Blinded by the light . . .

It's Tew's day . . . and 79 years ago today in 1945 the United States of America dropped an atomic bomb on the city of Hiroshima, Japan.

"The stars … blindly run:

A web is wov'n across the sky;

From our waste places comes a cry,

And murmurs from the dying sun."

– Alfred, Lord Tennyson, born 215 years ago today in 1809 Somersby, Lincolnshire, England.

In all of the universe, throughout all of time, no one else will be you reading this on this random Tuesday ever again.

Preparing for echoes . . .

It's the Moon's day . . . and it begins a “new” journey, starting today.

Wendell Berry turns 90 today. The poet was born in 1934 Port Royal, Kentucky.

Getting a book of poetry published is like dropping a rose petal into the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo. -- Don Marquis

Listening for echoes is another of those joys one discovers in the non-dual liminal spaces that join every seemingly disconnected thing. Writing poetry is not about publishing, nor being paid. No more so than any truly creative endeavor. Although both would be lovely avenues for sharing that joy.

A study published in Nature showed that when AI inputs are used to train AI, the results collapse into gibberish. And corporations are losing huge investment money without ROI. Gee, do you think that might be because AI is operating outside the box of standard capitalist economics? Or inventing its own language learning models about which we have no clue? – Ted Gioia, The Honest Broker, August, 4, 2024.

In order to protect nature, we must understand that we are nature . . . the culture of consumption is lurking behind the popular narratives . . . . What if the future is only visible from the spaces “between” minds and species and belief systems? – Sophie Strand

“Re-wilding” attachment theory. A path forward with the Earth as care-giver.

We Should Be Well Prepared

… the way the river

rushes by, never to return.

The way the day rushes by

never to return. The way

somebody comes back,

but only in a dream.

– Mary Oliver, Red Bird, Beacon Press, 2009.

Black, white, and every shade and hue between . . .

It's Sol's day . . . generating another heat-hammer of an early August day.

A priest and a Baptist are sitting together on a plane. The priest orders a glass of wine, the Baptist a 7-Up. The Baptist says, “Christians should not touch alcohol,” and the priest says, “Jesus drank wine.” The Baptist says, “Yes, and I’d have thought better of him if he hadn’t.” Every moment-by-moment-instant has always been and will be “a marvel.” – Garrison Keillor, perfect for this Sunday.

Speaking of marvels.

Turns out, plants communicate. Their agency and intelligence is shared, and not just with their kin.

Barack Obama turns 63 today. Our 44th President was born in 1961 Honolulu, Hawaii.

It's the birth date of Louis “Satchmo” Armstrong. THE jazzman was born in the birthplace of American jazz: 1901 New Orleans, Louisiana.

Poet Robert Hayden was born on this day in 1913 Detroit.

And Percy Bysshe Shelley was born 232 years ago today in 1792, Field Place, near Horsham, Sussex, England.

The natives have not yet learned from the white man his inventions for traveling away from the present, his scientific capacity for analyzing warmth into a chemical substance, for abstracting human beings into symbols. The white man has invented glasses which make objects too near or too far, cameras, telescopes, spyglasses, objects which put glass between living and vision. It is the image he seeks to possess, not the texture, the living warmth, the human closeness . . . In New York people seem intent on not seeing each other. Only children look with such unashamed curiosity. Poor white man, wandering and lost in his proud possession of a dimension in which bodies become invisible to the naked eye, as if staring were an immodest act. Here [in Mexico] I feel incarnated and in full possession of my own body. – Anaïs Nin