Monday, January 20, 2025

In the Year of the Snake

 


“You knew damn well I was a snake before you brought me in.”


The hexagrams of the I Ching, six-bit, eight sided, sixty four in all, serve as oracles of occasion. Although it is the Book of Changes it is outside of time, founded in an unchanging natural and social landscape. The signs of the Chinese zodiac, on the other hand, are bound to a calendar cycle; twelve signs matched with five elements for a complete cycle of 60 years. Although it repeats it is not the same. This Year of the Wood Snake, 4723, is not 4663 although that was also a Year of the Wood Snake, nor is it 4783, the next iteration in the cycle. 

There are ways of assigning hexagrams to years but there is no enforced agreement on which hexagram goes with which year. I take that, on no authority whatsoever, as permission to wander afield in prophecies of political-economy for this most uncertain of snake years.

Ask Google Gemini which hexagram goes with this new year and it will tell you it's 5, Waiting; the trigram Water above and Heaven below. 

When clouds rise in the sky, it is a sign that it will rain. There is nothing to do but to wait until the rain falls. It is the same in life when destiny is at work. We should not worry and seek to shape the future by interfering in things before the time is ripe. We should quietly fortify the body with food and drink and the mind with gladness and good cheer. Fate comes when it will, and thus we are ready.


Quietist advice. Seems the Democratic leadership is taking it to heart.

The danger is not yet close. One is still waiting on the open plain. Conditions are still simple, yet there is a feeling of something impending. One must continue to lead a regular life as long as possible. Only in this way does one guard against a premature waste of strength, keep free of blame and error that would become a source of weakness later on.

Ok, at least something is impending. Suddenly...

The situation is extremely dangerous. It is of utmost gravity now-a matter of life and death. Bloodshed seems imminent. There is no going forward or backward; we are cut off as if in a pit. Now we must simply stand fast and let fate take its course. This composure, which keeps us from aggravating the trouble by anything we might do, is the only way of getting out of the dangerous pit.


Dire auspices.

Even in the midst of danger there come intervals of peace when things go relatively well. If we possess enough inner strength, we shall take advantage of these intervals to fortify ourselves for renewed struggle. We must know how to enjoy the moment without being deflected from the goal, for perseverance is needed to remain victorious. This is true in public life as well; it is not possible to achieve everything all at once. The height of wisdom is to allow people enough recreation to quicken pleasure in their work until the task is completed.


But other sources take us to hexagram 38, Opposition; the trigram Fire above and Lake below. Now we're talking.

When people live in opposition and estrangement they cannot carry out a great undertaking in common; their points of view diverge too widely. In such circumstances one should above all not proceed brusquely, for that would only increase the existing opposition; instead, one should limit oneself to producing gradual effects in small matters. Here success can still be expected, because the situation is such that the opposition does not preclude all agreement.


Again, sounds almost like standing still. But, if we want to speak of the dangers of proceeding brusquely, it becomes pretty clear to which faction this applies.

The two elements, fire and water, never mingle but even when in contact retain their own natures. So the cultured person is never led into baseness or vulgarity through intercourse or community of interests with persons of another sort; regardless of all commingling, they will always preserve their individuality.

Baseness, vulgarity? We would never..

If you lose your horse do not run after it; it will come back of its own accord.

When you see evil people guard yourself against mistakes.


Well, all right.

A person misjudges their best friends, taking them to be as unclean as a dirty pig and as dangerous as a wagon full of devils. They adopt an attitude of defense. But in the end, realizing their mistake, they lay aside the bow, perceiving that the other is approaching with the best intentions for the purpose of close union. Thus the tension is relieved. The union resolves the tension, just as falling rain relieves the sultriness preceding a thunderstorm. All goes well, for just when opposition reaches its climax it changes over to its antithesis.

Scratch my head on that one. Divination is a tricky business. Not a good beginning, but a good end.


All quotes from the Cary F. Barnes translation of Richard Wilhelm's German translation.

Saturday, December 21, 2024

Another Xmas, Another Trip to Fireball Island



It's not Christmas without the Starship Enterprise Magi


Oh, the treacherous trails of Fireball Island


Where all must bow to the will of Vu-Kar


Coward! Back on the trail!


All must seek the Precious Jewel


Perhaps, if we can only make it to the Bridge of Fear and Loathing


We would be safe from the Ire of Vu-Kar


And so, one intrepid explorer found harbor with Jewel in hand


And to all a Good Night!


Thursday, November 7, 2024

Brooklyn Bridge - Vladimir Mayakovsky


 

Brooklyn Bridge


Proclaim, Coolidge,

a shout of joy!

To the good 

                    and I don’t apologize for the words.

Blush red 

                from my praise 

                                         like the flag of our motherland,

even if you’re 

                       the disunited states of

America.

Like an obsessed believer

                                           goes 

                                                    to church,

Withdrawing, 

                      austere and simple, 

                                                       to a cell, -

So I 

        at a vespers 

                            seeming so gray,

Walk onto, 

                  humble, the Brooklyn Bridge.

As into a city, 

                      into its destruction, 

                                                     the conqueror makes his way

on cannons - with a muzzle 

                                             as tall as a giraffe -

so, giddy with glory, 

                                 satisfied at nothing,

I clamber up, 

                      proud, 

                                 onto the Brooklyn Bridge.

Like an idiot artist 

                             into the museum's madonna

thrusts his eye, 

                         enamored and sharp,

so I, 

        from a sky, 

                          peppered with stars

look 

        at New York 

                            through the Brooklyn Bridge.

New York 

                until the evening heavy 

                                                      and stifling,

I forgot 

            how heavy it is 

                                     and tall,

and it’s only 

                    hobgoblin spirits

that rise up 

                   in the clear luminescence of the windows.

Here 

         it hardly itches, 

                                  the elevators’ itch.

And it’s only 

                    by this quiet itch

that you will understand - 

                                         the trains creeping along, rattling,

as though 

                 putting the dishes in the cupboard.

When then, 

                   it seemed, from down river

a peddler began 

                           delivering sugar 

                                                     from the mill, -

that 

       under the bridge the passing masts

measured 

                 no more than the size of pins.

I’m proud 

                here’s this mile of steel,

alive from it 

                   my visions have risen -

a struggle 

                 for structures 

                                       rather than fashions,

a rough accounting 

                                of nuts 

                                            and steel.

If 

   it comes 

                 the end of the world -

chaos 

           will polish 

                           the planet,

and the only 

                     thing left will be 

                                               this,

erected over the dust of ruination a bridge,

then 

        in the way that from bones, 

                                                    more slender than needles,

they grow stout 

                         the dinosaurs 

                                                mounted in museums,

so 

     from this bridge 

                               a geologist in days to come

will be able 

                   to reconstruct 

                                          the present day.

He will say: 

                   - You see this 

                                          steel paw

that united 

                  the seas and the prairies,

from here 

                Europe 

                             burst into the West,

throwing 

               to the wind 

                                 Indian feathers.

It looks like 

                   a machine 

                                     this rib here -

think about it, 

                      are there enough hands,

to, standing 

                    with a steel foot 

                                              on Manhattan,

to pull Brooklyn 

                          by its lip 

                                        all this way?

By the wires 

                     of the electric strand -

I know - 

              after the steam 

                                       age -

here 

        people 

                   already 

                               were shouting on the radio,

here 

        people 

                    already 

                                were soaring in the air.

Here 

         life 

              was for some - carefree,

for others - 

                  a famished prolonged wail.

From here 

                  the unemployed

into the Hudson 

                          threw themselves 

                                                       head first.

Next 

        my painting 

                           without a snag

along strings - the cables 

                                         right to the feet of the stars.

I see - 

           here 

                   stood Mayakovsky,

stood 

          and wrote poetry syllable by syllable -

I’m watching, 

                      like an eskimo looking at a train,

I bite, 

          like a tick bites into an ear.

Brooklyn Bridge -

Oh yes… 

                That’s the thing! 


Vladimir Mayakovsky - 1925

translation - Barry Link


Tuesday, October 29, 2024

I Smell Mischief!




Pumpkin Chiffon Pie!

Roll of the Die

The Collapsed Room

Upstairs

The Patio

Zoe Ingstrom

Crimson Jack

Hot Stuff