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Finding Hannon's Poem

After two failed expeditions, all hands lost, IF SF has claimed to have discovered the long lost and fabled epic
"What The Rose Said", the 3-line masterpiece that was once feared to have been stolen by visiting Mennonites.
The gold-tableted poem, miraculously untarnished, retained its spiritual lustre, and has once again begun to attract pilgrims and seekers to its melancholy couch.

When told of the find, author Hannon was heard to say, "I am covered in shit."


Pretty happy

When someone asks, 'how are you?' instead of saying 'pretty good', as I've pretty much always answered in the past, I am now going to say 'pretty happy.'

This might accomplish two things: 1) cause the listener, the one who is after all the one who asked the question, to listen to, to hear the answer instead of the answer becoming the unheard rote formality it usually becomes and 2) be an answer more attuned to the reality of the answerer.

I am thinking here of Hans-Georg Gadamer's observation:

                    "We say we 'conduct' a conversation, but the more genuine
                        a conversation is, the less its conduct lies within the will of
                        either partners. Thus a genuine conversation is never the one
                        that we wanted to conduct."

My thinking is that if I answer 'pretty happy' instead of 'pretty good' the chances are that the change from good to happy might prompt the kind of 'horizonless' conversation that Gadamer, a German philosopher who died in 2002 at the age of 102, promoted as a path toward the ideal.

The thing that makes me pretty happy at the moment is that it is a fine day after a rainy day and I can see the bridge from my window.


Still life, with Morandi quote

"I am essentially a painter of the kind of still life composition that communicates a sense of tranquility and privacy, moods which I have always valued above all else."

Giorgio Morandi, 1890-1964


(Delfina's Pizzeria, California Street, San Francisco). 


american koan

Is Scrabble a word?


The Little Churches of Rural France

They are the cream of the catholic legacy, the little churches of rural France. You give the door the sleighest push and walk into a palace of emptiness, surrounded by the singing of imaginary choirs and the voices of a congregation that once filled every seat. The plaster is failing, there's dust on the alterpiece, the light is muted, having had to pass through stained glass windows. There you sit silently, your feet touching the stones that after a few minutes communicate to the rest of your corporal body everything that is cold and immutable. And there you sit, meditating, whether you have a god or not, until the widow comes to re-arrange the flowers.