Blank Slate
Aug 4 2009


20 pages in
it becomes clear I’ve been here before,
on this gloomy street in Prague
drumbeats of war.
Yet I can happily read on,
my mind, a tabula rasa
wiped clean.
And the movie, last week, I’d already seen,
but the ending had me fooled once more.

So how different would life be
hopping out of bed, refreshed
to a bright and cheerful morning
exactly like yesterday,
like the day before it?
A vigorous stretch,
a long languorous breath
and exhalation,
then steel-cut oats
coffee, black
the morning paper.
And so it goes,
the bliss of ignorance
the small diurnal pleasures.

Because even on days like this
which dawn new, and unpredictable,
I have come to realize nothing essential changes,
— the same headlines, breakfast,
the seasons re-played.
We move in tight self-contained circles.
We grow old, our places are taken,
the same rites of passage
the same conceit of change,
the painful incremental progress
that is too slow to notice,
too easily undone.

The philosopher envies this
— the perfectibility of the moment,
all memory freshly expunged.
And we would be happy,
excited kids on the merry-go-round
to the circus sound of calliopes.

But it’s the roller-coaster I’d rather ride —
scream my lungs out,
lose my lunch,
feel the adrenaline rush.

Or move on to the sequel, at least;
catch the latest release.



I was reading a magazine article. A few paragraphs in, it was starting to seem awfully familiar. But it was a great article, and I kept on: after all, maybe I'd started it once, but put it down. By the end, though, I knew I'd already read it, from start to finish. Still, it was a great piece, and I enjoyed it just as much as the first time.

So, what lesson to take from this? That we are idiots, that we learn nothing; that we keep going in circles, ploughing the same old furrow? Or that we should take our pleasure where we find it, on its own terms; live in the glory of the moment, of present time, and not worry that we've been there before? Which is, after all , the Zen ideal (the philosopher in the 4th stanza) -- to live in the moment; to not be attached to outcomes.

This happens often, of course: you pick up a book, it seems oddly familiar, and a chapter or 2 in you realize you've read it before -- but might as well not have. Or rent a movie -- same thing. Does this represent the utter futility of self-improvement, of life itself? Or should you be eternally grateful instead; grateful you're actually able to re-visit that pleasure, and find it undiminished?

On one level, this is what the poem is about. But on another, it's also about 2 diametric world-views. One is the world of the ancients, our forbears; who saw the succession of life as changeless and cyclic. The other other is the world-view that defines modernity (which I'm tempted to say began with the Enlightenment, but probably really began with the Hebrew Bible), in which we take the notion of progress for granted; in which we live with the conceit of perfectibility, with the burden of both history and the future.

To our jaded modern eyes, I think the older world-view often seems full of wisdom and consolation. It reminds me of Bill Murray in "Groundhog Day". The idea of historical progress, on the other hand, seems a lot more exciting -- and probably the truest version of reality. (I'm a creature of modernity, so what else can I say?!) Except, like the roller-coaster in the poem, the day that "dawns new, and unpredictable" can be a wild ride ...and you might just lose your lunch! And don't forget that the Bill Murray character, once he realized what was happening -- that the same day kept repeating itself over and over -- felt trapped and frustrated, and wanted desperately to escape.