what's good : commencement
All about the beginnings at the ends.
I think people sometimes forget that the word we use for graduation ceremonies - commencement - means “an act or instance of beginning.” We often focus on the ending part, the finishing of so many years of schooling. But it’s about starting again. Some people begin more education, some jump right into the working world, some take off on travel adventures, either for fun or for survival or for war, a few become spouses or parents, maybe both.
When we complete a thing, we are new beings whether we realize it or not; like butterflies from cocoons - do they remember their caterpillar selves? We are vastly different in most ways throughout our lives though at our core, the same. This can be thrilling or terrifying, maybe both. I say let’s lean into it, but it’s okay to cry. Or scream.
In poetry: Something simple1 + timely - I appreciate this nearly 400-year old/17-syllable way of gently reminding us to stay in each moment. That cicada buzz, while annoying to human ears, is all about finding a mate in order to keep the species alive for more generations, yet their success will lead to their death. Consider using this outlook on life more often2.
[The cry of the cicada] by Matsuo Bashō (1644 –1694) The cry of the cicada Gives us no sign That presently it will die.
Now something verbose + also timely, in the sense that perhaps today’s younger folk are more open to intense self-reflection; I think they could get behind a little Whitman (or in this case a lot, even after I cut two stanzas here3). Though I suspect I would find Walt to be taxing as a dinner guest, I do enjoy his unending hearty lust for life in the [so many] words he strings together, like shiny gems on on garlands. He wants to make sure we (You) are entirely clear on his written intentions; we (You) are worthy - You have not known what you are, you have slumber'd upon yourself all your life - and we (You) need to embrace your value: Whoever you are! claim your own at any hazard! Whitman is nothing if not the best (but almost most exhausting) hype man ever.
To You by Walt Whitman Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams, I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands Even now your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you, Your true soul and body appear before me, They stand forth out of affairs, out of commerce, shops, work, farms, clothes, the house, buying, selling, eating, drinking, suffering, dying. Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem, I whisper with my lips close to your ear, I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you. O I have been dilatory and dumb, I should have made my way straight to you long ago, I should have blabb'd nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but you. ... O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you! You have not known what you are, you have slumber'd upon yourself all your life, Your eyelids have been the same as closed most of the time, What you have done returns already in mockeries, Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries, what is their return? The mockeries are not you, Underneath them and within them I see you lurk, I pursue you where none else has pursued you, Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustom'd routine, if these conceal you from others or from yourself, they do not conceal you from me, The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these balk others they do not balk me, The pert apparel, the deform'd attitude, drunkenness, greed, premature death, all these I part aside There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in you, There is no virtue, no beauty in man or woman, but as good is in you, No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you, No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you. As for me, I give nothing to any one except I give the like carefully to you, I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I sing the songs of the glory of you. Whoever you are! claim your own at any hazard! These shows of the East and West are tame compared to you, These immense meadows, these interminable rivers, you are immense and interminable as they, These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of apparent dissolution, you are he or she who is master or mistress over them, Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, pain, passion, dissolution. The hopples fall from your ankles, you find an unfailing sufficiency, Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest, whatever you are promulges itself, Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing is scanted, Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are picks its way.
In art: When I was training to be a docent at Portland Art Museum, I fell in love with Helen Frankenthaler. For one exercise, were told to choose a painting in the abstract art area to write about for a few minutes - study it and describe what captured our eye, what it reminded us of and the feelings associated with that memory.
I looked at Spaced Out Orbit (1973) and it felt like the best parts of 7th grade - when I didn’t care much about what my hair was [or wasn’t] doing, when I liked boys but wasn’t in [too much] agony about whether they liked me, when I had that blush pink on my wrists (Love’s Baby Soft body mist) and that vanilla yellow in my pocket (Vintage Lip Licking Lip Balm) and a capricious hint of that frog green on my feet (favorite striped toe socks). I researched Frankenthaler that evening and discovered she had painted for more than sixty years, developing the color field technique while producing artwork in a variety of styles; she was tireless in an art world that was slow and sometimes grudging to appreciate the depth of her skill behind the prettiness of the pieces.
Mountains and Sea (1952) was her first professionally exhibited work, a serene coastal rendering after a trip to Nova Scotia. This painting was created on an untreated canvas about 7’ x 10’ with oil paints diluted by turpentine stained directly onto it, which became Frankenthaler’s soak-stain technique, predecessor to the color field method.
Interestingly, Frankenthaler was in her late 60s when she painted Beginnings (1994) with acrylics on paper; in 2002 she reproduced the work in silkscreen on handmade paper.
What I wouldn’t give to spend an afternoon listening to Helen Frankenthaler demurely talk about her methods & techniques, not to mention watch her casually stretch over a paint-filled canvas in her stylish pants and white button-down shirt.
In music: I have recently become obsessed enamored with the band T. Rex, particularly its lead singer Marc Bolan. He inspired Bowie’s (and later others’) glittery androgynous glam-rock look, and his wildly weird yet marvelously poetic lyrics are like incantations for summoning sexy coolness.
There are a number of technical firsts & lasts associated with this song but its lyrics also dance around the idea of what we hoped for as bright-eyed youths so often gets knocked out by what the world drags in. It is startlingly morose if you listen too closely, but you don’t have to. Instead, think of the cicadas - crying for love, not worrying about death. It comes for us in the end, either way.
“…be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”
~ Rainer Maria Rilke, from Letters to a Young Poet
Or is it? Haiku is a favorite form of mine because it’s a delightful challenge to create; I love to include some in cards I make and sometimes, if I have to order from Amazon, I’ll write one for the gift receipt.
Again, screaming is okay. But be present.
Find them at the link in the poem title, if you’re in the mood.