| Home again. They were her last words. She never had a home. She slept in ditches under bridges near old railroad tracks. She never liked it. She never denied it. She called it home. —JH |
Arts, Media & Culture News with 'tude
Arts, Media & Culture News with 'tude
Interesting poem and interesting conjunction with Rutman’s bowed metal. Home is a state of mind. It seems like many of the best artists spend their lives trying to sing a home or homeland into being but never find it.
On another level, I pity the land whose artists feel at home. No songs in search of what lies beyond the borders. The walls become complete. No songs in search of a greater truth.
Wallace Stevens addressed this idea:
“And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.”
–from The Idea of Order at Key West by Wallace Stevens
Thanks for the Wallace Stevens upgrade. Yes, a state of mind. But let’s not forget the world we actually live in.
You’re right, as always. I’ve been working really hard to forget it. Get’s me nowhere.
The upgrade was not just Stevens. It was an Osborne patch 2.0.