[Video: This fourteen-minute Bill Evans rendition of “Never Let Me Go” is from his 1968 Grammy-winning album Alone. (It also appears on the posthumous Quiet Now compilation, from 1999.) The song was written for a noir film directed by Michael Curtiz, The Scarlet Hour (Nat King Cole played it on the film’s soundtrack, apparently the only really laudable thing about the film). It’s not to be confused with many other songs by the same name; Wikipedia’s disambiguation reference lists ten “Never Let Me Go” songs, and then ten more “Never Let You Gos.”]
From whiskey river:
“You … travel to other worlds?”
“Yes. I travel to other worlds.”
I put the glass down and pulled out a cigarette; lit it before speaking.
“In the flesh?”
“If you can tell me where the flesh ends and the mind begins, I will answer that.”
“You um … you have some evidence of this?”
“Ample evidence.” He allowed a moment to pass. “For those with the intelligence to see it.”
(John Fowles [source])
…and:
Close your eyes and get quiet for a minute, until the chatter starts up. Then isolate one of the voices and imagine the person speaking as a mouse. Pick it up by the tail and drop it into a mason jar. Then isolate another voice, pick it up by the tail, drop it in the jar. And so on. Drop in any high-maintenance parental units, drop in any contractors, lawyers, colleagues, children, anyone who is whining in your head. Then put the lid on, and watch all these mouse people clawing at the glass, jabbering away, trying to make you feel like shit because you won’t do what they want – won’t give them more money, won’t be more successful, won’t see them more often. Then imagine that there is a volume-control button on the bottle. Turn it all the way up for a minute, and listen to the stream of angry, neglected, guilt-mongering voices. Then turn it all the way down and watch the frantic mice lunge at the glass, trying to get to you. Leave it down, and get back to your shitty first draft. A writer friend of mine suggests opening the jar and shooting them all in the head. But I think he’s a little angry, and I’m sure nothing like this would ever occur to you.
(Anne Lamott [source])
…and:
The reason for writing it down on paper or on a computer where you can see it is because the brain, unlikely as it may sound, is no place for serious thinking. Any time you have serious thinking to do, the first step is to get the whole shootin’ match out of your head and set it up someplace where you can walk around it and see it from all sides. Attack, switch sides and counter-attack. You can’t do that while it’s still in your head. Writing it out allows you to act as your own teacher, your own critic, your own opponent. By externalizing your thoughts, you can become your own guru; judging yourself, giving feedback, providing a more objective and elevated perspective.
(Jed McKenna [source])
Not from whiskey river:
Parable of the Raft
Monks, I will teach you the parable of the raft—for getting across, not for retaining. It is like a man who going on a journey sees a great stretch of water, the near bank with dangers and fears, the farther bank secure and without fears, but there is neither a boat for crossing over, nor a bridge across. It occurs to him that to cross over from the perils of this bank to the security of the farther bank, he should fashion a raft and cross over to safety. When he has done this it occurs to him that the raft has been very useful, and he wonders if he ought to take it with him on his head and shoulders. What do you think, monks? That the man is doing what should be done with the raft?
They answered, “No, Lord.”
What should that man do, monks? When he has crossed over to the beyond, he must leave the raft and proceed on his journey. Monks, a man doing this would be doing what should be done with the raft. In this way, I have taught you Dharma, like the parable of the raft, for getting across, not for retaining. You, monks, by understanding the parable of the raft, must not cling to right states of mind and, all the more, to wrong states of mind.
(Jack Kornfield [source])
…and:
Bill Evans Plays “Never Let Me Go”
Never let me go, says the piano,
then the five syllables are repeated
a little lower, maybe more sadly,
or with more acceptance that this plaint
is endless, fruitless, but it is the plaint
of love forever, whatever else changes,
and the five notes always sound different
the way the lover constantly is finding
new ways to ask what can’t be answered.
The piano takes a break to think it over
all around the keyboard, as if it is free
to take a walk, anywhere away from
those five notes, but no, it’s been walking
towards them. Never let me go,
it says cheerfully, tenderly, without reproach,
as if it knows that saying so is its true calling.
(Alan Feldman [source])
…and:
Let Evening Come
Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come
(Jane Kenyon [source])
