As In an Abandoned Railway Car

• I was asked this past week why I post so little Residents. I didn't have a good answer. There, have forty one minute songs.
• Some blog maintenance this weekend - loading is slowing up again so I'll check the blogrolls for sites that have either not updated for three or more months or have disconnected their feed. Not-updating blogs will be moved to Moribund, dead blogs removed.
• There are a number of new joints in New Here and Newest Gags First and Second. Please check them out as they float to the top of the blogrolls. As always, please send me sites you read you think I might like. As always, thanks for reading.
• So, World Cup. I love it. Forgive me.
• A dance of light and shadow.
• This bloody, beautiful World Cup.
• A Colombian on The Best World Cup Ever.
• This could be The Best World Cup Ever? 
• Well, the group stage was the best I remember and I understand your joy at three exhilarating wins if you're Colombian: if knockout plays at, or, please Baal and Diablo, exceeds the level of group I might never lose this fucking habit. 
• The Global Game (subscription required, but you should be reading Harpers anyway):  The World Cup at which I first grasped the fading of old-style nationalism was 2006, in Germany. That summer you could see a shift to a kind of carnival nationalism: people from around the world dressed up, each in their own national colors, and then watched games together on public squares with giant screens. Oliver Bierhoff, the German team's general manager, remarked with surprise that fans had become less interested in results. Above all, they were out to have fun. It was no longer a matter of national virility, or life and death... 
• I don't buy in whole the essay, but worth a read.

• Inside the new stadiums you could be anywhere: Inside Brazil’s stadiums of old—the original Maracanã, the Mineirão, Castelão, Verdão, etc.—there were no clocks, just crappy scoreboards with broken lightbulbs. Everyone knew to look at their watches or listen to the radio if they wanted to keep up with the time and the score. Indeed, many of the best known, most beloved stadiums in Latin America are minimalist structures designed to hold tens of thousands of people for two hours as they jump up and down, light fireworks, and tumble over each other. They are not be the most comfortable places to watch a soccer match (or do anything else), but they are actual places. Stands are for standing. If they weren´t, they would be called something else. The new stadiums are cleaner and more comfortable, but they are non-places. These Brazilian stadiums could be anywhere, which makes them feel as though they are nowhere in particular. Once inside, the outside is closed off and the spectacle is secured.
• Luis Suarez, former street-sweeper.
• USMNT is on the far easier side of the bracket. And it's a shame there can be, at most, only two South American team can make the semifinals, Argentina one, one Brazil, Chile, Colombia, Uruguay, whichever survives that sub-bracket. So yes, Brazil v Argentina in the finals is still the chalk bet.
• My counter to my anti-Bradleyism: yes, considering that Bradley has spent the last five years of his life training to pop balls over offside traps for a true striker it's entirely possible his suckitude is a direct result of Altidore's injury and that he and Dempsey, in current roles, don't talk.
• RIP Allen Grossman. 
• On Josipovici's new novel (for those of you who do) on/about/considering the life of Joseph Cornell (for those of me who do). I ordered it last night.
• As well as Carson's pamphlets on Albertine. I'm telling you, please Baal and Diablo, I'm not taunting you, if I'm somewhere where I can read without distraction Clamors Erupt works, which is one of the themes don't you know.

TOWN ON THE WAY THROUGH GOD'S WOODS

Anne Carson

Tell me.
Have you ever seen woods so.
Deep so.
Every tree a word does you heart stop?
Once I saw a cloud over Bolivia so deep.
Mountains were cowering do you ever?
Look in the quick you see the secret.
Word inside the word?
As in an abandoned railway car.
One winter afternoon I saw.
The word for "God's Woods."

Nothingness Unseamed Itself for Me Too

Bernie Kopell is 81 today. I loved Get Smart, especially in black and white. I yodel always, TV toggled to color when I was a kid, a toggle that chimes me. Here is Siegfried's traditional Egoslavian High Holy Day decree, copied & pasted from last year's.

Siegfried has been this shitty blog's and my digital avatar since Blog Day One. Bernie Koppel, Siegfried on Get Smart (and Ann Marie's neighbor Jerry Bauman in That Girl and, unfortunately if more famously, Doc on Love Boat), was born 80 years ago today, his birthday noted every year here.

This is true: I have my iPod set to shuffle the 2000+ songs, driving home Thursday night (this is serendipitous but not as serendipitous as if it happened last night) the Second Egoslavian Bleggalgazing Anthem (lyrics) came on and I realized what a colossal fuck-up by me for not posting it on The Annual Egoslavian Bleggalgazegasm three weeks ago, so shazam! how's this for futile weekend blegging and brazen blogwhoring and attention sluttery in Dead Blegsylvania?

• My brother-in-law is getting married today. We have to go to the service this morning, then a dinner tonight, and then a brunch tomorrow morning. This is proof I love my wife. Further proof: I will not write about it beyond this.
• Links below from friends, blog friends, blog comrades, mostly. Sorry friends, if patterns hold this will be the deadest weekend yet this Summer in Blegsylvania.
• The Left/Right Spectrum is bogus.
• BroadSnark's things you might have missed.
• But you must write. A bleggalgaze of sort.
• Binging on Anne Carson.
• Dang! 15th again.
• Becoming language here and now.
• The pattern of tides.
• A lifetime of watching England lose.
• Here's the Feldman yesterday's mention of Rothko made inevitable here, with bonus Feldman below a new to me Szymborska poem.
• Since My Sillyass Deserted Island Game seems only to include bands and acts the could be sloppily classified as rock Morton Feldman isn't included in the game, though Morton Feldman is going to the island with me. Click the tag in footer for LOTS more.

A POEM

Wislawa Szymborksa
Translated by Clare Cavanaugh

Nothingness unseamed itself for me too.
It turned itself wrong side out.
How on earth did I end up here—
head to toe among the planets,
without a clue how I used not to be.

O you, encountered here and loved here,
I can only guess, my arm on yours,
how much vacancy on that side went to make us,
how much silence there for one lone cricket here,
how much nonmeadow for a single sprig of sorrel,
and sun after darknesses in a drop of dew
as repayment—for what boundless droughts?

Starry willy-nilly! Local in reverse!
Stretched out in curvatures, weights, roughnesses, and motions!
Time out from infinity for endless sky!
Relief from nonspace in a shivering birch tree’s shape!

Now or never wind will stir a cloud,
since wind is exactly what won’t blow there.
And a beetle hits the trail in a witness’s dark suit,
testifying to the long wait for a short life.

And it so happened that I’m here with you.
And I really see nothing
usual in that.

Like You, They May Be Waiting Separately at Their Own Levels, Inside Their Own Portions of Your Incoherent Flat

Biblioklept's posting of this Vollmann quote last night:

My critique of American society remains fundamentally incoherent. Would I really have preferred my grandfather’s time, when Pinkertons were cracking Wobblies over the head, or my father’s, when Joe McCarthy could ruin anyone by calling him Red? All I know is that although I live a freer life than many people, I want to be freer still; I’m sometimes positively dazzled with longing for a better way of being. What is it that I need?

serendipitously mirrored a conversation I was simultaneously enjoying with my Obamaphile friend. He was particularly enthused by Krugman's Obamaphile pep talk from Monday and ready for argument. My friend brought out the Green Lantern, insisted I expect too much from Democrats in general and Obama in particular. He earnestly reminded me of the dangers of the American Right (citing both the Right's reaction to the Bergdahl story, which I haven't followed, and gun nuts reaction to a surprisingly sensible NRA statement and subsequent NRA submission to gun nuts). I earnestly reminded him that while some of the American Right is fuckawful, the American Left doesn't exist except as a counterweight character reacting to the stimuli of a stimulated fuckawful American Right in the oligarchy's kabuki called Democracy. Even if that's true, he said, if that's the only game in town, shouldn't we try to make it as least shitty as possible. Ah, less-shitty, I said, it always comes back to that. I understand the argument, I sympathize with the argument, I agree with the argument just .06% less than I disagree with the argument, I debated the pluses and minuses of less-shittism for eight fucking years on this blog, I recognize the argument's deployment to justify acceptance of greater shittiness, and what our Triskelion overlords have planned is more shittiness, I.... I got home, turned on the laptop, saw the Vollmann quote, realized the word I was looking for was incoherent, the motives for my attempts to disengage from the clusterfuck, the motives for my inability to disengage from the clusterfuck despite my impotency (and self-interest) before it.

• Omidyar and the Oligarch's Code.
• Savage capitalism is back.
• Graeber interviewed.
• One percent America.
• Too little, too late.
• On Assata Shakur: But the anger... it should be simple, but the ongoing history of white supremacy in this country makes nothing simple. That Assata Shakur's daughter should ever have been separated from her mother, that she should have believed that her mother did not want to be out of prison: these are great crimes, inexcusable crimes, all too common crimes. There has been much talk in recent weeks of reparations for slavery. It's not clear to me how a debt like that could ever be repaid. How even individual crimes, like those against Assata Shakur and her daughter, could ever be adequately atoned for.
• A bleggalgaze: I feel like I keep saying this every few blog posts, or maybe I just think about it in the shower: I need to write more, I’ve lost the purpose of this blog, I need to be more interesting, I need more clicks (I almost typed “dicks”—and yes … perhaps), I need more retweets, I need the favs, am I alive, etc., and I know people are like, shut up already, what are you, a narcissist, what are you, a woman, what are you, and the crux of it is I hate myself for having those thoughts and for wanting to write and for wanting attention. What this means is that I’ve lost the ability to not give a fuck and write. When I say “lost” I mean “I never had it”. This is not a bad thing at all but capitalist ideology posits solipsism as a triumph, an admirable thing, a wonderful starting point. Or maybe it’s both the starting point and the goal. You are supposed to not care. I know that this idea of not-caring-what-you-think-of-me needs to be historicised, raced, and gendered, before it can mean anything. Some of us get away with not-caring! Are rewarded handsomely, in fact! Make pots of money off of not-caring! And some of us care too much and then we die.
• Anne Carson, for those of you who do.
• Josipovici, for those of you who do.
• The life of John Fahey, American guitarist.

IN RUBBLE

David Wagoner

Right after the bomb, even before the ceiling

   And walls and floor are rearranging

      You and themselves into a different world,

You must hold still, must wait for them

   To settle down in unpredictable ways,

      To bring their wars, shuddering,

To an end, and only then should you begin

   Numbly to feel what freedom may be left

      To your feet or knees, to your elbows

Or clenched fingers. Where you used to walk

   Or lean or lie down or fix your attention

      At a whim or stomp your foot

Or slump in a chair, you'll find a new

   Architecturally unsound floor-plan

      To contend with, if you can move

At all. Now you may remember others

   Who were somewhere near you before

      This breakdown of circumstances. Caught by surprise

Like you, they may be waiting separately

   At their own levels, inside their own portions

      Of your incoherent flat. They may be thinking

Of you, as you are of them, and wondering

   Whether some common passageway, no matter

      How crooked or narrow, might still exist

Between you, through which you might share the absence

   Of food and water and the cold comfort

      Of daylight. They may be expecting you

To arrive at any moment, to crawl through dust

   And fire to their rescue as they find their bodies

      Growing more stiff, assuming even more

Unusual attitudes at every turn

   Of a second hand, at every sound

      Of a bell or an alarm, at every pounding

Of a door or a heart, so if you can't reach them

   Now and they can't reach you, remember, please

      Remember, whatever you say,

Whatever you hear or keep to yourself, whatever

   You scream or whisper, will need to make

      Some kind of sense, perhaps for days and days.

The Burning, the Loving, the Speaking, the Opening

• My second favorite radio three hours of the week is Jeffrey Davidson's Saturday sunrise show. It's quite astonishing how deeply some of songs he plays slay me. All songs today taken from yesterday's show.
• Was gonna remake/remodel last night's United kit post for today's post - I couldn't wait to post it - but since Charlie commented it's a stand-alone and today you get bleggalgazing.
• 31% more meaningless!
• Futile Sunday in the Middle of a Three Day Weekend Bleggalgazing: The threatened updating of the blogrolls has happened. All blogs that hadn't updated in at least three months have been moved to Moribund. All blogs that killed themselves and no longer provide a feed have been removed. I think the latter are the ones that contribute to this blog's slow-loading, it's loading much faster now. There are a few new sites for your eyes. As always, if you are Kinding me and me not you please let me know. If you've migrated to a new address in the past six months please let me know. If there's someone you think I should be/would enjoy reading, please let me know.

• Angel Olsen is playing Rock & Roll Hotel May 15th. Not sure when we're picking up Planet from college, but if I'm in town May 15th I'm going.
• Why twitter elites can't speak for minorities. (h/t Giovanni via twitter)
• Maggie's weekly links.
• { feuilleton }'s weekly links.
• The gentrification of the imagination.
• Anne Carson, for those of you who do.
• Crooked Rain turns twenty.  Wasn't love, was some good nights of drunken mutual groping.
• More on next Swans.
• Prunella's lastest playlist.
• People have liked the Rukeyser poems posted lately. Have another below.
• I have always been a fool for female singer-songwriters.

AKIBA

Muriel Rukeyser

The night is covered with signs. The body and face of man,

with signs, and his journeys.     Where the rock is split

and speaks to the water;     the flame speaks to the cloud;

the red splatter, abstraction, on the door

speaks to the angel and the constellations.

The grains of sand on the sea-floor speak at last to the noon.

And the loud hammering of the land behind

speaks ringing up the bones of our thighs, the hoofs,

we hear the hoofs over the seethe of the sea.

All night down the centuries, have heard, music of passage.

Music of one child carried into the desert;

firstborn forbidden by law of the pyramid.

Drawn through the water with the water-drawn people

led by the water-drawn man to the smoke mountain.

The voice of the world speaking, the world covered by signs,

the burning, the loving, the speaking, the opening.

Strong throat of sound from the smoking mountain.

Still flame, the spoken singing of a young child.

The meaning beginning to move, which is the song.

Music of those who have walked out of slavery.

Into that journey where all things speak to all things

refusing to accept the curse, and taking

for signs the signs of all things, the world, the body

which is part of the soul, and speaks to the world,

all creation being created in one image, creation.

This is not the past walking into the future,

the walk is painful, into the present, the dance

not visible as dance until much later.

These dancers are discoverers of God.

We knew we had all crossed over when we heard the song.

Out of a life of building lack on lack:

the slaves refusing slavery, escaping into faith:

an army who came to the ocean: the walkers

who walked through the opposites, from I to opened Thou,

city and cleave of the sea. Those at flaming Nauvoo,

the ice on the great river: the escaping Negroes,

swamp and wild city: the shivering children of Paris

and the glass black hearses; those on the Long March:

all those who together are the frontier, forehead of man.

Where the wilderness enters, the world, the song of the world.

Akiba rescued, secretly, in the clothes of death

by his disciples carried from Jerusalem

in blackness journeying to find his journey

to whatever he was loving with his life.

The wilderness journey through which we move

under the whirlwind truth into the new,

the only accurate. A cluster of lights at night:

faces before the pillar of fire. A child watching

while the sea breaks open. This night. The way in.

Barbarian music, a new song.

Acknowledging opened water, possibility:

open like a woman to this meaning.

In a time of building statues of the stars,

valuing certain partial ferocious skills

while past us the chill and immense wilderness

spreads its one-color wings until we know

rock, water, flame, cloud, or the floor of the sea,

the world is a sign, a way of speaking. To find.

What shall we find? Energies, rhythms, journey.

Ways to discover. The song of the way in.

The Song Sparrow Puts All His Saying into One Repeated Song

Relinking to Richard's review of his Music 2013 not only because I added it late to yesterday's post and not only because it is full of great music suggestions but mostly because he mentioned the Pere Ubu show at Rock and Roll Hotel we attended last September and I was reminded that I recorded the above, a live version of this shitty blog's long-time Theme Song Two, it's over to the left, has been for years.

• I did not know that. See Theme Song Three.
• Chomsky as moral compass?
• On Chomsky in the role of moral compass and his fans.
• Good friend Jay Paleo Old Arra Dirty 101 Bama and I emailed last night, this post's title came to mind when I wrote this: As always it comes down to each individual's level of moral pragmatism. Give that Chomsky serves power in ways he's either unaware of (which, being Chomsky, I find highly improbable) or is aware of his situation and decides that there IS no alternative to Capital's power, there's only ways of mitigating its rapacious drive. Um, less-shittyism, let's call it. I'm always reminded of George Carlin's definition of the difference between a jerk and and asshole: a jerk is someone who drives slower than you, an asshole someone who drives faster. 
• Brutality and complexity in the global economy.
• Slap-single switch-hitter batting helmet as brand for Corporate mendacity. 
• He, for one, welcomes his new insect overlords.  
• Anne Carson's Glass Essay.
• Philip Glass turned 77 yesterday. Here's Metamorphosis, here's:

GLASS

A.R. Ammons

The song

sparrow puts all his

saying

into one

repeated song:

what
  

variations, subtleties

he manages,

to encompass denser

meanings, I’m

too coarse

to catch: it’s
  

one song, an over-reach

from which

all possibilities,

like filaments,

depend:

killing,
  

nesting, dying,

sun or cloud,

figure up

and become

song—simple, hard:

removed.

Caught Between the Tongue and the Taste, or: 57 Today

• Have I ever mentioned I love Guided by Voices and all Robert Pollard projects, that Pollard has one of three permanent seats in My Sillyass Deserted Island Five Game? Pollard is 57 today. Today is a High Egoslavian Holy Day. More songs later, requests if you give me any.
• Greenwald and the doctrine of exceptionalism.
• Taylorism, progressivism, and rule by experts.
• The contradictions of capital.
• The future is a foreign country.
• The logic of stupid poor people.
• America as carnival bumcombe.
• A brief history of the devil.
• There are new sites added to Newest Gags First and Second. Check them out. As always, if you are Kinding me but me not you please let me know.

• Halloween is the fucking Arcade Fucking Fire of holidays. Even my favorite DJs on WFMU are playing motherfucking Halloween related songs. Fuck Halloween fuck Halloween fuck this fuck Halloween.
• United and De Rosario part ways. SeatSix sends me a photo - they cut him and he gets to leave stadium watching workers take down his banner. New United ownership - always classy.
• Red Sox fan dedicates trash can he's lighting on fire to Marathon victims.
• I haven't thought of the Willard Grant Conspiracy in a decade. I've a couple of CDs somewhere.
• Saariaho.
• Paris Review just tweeted a quote from 1988 interview with Anthony Hecht so have a 1988 interview with Anthony Hecht.
• Beneath the below GbV song is XXIV: Freedom from Anne Carson's Autobiography of Red, I love you but it's too long to type out, sorry. If they don't embiggen on this blog (and a hearty FUCK YOU! - as opposed to a Salty Salute - to my free blogging platform) the will embiggen here. Autobiography of Red is by far the best thing I've ever read since the last until the next, expect LOTS of Anne Carson poetry (though Autobiography of Red is a novel) in this blog's near future.

*

Three Times a Day She Put the Boat on Autopilot and Went Down the Cool Silent Pantry

• Those are the fog photos from yesterday morning. Ask me elsewhere and if I trust you I'll tell you.
• OK, redactions for protection of me! and the loved one I emailed last night: Your dad and his brother, not particularly fond of each other in a Jeff/Bruce way? Cause I don't know if I'd return from vacation in France if Bruce was similarly sick, and I've no doubt it wouldn't even occur to Bruce. There's a big family wedding coming in December in Norfolk, my cousin Kirk, we've a hotel room at the reception hotel, Lynn and me planned to get toasted if not shitfaced. I plan to check my old hiding places at Oakton to see if I can find some stashed and forgotten eedway. Could be a disastorisly funny evening when a shitfaced Lynn tells Bruce she knows who his parents are and she can introduce him to them if he wants.
• That captures my current Bleggal Depressive Syndrome and concludes today's bleggalgazing.
• Songs from roadtrip soundtrack:

• Progressive blog #Fail. Read comments too, please.
• Our invisible revolution?
• The true nature of the system laid bare.
• What full communism can not mean.
• On the paradoxes of a totalistic tolerance.
• Propagandists and anti-propagandists.
• OK OK OK.
• Living with ghosts.
• New Wheaton apartments target Millennials! Minimal snark meant, more probably delivered than intended. I just don't know where the current population of crowded Wheaton (and Glenmont) go if Wheaton and Glenmont become the hipster hives Ike Leggett and Ilk envision.
• LOTS of Stephen Collis, who I never heard of until reading Mark's wood::s::lot last night (like I do everyday, and so should you), but I now have a cool reading assignment.
• News of new Littell!
• Eno, for those of you who do (h/t Hamster).
• Vulnerable.
• Anne Carson is my next great infatuation. Now working my 2nd way through Autobiography of Red before reading Red Doc the first time. There will not be reviews. I don't do reviews.
• Krasznohorkai, up next after Carson.
• The Angels. 
• Criticism, presupposition, reading.
• I have mentioned too many time to count that this song, on yesterday's playlist, is one of my five favorite songs ever:

BY CHANCE THE CYCLADIC PEOPLE

Anne Carson

9.4. They put stones in their eye sockets. Upper-class people put precious stones.

16.2. Prior to the movement and following the movement, stillness.

8.0. Not sleeping made the Cycladic people gradually more and more brittle. Their legs broke off.

1.0. The Cycladic was a neolithic culture based on emmer wheat, wild barley, sheep, pigs and tuna speared from small boats.

11.4. Left hand on Tuesdays, right hand on Wednesdays.

10.1. She plied the ferryboat back and forth, island to island, navigating by means of her inner eye.

9.0. When their faces wore smooth they painted them back on with azurite and iron ore.

12.1. All this expertise just disappears when a people die out.

2.0. They wore their faces smooth with trying to sleep, they ground their lips and nipples off in the distress of pillows.

4.4. How you spear it, how you sheer it, how you flense it, how you grind it, how you get it to look so strangely relaxed.

4.0. Mirrors led the Cycladic people to think about the soul and to wish to quiet it.

1.1. The boats had up to fifty oars and small attachments at the bow for lamps. Tuna was fished at night.

16.0. As far as the experience of stirring is concerned, small stillness produces small stirring and great stillness great stirring.

3.3. A final theory is that you could fill the pan with water and use it as a mirror.

2.1. It was no use. They’d lost the knack. Sleep was a stranger.

14.1. There it was plunging up and down in its shallow holes.

6.1. The handbag, that artefact which freed human beings from having to eat food wherever they found it.

3.0. While staying up at night the Cycladic people invented the frying pan.

11.0. Three times a day she put the boat on autopilot and went down below to the cool silent pantry.

7.1. Abstention from grain is helpful.

9.3. Their eyes fell out.

11.3. The food was tastier that way.

11.5. This may sound to you like a mere boyish stunt.

11.1. The pantry, what a relief after the splash and glare of the helm.

4.1. To uncontrive.

6.0. To the Cycladic people is ascribed the invention of the handbag,

3.1. Quite a number of frying pans have been found by archaeologists. The frying pans are small. No one was very hungry at night.

9.1. Did I mention the marble pillows, I think I did.

2.3. This became a Cycladic proverb.

5.2. Proust liked a good jolt.

7.2. Abstention from grain is the same for men and women. You put your lungs in an extraordinary state of clear coolness.

13.0. One night there was a snowfall, solitary, absurd.

6.3. And after dinner, harps.

1.2. The Cycladic was an entirely insomniac culture.

2.2. Well, they said, these are the pies we have. It was a proverb.

4.2. My point of view is admittedly faulty. My nose is always breathing. I am worn out with breathing. I suspect you have days when you choose not to breathe at all.

14.0. That was the night she looked to her soul.

3.2. Or they may have been prestige frying pans.

9.2. They painted wonderful widow’s peaks on themselves or extra breasts.

5.1. Possibly because of his blanket refusal to listen to another person’s dreams at the breakfast table, for Proust dismissed this type of recollection as ‘mere anamnesia’.

16.1. There it lay, the foredeck in the moonlight, more silver than the sea.

9.5. Perhaps now they were glad after all that they did not sleep.

5.3. That moment when everyone sees exactly what is on the end of their fork, as William S. Burroughs said of celebrity.

15.1. See me leaving you better hang your head and cry, she liked songs like that. Honkytonk influence.

16.3. All of her leapt before her eyes.

8.1. They worried about this and kept their arms close to the body, clasping the torso right arm below left, like a cummerbund.

11.6. She thought it a good idea to silence mental conversation.

12.0. Clouds every one of them smell different, so do ocean currents. So do rocky reefs.

10.2. Her inner eye grew sharp enough to slaughter goats.

15.0. She’d been a pretty good harpist before the die-off.

6.2. So began the dinner parties.

10.0. Eventually the Cycladic people died out all except one, a ferryboat captain.

8.2. Left arm below right was considered uncouth.

7.0. To play a stringless harp requires only the thumbs.

5.0. The Cycladic people were very fond of Proust.

4.3. Is it because you don’t want the impact.

11.2. In the pantry she sat at the counter and ate with her hands.

16.0. As far as the experience of stirring is concerned, small stillness produces small stirring and great stillness great stirring.