October 23: Sensationally Beautiful, van Gogh Tie, "The Starry Night"

And the next thing that happened after that was that the Heart of Gold continued on its way perfectly normally with a rather fetchingly redesigned interior.  It was somewhat larger, and done out in delicate pastel shades of green and blue.  In the center a spiral staircase, leading nowhere in particular, stood in a spray of ferns and yellow flowers and next to it a stone sundial pedestal housed the main computer terminal.  Cunningly deployed lighting and mirrors created the illusion of standing in a conservatory overlooking a wide stretch of exquisitely manicured garden.  Around the periphery of the conservatory area stood marble-topped tables on intricately beautiful wrought-iron legs.  As you gazed into the polished surface of the marble the vague forms of the instruments materialized instantly under your hands.  Looked at from the correct angles the mirrors appeared to reflect all the required data read-outs, though it was far from clear where they were reflected from.  It was in fact sensationally beautiful.

Beauty is such a subjective quality.  I could look at a dead starling on the floor of a forest, its eyes sockets empty, feathers teeming with ants and lice, and think that it's beautiful in its colors or shapes or jutting bones.  Or driving home after a long day at work and be stunned into pulling over and parking my car for a setting sun that's taking over the heavens with orange and pink and gold.  Both can be beautiful. 

I would venture to say that every day--no matter how terrible or wonderful--is full of moments of beauty.  The trick is paying attention.  On shitty days, it's harder to spot beauty because I'm not looking for it.  I'm too wrapped up in my shittiness to notice.  For example, these last couple days have sort of taken the cake when it comes to awful.  Without going into detail, I will say simply that I haven't done a whole lot of sunrise or sunset admiring in the past 48 hours.  My focus has been inward, not outward, and what was inside wasn't very pretty at all.

I probably walked by a maple leaf floating into a puddle, reflecting the stormy sky--orange against gray, fire against water.  Didn't see it.  I was probably listening to my own inner dialogue of griefs and missed how the wind and leaves and trees sounded like a stadium of people roaring after a touchdown.  Didn't hear it.  I probably gulped down a glass of water without noticing how it hit my dry tongue like snow melt.  Didn't taste it.

You get the idea.  I simply haven't been an open vessel for poetry or beauty these last couple days.  Therefore, tonight, I will end this post with something beautiful that I noticed today.

I had just finished teaching my afternoon film class.  As I was waiting for the elevator to arrive, I was distracted, once again, by my own thorny thoughts.  A girl walked by me, looked me in the eye, and said, "I like your tie."  Then, she just kept on walking, not waiting for a reply from me.

I looked down at my chest, because I really didn't remember what tie I put around my nick this morning.  It was my van Gogh tie, with a print of his painting "Starry Night."  When the elevator finally arrived, I was still staring down at my tie, thinking, "Yes, it is a beautiful tie."  I love Vincent van Gogh, and I love the fiery balls of stars in "Starry Night."  They fill me with something like joy or excitement or contentment.  One word can't describe the emotion.  Yet, there they were, riding around on my belly all day, and I didn't notice them.  It took a complete stranger to point them out to me.

This tie also reminds me of a poem I love by Anne Sexton that I first read as an undergrad:

The Starry Night

by:  Anne Sexton

"That does not keep me from having a terrible need of--shall I say the word--religion.  Then I go out at night to paint the stars."
                              --Vincent van Gogh in a letter to his brother

The town does not exist
except where one black-haired tree slips
up like a drowned woman into the hot sky.
The town is silent.  The night boils with eleven stars.
Oh starry starry night!  This is how
I want to die.

It moves.  They are all alive.
Even the moon bulges in its orange irons
to push children, like a god, from its eye.
The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars.
Oh starry starry night!  This is how
I want to die:

into that rushing beast of night,
sucked up by that great dragon, to split
from my life with no flag,
no belly,
no cry.



This isn't a particularly joyful poem.  Yet, for me, tonight, in my university office, wearing my van Gogh tie, I find beauty in it, even in the refrain "This is how / I want to die."  On a day where I spent most of my time gazing down at my toes, this made me think about beauty, in all its shapes and colors.

Saint Marty looked up for a little while today, thanks to the words of a stranger in a hallway.