During this time of distance, I felt it could be helpful to share entries from collaborators from all over the world, to help our readers out of their personal space and into someone else's. I created this series because I have been looking for inspiration and connection and know I am not alone.
Friends are sharing an image of themselves… the space that they occupy most these days or a moment, landscape, piece, book, view, thing, dream or simply something keeping them inspired, optimistic and sane.
Charlotte
Today’s generous contributor is: architect/educator Chris Taylor - based in Lubbock, Texas.
Chris shared images from his life and the preface to William Carlos Williams book length poem Paterson.
Preface "Rigor of beauty is the quest. But how will you find beauty when it is locked in the mind past all remonstrance?" To make a start, put of particulars and make them general, rolling up the sum, by defective means — Sniffing the trees, just another dog among a lot of dogs. What else is there? And to do? The .rest-have run out — after the rabbits. Only the lame stands— on three legs. Scratch front and back. Deceive and eat. Dig a musty bone - For the beginning is assuredly the end — since we know nothing, pure and simple, beyond our own complexities. Yet there is no return: rolling up out of chaos, a nine months' wonder, the city the man, an identity — it can't be otherwise — an interpenetration, both ways. Rolling 3 up! obverse, reverse; the drunk the sober; the illustrious the gross; one. In ignorance a certain knowledge and knowledge, undispersed, its own undoing. (The multiple seed, packed tight with detail, soured, is lost in the flux and the mind, distracted, floats off in the same scum) Rolling up, rolling up heavy with numbers. It is the ignorant sun rising in the slot of hollow suns risen, so that never in this world will a man live well in his body save dying — and not know himself dying; yet that is the design. Renews himself thereby, in addition and subtraction, walking up and down. and the craft, subverted by thought, rolling up, let him beware lest he turn to no more than the writing of stale poems . . . Minds like beds always made up, (more stony than a shore) unwilling or unable. Rolling in, top up, under, thrust and recoil, a great clatter: lifted as air, boated, multicolored, a wash of seas — from mathematics to particulars- divided as the dew, floating mists, to be rained down and regathered into a river that flows and encircles: shells and animalcules generally and so to man, to Paterson.