also particularly striking to me. That “the field of language is not only the place of reduction for all philosophical ignorance, but rather itself an actual whole of interpretation that, from the days of Plato and Aristotle till today, requires not only to be accepted, but to be thought through to the end again and again…” rung so true.

I really liked the articulation that “we are ever and again only “on the way to language”” (p.177).

This reading, though very difficult, was joyously so. The challenge was fascinating and I loved every minute I spent with it! 🙂 Many things hearkened back to our class lectures and the few texts we had thus far consumed 😉 but I only caught onto a few, I know. In reading the piece over again I find more and more that I can say I have a fuller understanding of where I had only an inkling of meaning and direction before…

c. Mary Kathryn Gough (huffman, maiden)

Beauty

It’s pouring in clear sheets outside in the dark, and the trees’ branches are like many arms in a wild dance with the wind… The sound of the water falling, making contact with earth and with my dwelling makes me content. I feel clean and whole inside. I pray this is not the last day of this storm — what Glory!
—–
Your thousand limbs rend my body.
This is the way to die:
Beauty keeps laying
Its sharp knife
Against
Me.
~Hafiz (love!)

c. Mary Kathryn Gough, journal excerpt fall ’05