“Imaginary evil is romantic and varied; real evil is gloomy, monotonous, barren, boring. Imaginary good is boring; real good is always new, marvelous, intoxicating. Therefore “imaginative literature” is either boring or immoral (or a mixture of both). It only escapes from this alternative if in some way it passes over to the side of reality through the power of art—and only genius can do that.” - Simone Weil, Gravity & Grace.
by joshua heineman ( about cb )
“ Is Leonard Cohen the guy who talks through all his songs?
OVERHEARD in Portland.
S M O K E S T A C K
Evidence that Francis Hugo & I watched sunlight lift the morning dew into the air.
Poilâne 5.23.2016
My company had a sourdough miche fired in Paris today & it is on an airplane right now bound for me in Portland. I had to tell someone(s).
Yesterday I walked along a street in the sun. Which one doesn’t much matter, but this was Portland.
I came upon a sick man down on the sidewalk, sputtering out of this world in the arms of two others,
who used their jackets to make him a pillow, of sorts.One of them waited patiently for me to pass before flicking his cigarette neatly into the road behind me.
The end of an unseasonable warmth. The entryway of a service building for homeless.Today I returned to find three other men, mise en place, tearing out the sidewalk.
As if they could not accept what happened there.
As if the cement itself had a memory.
Pointed a telescope at little pinpricks of light in the night sky & then pointed an old camera at the telescope lens. This is not how astrophotography works, but this is some kind of truth about the heavens. April 2016.
… finishing the Codex Seraphinianus.
Typography - November 2014
I bought & read a book about typography, then put it on the shelf. Months later I fell for a beautiful used bookstore near my office on Morrison Street w/edges of reclaimed wood & a penchant for difficult books. Cash only. No phones. Sometimes you catch the front desk staff drinking beer at noon, or smoking a cigarette when no one’s inside. Perfect.
Today I brought the typography book into the store to sell. The owner thumbed through the pages w/real interest & then through his wallet in equal measure. There were just two dollars. He handed me his money & said “you should quit your job. I can tell it’s killing your soul.” His sport coat was quite convincing.
We are at once the oldest we’ve ever been & the youngest we’ll ever be. To live the magic of that dualism, to notice it & honor it, is the difficulty.
Unpublished draft from my last year in San Francisco:
The night settles, clear as glass & cold from the Alaska current running down the coast. I go out to buy vegetables for dinner. There is a fine little market & deli down the street that sells produce of high quality at high prices. I point myself there, considering the expense a reasonable tax on ease, pace of life & the south, west & north views of the city. I don’t leave the hilltop this way & the walk is pleasant & life seems otherworldly for a few moments. The stars sit above, like wayward city lights but entire worlds more… the high light is Jupiter. The low point is Venus. The window lights are pollution.
A line often & erroneously attributed to Camus, “Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?” becomes a dicey proposition after six in the evening.
Eagle from the balcony, Christmas Eve 2013.
Chez Dekum.
In Which I Stumble Upon A Reference To My Own Writing In THIS RECORDING (& feel new)
Astonishingly. "So, I read poetry. The aforementioned poem is a favorite, as is anything from “The Gift” by Hafiz (don’t surrender your loneliness so quick/let it cut deeper). There is “Letters from Saint Francis” by Joshua Heineman: In love like long rambling walks with no destination – Teach me that language. Run out my weakness on the roads of history stretched out to infinity & still arriving… I will devour anything that says what I seemingly cannot, at least not yet.“
via 