Stephen Evans

Follow author Add as friend Message author Subscribe to updates from author Subscribe via RSS
Stephen is a playwright and author of The Marriage of True Minds and A Transcendental Journey.

The Problem

 

"The problem is not so much to see what nobody has yet seen, as to think what nobody has yet thought concerning that which everybody sees" 

Arthur Shopenhauer

 

https://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/11682.Arthur_Schopenhauer

32 Hits
0 Comments

The Best Thing for Being Sad

“The best thing for being sad," replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn.”


― T.H. White, The Once and Future King

Recent Comments
Rosy Cole
The best thing for being sad is to write (a book). It covers everything :-)
Saturday, 18 April 2020 15:49
Stephen Evans
That is always a learning process!
Sunday, 19 April 2020 16:10
351 Hits
2 Comments

Fishing in the Sky

As part of my stay-at-home regimen, I have been rereading Walden. I have consulted it often, but not read it through for many years. When I first read it, I was as enthralled as any child of the Sixties could be, and thought it the American finest prose of the Nineteenth century. I was curious what my reaction would be now so many years later, and having been thoroughly influenced by Thoreau’s mentor Emerson.

The first chapter, Economy, I have to admit, was disappointing. The tone seemed to me preachy and self-satisfied, like someone shouting on a street corner, with only occasional bouts of elegance and depth. Also the math seems suspect , but since that’s not my strongpoint either I’ll pass over it.

The second chapter, Where I Lived an What I lived For, is all the Thoreau I remember. Let me share one passage:

 

Let us spend one day as deliberately as Nature, and not be thrown off the track by every nutshell and mosquito’s wing that falls on the rails. Let us rise early and fast, or break fast, gently and without perturbation; let company come and let company go, let the bells ring and the children cry,—determined to make a day of it. Why should we knock under and go with the stream? Let us not be upset and overwhelmed in that terrible rapid and whirlpool called a dinner, situated in the meridian shallows. Weather this danger and you are safe, for the rest of the way is down hill. With unrelaxed nerves, with morning vigor, sail by it, looking another way, tied to the mast like Ulysses. If the engine whistles, let it whistle till it is hoarse for its pains. If the bell rings, why should we run? We will consider what kind of music they are like. Let us settle ourselves, and work and wedge our feet downward through the mud and slush of opinion, and prejudice, and tradition, and delusion, and appearance, that alluvion which covers the globe, through Paris and London, through New York and Boston and Concord, through church and state, through poetry and philosophy and religion, till we come to a hard bottom and rocks in place, which we can call reality, and say, This is, and no mistake; and then begin, having a point d’appui, below freshet and frost and fire, a place where you might found a wall or a state, or set a lamp-post safely, or perhaps a gauge, not a Nilometer, but a Realometer, that future ages might know how deep a freshet of shams and appearances had gathered from time to time. If you stand right fronting and face to face to a fact, you will see the sun glimmer on both its surfaces, as if it were a cimeter, and feel its sweet edge dividing you through the heart and marrow, and so you will happily conclude your mortal career. Be it life or death, we crave only reality. If we are really dying, let us hear the rattle in our throats and feel cold in the extremities; if we are alive, let us go about our business.

Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper; fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars. I cannot count one. I know not the first letter of the alphabet. I have always been regretting that I was not as wise as the day I was born. The intellect is a cleaver; it discerns and rifts its way into the secret of things. I do not wish to be any more busy with my hands than is necessary. My head is hands and feet. I feel all my best faculties concentrated in it. My instinct tells me that my head is an organ for burrowing, as some creatures use their snout and fore-paws, and with it I would mine and burrow my way through these hills. I think that the richest vein is somewhere hereabouts; so by the divining-rod and thin rising vapors I judge; and here I will begin to mine.

Recent Comments
Rosy Cole
You have to smile, though. Thoreau was nifty at ducking 'that terrible rapid and whirlpool called a dinner, situated in the meridi... Read More
Thursday, 09 April 2020 17:28
Stephen Evans
Thoreau is a marvelous observer - he is strongest in the details. His vision is narrower than Emerson, and comes across as strong... Read More
Friday, 10 April 2020 01:26
277 Hits
2 Comments

The Peaceful Place

I come here often.

About a quarter of a mile down the path behind my home, the trail curves and broadens into an asphalt circle. About 30 feet uphill from a tiny creek that wanders through the northern end of the park, the circle has three occupants: a woodenish bench, a large rock, and me.

20170909 171340

I say woodenish because it looks like wood but feels like some sort of composite material, much harder than wood and I suppose more durable. It is painted a wood brown color and is comfortable enough for the occasional visitor like me.

The rock is about 3 feet by four feet, and maybe 18 inches high of some dark stone, sedimentary I think because it is formed in thin layers, shale perhaps, though flecks here and there glitter like diamonds. Maryland is home to a black shale deposit known as the Marcellus shale, which grew up about 400 million years ago when the state was a shallow sea. The rock has secrets, I can tell, maybe fossils hidden inside, but it is not telling, not me anyway. 

It occurs to me that both rock and bench will be here long after me. They were here first, and so that seems fair.

The bench faces east and the sun warms my right check, while the breeze cools my left hand. There is little noise from cars, and only the occasional plane overhead. Surprising for a densely populated area, the ambient noise is mostly natural.  I close my eyes to listen.

There’s a wood dove behind me, a mockingbird up and to the right, a smaller sweet-voiced bird I can’t identify somewhere in front. In the distance the brazen call of the crows disrupts the serenity from time to time. The trees in their buds rustle quietly now – their voices will grow with their leaves. The loudest sound is the crackle of squirrels as they chase though the dried leaves, until the hammering of a sapsucker opens my eyes

I turn to locate him. The red headdress makes it easy. A tall slender tree has fallen across the creek, only to be caught partly upright by another tree on the opposite bank.  The sapsucker is traversing the fallen tree looking for soft spots. The business of life goes on.

I always think of my father here. We used to stop here on our walks in his last year; a great walker most of his life, it was as far as he could go, or maybe as far as I thought he could. But he didn’t mind stopping. I think it was peaceful for him too.

I have had other peaceful places. This is the closest. The others are far away in space or time or both.

Lake of the Isles was just down the block from our house in Minneapolis, and I absorbed its peace daily during the dissolution of my marriage. It was also gracious enough to inspire a story I have been writing for twenty years now.

Lake of the Isles 004

Some of the peaceful others I have only visited once. Mallory Dock in Key West – though you wouldn’t think to find peace in the middle of that circus atmosphere. It also inspired a story.

A pond in Pipestone Minnesota where wings of  dragonflies conducted a symphony I could not hear.

Lake Hiawatha at Pipestone

A spot outside Devil’s Tower, the quietest place I have ever been, where the deer and the antelope play.

Antelope at Devils Tower website


 Another south of Yellowstone where the white noise of waterfall enveloped me in solitude.

Waterfall in South Yellowstone 2

 

 Then there was Jackson Lake, mesmerizing with the Tetons immense and unmovable offering a glimpse into timelessness.

Jackson Lake 2 website

 

All these I have celebrated in books, and hope to celebrate in person once more in this life.

I can’t remember any I had as a child. Perhaps it was just my bedroom, where I hid away with my books. I was an inside child, asthma probably as formative in my growth as any factor. There was a tree in our backyard with a swing. Maybe that was one: I wrote a poem about it years later:

The tall oak by the swing set

in the corner of the yard,

by the chain link fence that marked

the beginning of beyond,

 is there still. 

I hadn’t realized before this how many of my peaceful places I have written about. They are important to me no doubt. I have a brain that is at best restless and at worst relentless. Imagining these places helps to calm me, to keep in check the unbounded notions I am prone to even now.

I hope everyone has their peaceful place. We need them so much in this anxious, fearful world

But if you don’t, feel free to borrow one of mine.

I’ll be the one smiling when you get there.

Recent Comments
Ken Hartke
I find places, actual geographic locations, to offer the most powerful inspiration for my writing. Once experienced, they exist in... Read More
Sunday, 29 March 2020 03:38
Stephen Evans
Hopping the fence - great image Ken!
Sunday, 29 March 2020 14:57
1339 Hits
2 Comments

Writing For Life

We are a small, friendly community who value writing as a tool for developing a brighter understanding of the world and humanity. We share our passions and experiences with one another and with a public readership. ‘Guest’ comments are welcome. No login is required. In Social Media we are happy to include interesting articles by other writers on any of the themes below. Enjoy!


Latest Blogs

  "The problem is not so much to see what nobody has yet seen, as to think what nobody has yet thought concerning that which everybody sees"  Arthur ...
Mopping my floors is a time consuming, mundane job when most of what we walk on in our home is polished wooden boards. No one’s home on this particul...
She sobs, walks in a wallowing of bowed head. Her pace is steady. Purposeful. She forces him to walk in front of her, so he’s walking backwards while ...
“The best thing for being sad," replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may gr...
It’s been the darkest winter I can remember, skies uniformly leaden, the earth deluged, the nation divided, and the world angst-ridden in the throes ...

Latest Comments

Monika Schott PhD Quiet strength
02 June 2020
Rich in experience too.
Stephen Evans Quiet strength
25 May 2020
"Acceptance of the polarity of life" -a phrase rich in meaning.
Stephen Evans That kid
25 May 2020
So charming.
Monika Schott PhD That kid
19 May 2020
It's amazing how common sleepwalking is.
Chris That kid
18 May 2020
Great story! Can relate as our son did the same as a child. One night we heard the front door openi...