This is the blog for ISSUU.COM/THEFALLINGLEAFREVIEW, currently published quarterly. The Falling Leaf Review at ISSUU.COM is a literary review publishing short fiction and non-fiction, poetry and photography. Jay V. Ruvolo is the Publishing and Contributing Editor.
To be iconoclastic is to be narrow, to be far, far less than intelligent, astute, perceptive, sensitive. It allows us to remain inarticulate, unable to speak or write the complexities or contradictions of history. It is born of a reactionary politique to become reactionary politics–reactionary is not only Right Wing. It can and is in America also what calls itself Left Wing, but maybe we need to re=assess just what we are calling Liberal in America, as confused and confusing as it has become. To be iconoclastic is to be hyper conservative. This had already become one of our favorite cultural engagements in America a couple of decades ago. Iconoclasm prevents us from being insightful when confronting history, disallows us from maintaining an astute focus on Truth and the many lesser truths that accumulate when having to examine the depth and complexities of history. It plays into the hands of Power and Monied Elites by allowing us to be satisfied with the visceral instead of the literate, the intelligent.
From two and a half years ago
If I were another kind of man I might write an essay on blogging in my blog, or would it merely be a blog entry, and how do they differ, perhaps in the way a journal entry differs from an essay, even a personal essay–but then, aren’t journal entries personal essays of a kind, a different kind of personal essay than the literary varieties we have become used to, at least those we have called literary in our tradition of essay writing; and aren’t letters essays, but then, they too are different than blog entries thus themselves different from journal entries . . . what are we trying to say–it is we who are trying to say here, the reader completes the text? You, my hypocrite brothers and sisters. To be a blogger or not to be a blogger might be a question for another blogger to answer; I do…
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I began The Falling Leaf Review at issuu.com/thefallingleafreview in August 2017. I began with the idea of publishing it monthly, but soon switched to quarterly publication. The most recent issue was published almost two weeks ago as the Winter 2018 issue, a special edition sub-titled: CURRENTLY POLITICAL
Containing the poems in Mr. Ruvolo’s Chapbook, SHADOWS.
Reading the Shelley biography, The Pursuit, by Richard Holmes. Comments to come.
I will be starting a blog on, about, in response to reading the letters of Vincent Van Gogh. It will be a separate blog.
Why is it difficult for me to write every day herein? I do not only write here or manage this. I have The Falling Leaf Review literary magazine at ISSUCOM; I also have several other website blogs in addition to this one, fallingleafreview.org, the blog for ISSU.COM/thefallingleafreview.
Anyone who imagines that kneeling during the Star Spangled Banner is Un-American is grossly mistaken. He or she, however, has just as much right to be wrong and express his wrong-headedness as every one of the NFL players do to kneel during the National Anthem. I used to not stand during it at sports arenas because it had far too much in common with scenes I remembered from Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will.
I know what the flag means, what it symbolizes, what respect for it is; as I do for what was once a more organically defended politicized tradition in active democracy, something we have abandoned longer ago than too many of us are willing to admit or maybe just able to recognize. I wonder how many of those who call “UnAmerican” the NFL players who kneel during the National Anthem have read the essays of Madison, Hamilton…
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Donald Trump, he who twitters . . . does anyone recall what twittering used to mean? No? Ah! The sparrows twittered under the fire-escape building their nest on top of the cable box. The swallows came to roost twittering. Oh yes, to talk,perhaps, rapidly, and at length in a trivial way . . . this explains Trump. But then Twitter limits speech, does it not? But Trump does twitter away the Presidency on social media, twittering along the old-fashined meaning while limiting himself in the common meaning, yes, twittering on Twitter, double entendres intended. You do know that double entendre is not French, does not exist in French, is an English language pretense of creating meaning out of literally transposed words from one language into meaning something in another. More absurdity I could not find? This of course is not to say that all such occurrences are pretentious…
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I read an interesting article in The Seattle Times from May 2016, an article discussing Obama’s fight against economic inequality in America, a fight Obama never got as the credit he deserved for it from those who should applaud the appearance of liberal politics being played in any arena. But the author kept talking about taxes redistributed at the top to pay for the bottom, as with Obamacare, but as with Obamacare, people making 15000 a year are helped by people making 45000 dollars a year. These same people making 45K a year, if they are Caucasian, are called today by some people of color White, thus beneficiaries of White Privilege, so yes, lets increase their payments since 2014 by nearly 75%. Of course, doing this must be fair, must be just because it affects a great number of Caucasians, as it also does a great number of African Americans…
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The issue of Gay Marriage is not simply a social issue; it is not merely a legal one, nor is it a complex of both. Gay Marriage is a Human Rights issue and therefore is a philosophical issue. The issue of Gay Marriage–what? What about it? As alluded to above, I have reservations about calling Gay Marriage an issue; nonetheless, Gay Marriage does stand at the forefront of what we say about ourselves with relation to a person and his or her personhood. Our socio-political philosophy is fixed, adequately or not, on a philosophy of individualism or individuality. The issue of Gay Marriage thus brings to bear in our discussions or debates whether or not a political philosophy of individualism is viable, or if our way of defining it or explaining it has very much to say on the issue of basic human rights.
Any discussion of Gay Marriage will have to address basic human rights and how these rights are unalienable and universal, and how laws made to oppose them do not void these fundamental human rights. These discussions will also be part of a grander metaphysical discussion concerning the universality of human rights. This universality is something we better readjust ourselves for articulating because without dexterity in metaphysical explication of human rights, all political philosophy, even empirically based, but most specifically the epistemology of human rights ( and there is a philosophy of knowledge and knowing, an inquiry that examines the limits of what is knowable about human rights, for it is not solely an ethical question) suffers. Without the fore mentioned dexterity, we will only continue to fumble our way through support for the rights of gay couples to marry.
Human rights cannot be restricted to political philosophy alone, either. They must be discussed and defined metaphysically so they can keep their valence in all conceptions of a universal and transcendent humanity inclusive of all persons; that is, so they can continue to maintain their social and political relevance for us now and anyone in the future with respect for human rights and civil rights. For if we do not define them within a humanity that is universal irrespective of time and place, then we are subjecting the idea of freedom for all in all matters of sane and rational choice to topicality and subjectivity easily undermined by one or another will to power–the latter being exactly what social ethics becomes when rights are not unilaterally and universally applicable throughout time and in every place. But this cannot be achieved where we no longer maintain an absolute and transcendent capital ‘T’ Truth as a compass heading, where we undermine knowledge and the capacity to search for it and find it, and where because knowledge becomes impossible, we then raise Doubt as the highest form of wisdom, where anyone who does know something immediately becomes suspect.
I remember. What do I remember as I am remembering? To remember or not to remember mayor may not be to recollect; recollection something other than all the ways remembering becomes an act of of re-memory. Remembering may or may not be active; recollection cannot be passive. I remember thus I have remembered; what is it that I do or have done when I remember? I remembered, thus I had remembered? I am remembering–again, what am I remembering?
To remember is to become a member of the past again, I have said before. Once more, this special membership in the mind isa place in memory everything about in memoriam; living, an old man once told me when I was a boy, is an accumulation of death and dying. Wordsworth talked about recollections, not remembrances. Here I am on the shore at surf’s edge in Montauk. 180 degrees of ocean horizon, from the shore looking out onto the water, to the horizon–horizontal–how does a curved space maintain horizons? That’s all you see for 180 degrees, ocean horizon, in all directions from left to right, ocean and sky and a line that sometimes appears as if it were wobbling, horizons in New York are foreshortened, unless you get high up enough, everyone needs to get to the 86th floor of the Empire State Building, at least once in a life.
I do not recollect how many times I’ve been to the top, in the day and at night, clear skies most preferable, of course, the horizon is not foreshortened at Land’s End, as far away as the curvature of the earth allows us to glimpse when there are no obstacles–there are many obstacles that are at the ready wherever we go, wherever we are, however we arrive, no matter how we imagine we can avoid them. They are ever present, and not within our control as to whether or not they come up before us . . . memories of the ocean, memories of the shore, more memories of the sand of the sun of the sky, of the photos I took of the clouds, the horizon, the surf with the waves rising, curling, turning, tumbling one after another in perpetuity forever and ever no mater how the beach shifts, erodes, changes irrevocably as you would see if you were to have a glimpse of things as they happen millennially–but no. You won’t. You have other eyes in another mind. You won’t get this. You come from a generation that believes we must rethink our old laws that do not pertain to things now, and that’s talking about the First Amendment! Reveries now and then of all–how can we remember all the things that happen except in some hyper-fragmented way, like collecting confetti and piecing it together into the sheets of paper they once were. I recall each of us, both of us on the beach. I see her walking ahead of me, I turn to find her walking behind me, I reach out to touch her as we walk side-by-side . . . I love walking with you–I would not want to walk here with anyone else.
What I recollect from mornings on the beach in Montauk waiting for sunrise, standing in the changing shades of the gloaming, I cannot put precisely in words, so I record it on film, digital, video. I also take, in photographs of the sun over the horizon, the length of shadows it casts, the changing length as it rises higher and higher, the sun, its light in the sky from gray to blue gray to an enriching blue, at least on the day I last recorded sunrise from the shore. What more do I say? What else can I? I do not need to consider this at present. What present am I talking about you might think? Present in time, now at this moment; present in time now in my life; present as in present tense, usually, not now at this moment, but maybe now in my life, as what I usually do I am doing now in my life, darkness everywhere pervading my life; but what I am I am not and always. True? The shadows are shades are ghosts–ghosts, I have imagined; ghost stories I have always liked more than horror stories with monsters. I have learned others have believed in ghosts . . . all of them, these shadows, these shades, this Wayang performance I once saw, puppet master from Indonesia . . . all of them–are they them there . . . here and there, now and then, everything falling between all reaching for me, clutching at me, scraped as I have said elsewhere . . . ghosts–I have not seen a ghost in a long, long time.
A skeleton hand clutching at me from behind, not the ghost’s hand, the ghost did not have a hand I could see, no skeleton ghost, always close behind me, behind everyone, the icicles of a skeleton hand. The fear of the dark is another kind of fear of the unknown . . . remembering is by volition or without volition, recollecting is to remember by volition, and to recall is to bring to mind, remember by volition, that is, to recollect with the intention of telling. No one recalls without telling, even if we recollect to tell ourselves, an attempt to fix more securely in mind so recollection can be had and it will not be subject to the random side of remembering. we would walk to Ditch Plains and collect shells, collect rocks, pebbles, I have a collection of wave worn stones on a window sill in our bedroom. I have them arranged around the small pieces of driftwood we brought back from Montauk after our son found them and picked them up from the beach one walk how long ago I cannot say.
I have tried to sketch the shadows of the rocks on the sill in the afternoon light, the window in the wall perpendicular to the wall with the window facing east and the rising sun. The setting sun reflects off the windows opposite the window perpendicular to the window that lets in the morning light. I have tried to catch the shadows in the knotted hollows of the cliffs of Shadmoor, the Hoo Doos, the natives called, the spirits that dwelled in the echoes, we used to pause to listen to the ocean echoing off the cliffs of Shadmoor coming to them from our room, coming back from them, times of the day different, walking there late morning, coming back early afternoon, walking there, virtually due east, some time mid afternoon, coming back with the nearly late afternoon summer sun in our eyes.
When I was a boy walking at night, I imagined the shadows clutching me jumping out at me grabbing me, taking me to some unknown between, what lies between here and there, I have asked this elsewhere. I watch the branches, winter bare, on my block all the way home alone after after-school, look to, look at, watch. The London Plane trees in my old neighborhood–East Flatbush–we had a lot of trees on our streets. Winter bare trees shaking in the wind–I would sometimes scare myself and have to run home beneath them, convinced that if I slowed, they would bend and grab me, pick me up and that would be it, I’d be gone, I used to run out of rooms after turning out the light when I am a boy, not the same fear now, but the memories of then are fiercely vivid, and sometimes I find myself hastening my step out of room after turning out the light at night, recollecting with the same intensity as the felt what I had experienced as a boy.
To remember, to recall, to recollect, to remind . . . what then do we say about what it is we do in mind, in, with and for memory? I now recall what the French say when they want to say I remember; they say, Je me souviens, or, literally, I overcome myself? The French souvenir a compound of over and come as in the English to overcome or to be overcome, a different connotation, but then, to remember is a way of overcoming one’s self, to be overcome with images or emotions or the echoes of words. Doubt is not the highest form of wisdom whenever we enter nostalgia.
What is reading? It is not superficially skimming the pages, no; it is not this anymore than a best-seller is literary, irrespective of what it is that makes a best-seller sell best. What am I trying to say? I will just say what is in my mind–I have known too many people who were too reticent to write because they feared their own minds, what was in there,perhaps, what could be lurking there, a premonition of selves hiding from the Self, hiding from other selves, wearing disguises inside; to write is to betray oneself, a friend had said. To translate, is to betray, another had said, reminded me that Italian as a homophonic pun on to translate and to betray. Maybe those who fear writing, becoming naked on the page, I used to like to say, is because they do not read, or cannot read, that is, they do not do what it is they are supposed to be doing while they are reading, and that is not simply to skim the pages that pass before their eyes like so many trees in a changing landscape out the window of the bus they are riding to Boston to visit friends–there are really no landscapes to speak of outside windows passing whatever scene passes them on the Interstate Highways of America’s Interstate Highway System—did you know that you can get on one and travel through all 48 contiguous states without departing the system, begin in Maine and you can travel through every state of the forty-eight. We were in Portsmouth New Hampshire for several days last year and did not once walk on any bridge crossing the Piscataqua River into Maine–interesting that we did not do that.
From November 27, 2016, nowpolitics.wordpress.com
You do know—and I am talking to my blue collar brothers from the past—that our gandfathers were liberal, and that if you supported New Deal programs initiated under Roosevelt and after until the present, if you have supported Social Security, if you have supported Unions, if anyone in your family were ever Teamsters or AFL-CIO or garment workers a hundred years ago in sweat shops in NYC, or supported the Democrats when Unions were their constituents . . . then Liberal is what you are. Clinton/Blair liberalism is neo-conservative liberalism; Bill, Obama and Hilary are all of them moderate Republicans in the 80s, and that’s Regan’s 80s. Please stop confusing and confounding issues and platforms and programs and policies . . . .
To imagine in your vanity that you stand with whom the Republicans really serve is madness. You must know this somewhere in that morass of feelings and…
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