Part of the joy of Dancing is Conversation. Trouble is, Some Men Can't Talk and Dance at the Same Time." - Ginger Rogers

 

 

Night trains

And the goodbye dance

 

Promises

No one believes

 

Just a few steps

In silence before the whistle

 

Night trains

And the farewell

Lonely

Walk

 

July 14, 2023

© Vahé Kazandian, 2023

Stony Wall

 

 

If I left

My cup still full

It was because

I kept my lips

Upon its rim

For a while

 

If I left

My words silent

I kept them as a poem

On the pages

Of time

For all

Times

 

If I left

I kept of my stay

The reason why

All fires 

Become dormant

But their amber

Remains

 

July 4, 2023

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2023

Stream of Consciousness: From Psychology to Philosophy and the Arts

 

 

It is the 4^th of July weekend, and there are gatherings all around town. A friend invited me to meet his neighbors over food and celebration.

Since I did not know most of the attendees, he introduced me as “a man who has criss-crossed the continents and lived in more than half a dozen countries.” And soon I was asked “where did you live for the longest time?”

Having been asked this question before, I knew there was no good way of avoiding further questions, no matter what my answer was. So I tried a new approach:

“I have inhabited my own self all my life”

And to my surprise, everyone was a bit puzzled, did not follow-up on my response, and we went on to talk about what we do in the High Desert of Arizona.

On the way back, I wondered why I chose the answer I gave. After all, don’t we all “inhabit our own selves”? Or do we?

 

To my delight, this simple moment made me think of the novelist and philosopher Iris Murdock (1919-1999) and her writings about the arts and love. Most à propos to my thinking about the “self” was her definition of love (and the arts) as the act of “unselfing”.

So, I took my dog for a walk then sat down to read some of her essays and refresh my memory.

… I learned about “stream of consciousness” through a psychology class when Alexander Bain, the Scottish philosopher, was introduced. He cornered the term in 1855 almost four decades before William James, the father of American Psychology, used Bain’s definition to describe how we organize the stream of thoughts when we are aware (conscious) of these thoughts.

Years later, I discovered that Virginia Woolf had pioneered the use of stream of consciousness as a narrative mode to depict the plethora of thoughts and feelings which pass through the mind of a narrator.  In the process of learning more about the use of a unifying concept in psychology and literature I was surprised to that “stream of consciousness” was not first proposed by Bain, nor James, but by Daniel Oliver, a physician and academic from New England, in 1835 in First Lines of Physiology: Designed for the Use of Students of Medicine. He wrote:

If we separate from this mingled and moving stream of consciousness, our sensations and volitions, which are constantly giving it a new direction, and suffer it to pursue its own spontaneous course, it will appear, upon examination, that this, instead of being wholly fortuitous and uncertain, is determined by certain fixed laws of thought, which are collectively termed the association of ideas”

Finally, it was through my readings about Virginia Woolf that I learned about Iris Murdoch, and through analysis of my own stream of consciousness, realised how her describing beauty and art as “an occasion for unselfing” and love as the act of unselfing, had influenced my behavior as a health care professional and an artist.

 

… So, should I have responded to the question “where did you live for the longest time?” by “I inhabited my own self all my life, yet my most glorious memories are those when I unselfed”?

I will try that next time the opportunity presents.

 

July 1, 2023

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2023

 

PS/ I took this street photo in Paris. It is one that I have not published given its poor quality, but somehow I felt it now fits well with the concept of “stream of consciousness.”

 

Blurred Photo on a Wall

 

 

 

As if the old in all of us

On a rainy August morning

Walked away from the window

Which looked over to a brick wall

Held together

By the courtesy

Of frigid

Time

 

And left unturned the single bed where every spring

Still recalls the dreams and lonesome turns

Framed by walls where black and white moments remain

On warped paper, hanging on nails

To look over

Of the old in us

Listening

To the

Springs

 

A Meerschaum pipe and a bottle of Grappa

Next to the bed

Glow in the morning rays

That bounces upon the brick wall

For a short while, to start each day

For the old of us to leaf  

Through a poetry book

And recite

Aloud

Ja ma armastan Sind, sest

Or

Ho bisogno di poesia,

Questa magia che brucia la

Pesantezza delle parole

 

And

End in a murmur

With lines once whispered alone

Under a bridge

C’est la grâce

tremblante

à la force

appuyée,

C’est ta main

dans ma main

doucement

oubliée

June 25, 2023

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2023

Growing Roses in a Garbage Pan

 

May was Lily of the Valley month. It is a flowering plant I like as it is very hardy and can be found in various environments, including the harsh ecosystem of deserts.

I also like the lily because of many references in the literature about its unassuming yet inviting flowers compared to the more flamboyant rose, which has captured the imagination of every poet who used a flower as a metonym for a feeling, such a passion, love, sorrow or dependency.  My favorite descriptions of the lily of the valley flowers come from Germanic legend and mythology. Indeed in Christian legend, Eve's tears are said to have turned into lilies of the valley as she and Adam were expelled from the Garden of Eden. And in Old Norse mythology, these flowers have symbolised the purity and humility of the virgin goddess Ostara, who transformed a  bird whose wings were frozen into a hare, so a bird that cannot fly can still live by hopping.

Among many uses of the rose and lily comparison in poetry, I have often returned to the rather simple words of Victorian poet Christina Rossetti (1830-1894).

The lily has a smooth stalk,

Will never hurt your hand;

But the rose upon her brier

is lady of the land.

Yet, the “lady of the land” is dangerous through her thorns. Perhaps Rossetti reminds us that sweetness and passion, when concomitant, have to be handled with care.

But almost a century before Rossetti, another famous English poet, William Blake, used the rose and the lily to tackle dimensions of love such as passion, loyalty, strength and purity.

In 1794 Blake included the poem “The Lily” in his collection of Songs of Experience. Here is one stanza reminding us of Rossetti’s poem:

The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,

The humble sheep a threat'ning horn:

While the Lily white shall in love delight,

Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

So, using flowers to personify human (animal?) feelings and behaviour is a lovely strategy to convey both visual and philosophical guidance.

Growing up, one of the metaphors my father used was

                         “The best flowers grow next to the outhouse door”

to prepare me for optimism regarding the challenges of life.

 

… So May is Lily of the Valley month, reminding us of humility, resilience and beauty.

 

June 15, 2023

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2023

“Every Man Has his Folly, But the Greatest Folly Of all Is Not to Have One.” Kazantzakis/Zorba

 

If I show you the steps would you watch me dance?

I did not like to watch steps, but just let the dance guide me. And often, the serpentine path I found ahead of me, I did not follow. Perhaps I knew where it ended. Where all paths eventually get out of breath, a place with no foot prints.

 

If I whistle would you hear the summer rain?

Watching the window glass run tears reminds me, still, of August rains. And also of the exhale from asphalt roads, dirt paths, and angry seas. To listen again how quiet those tears once were; and how a lonely walk in narrow streets ended under balconies to shelter from hearing the whistle.

 

 If I give you the steps, would you dance?

Steps make a dance predictable. A dance should be a reflection of the moment, not a prescription. Kazantzakis best described it for all the inner Zorbas in us when Basil asked Zorba “Teach me to dance” – he was actually asking "Teach me how to find myself." “Teach me to live.”

The dance on that Greek island beach had nothing to do with dancing. It was a Sufi moment of exploration.

 

If I watch you dance, would you remember to stay still?

If I dance, I will hear the music. But when I stay still, I only hear myself.  It is like sitting atop a wall to hear the ocean. Eventually, one forgets the waves.

 

And if I change the steps, would you gently get up and dance alone when you hear the summer rain, again? 

All dances are lonely; all dancing is to end up alone. They repeat themselves softly to become one with rain, wind and memories.

All dancing shapes our steps to become a personal search.  And then, we remember a summer rain and we forget the steps. We just improvise.

 

June 6, 2023

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2023

Love Is the Rider Who Breaks Us All

 

 

 

I was on my daily walk with my dog when he pulled hard to greed another dog. I always let him decide who he likes to meet.

It was an old dog, sitting at the feet of an old man sitting on a bench.

“Good morning” I said and introduced ourselves.

“It is always a good morning when I can still be out with Florence” he replied.

 

By now, Ziggy was gently licking Florence’s face.

 

“Lovely” the old man said, “reminds me of days when I was young and wild”

And we started chatting knowing that our dogs would not want us to pull them apart.

 

From his careful choice of words and the optimism that comes with age, I assumed he was well read. So I asked him what he once did.

“I taught literature, even when students did not want to learn.”

I told him I had many of these experiences.

“You like poetry?” he asked.

And when I shared my love for words, spoken or otherwise, he turned to Florence with a smile:

“Flo, go ahead and recite a few lines from Dylan Thomas.”

Then, with a pensive posture he added:

“She is busy with Ziggy, I will refresh your memory myself”

And, just after sunrise, sitting on a public bench in a cowboy town five-thousand feet above sea level, the old man nostalgically started:

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night

“I was wild once, you know. Now Flo is 15 years old and I am five times older than her. It is good to meet someone who likes poetry.”

… I thought about him during the one hour walk. And a bit about Flo. Then, after giving Ziggy his breakfast, I searched for a poem I had read by Ribka Sibhatu, a contemporary Italian poet, entitled Parola.

The last stanza is my favorite

Parla parole ce

emanano profumo

e portano l’animo

nel tempo e nello spazio.   

 

(Speak words

that emit a fragrance

and carry the soul

through time and through space)

 

I hope to see the old man again.

About the photo: I took this in Barcelona. It seemed unlikely that I would see a man, well dressed, reading an Agatha Christie book, siting on the boardwalk, next to his old dog 

May 10, 2023

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2023