Thursday, January 31, 2019

C. D. WRIGHT from “Scratch Music”

How many threads have I broken with my teeth.  How many times have I looked at the stars and felt ill.  Time here is divided into before and since your shuttering in 1978.  I remember hanging onto the hood of the big-fendered Olds with a mess of money in my purse.  Call that romance. Some memory precedes you: when I wanted lederhosen because I’d read Heidi. And how I wanted my folks to build a fallout shelter so I could arrange the cans. And coveting mother’s muskrat.  I remember college. And being in Vista; I asked the librarian in Banks, the state’s tomato capital, if she had any black literature and she said they used to have Lil Black Sambo but the white children tore out pages and wrote ugly words inside. Someone said if I didn’t like Banks I should go to Moscow. I said, Come on, let’s go outside and shoot the hoop. I’ve got a jones to beat your butt.

I haven’t changed.

Now if I think of the earth’s origins, I get vertigo. When I think of its death, I fall, I’ve picked up a few things, I know if you want songbirds, plant berry trees. If you don’t want birds, buy a rubber snake. I remember that town with the Alcoa plant I toured. The manager kept referring to the workers as Alcoans, I thought of hundreds of flexible metal beings bent over assemblages. They sparked. What would I do in Moscow? I have these dreams—relatives loom over my bed. We should put her to sleep Lonnie says, Go home old girl, go home, my aunt says. Why should I go home before her I want to say. But I am bereft. So how is Life in The Other World. Do you get the news. Are you allowed a pet. But I wanted to show you how I’ve grown, what I know: I keep my bees far from the stable, they can’t stand how horses smell. And I know sooner or later an old house will need a new roof. And more than six years have whistled by since you blew your heart out like the porch light. Reason and meaning don’t step into another lit spot like a well-meaning stranger with a hat. And mother’s mother who has lived in the same house ten times six years, told me. We didn’t know we had termites until they swarmed. Then we had to pull up the whole floor. ”Too late, no more…” you know the poem. But you, you bastard. You picked up a gun in winter as if it were a hat and you were leaving a restaurant; full, weary, and thankful to be spending the evening with no one.

Wednesday, January 30, 2019

William S. Burroughs from The Adding Machine: Selected Essays

As a young child I wanted to be a writer because writers were rich and famous. They lounged around Singapore and Rangoon smoking opium in a yellow pongee silk suit. They sniffed cocaine in Mayfair and they penetrated forbidden swamps with a faithful native boy and lived in the native quarter of Tangier smoking hashish and languidly caressing a pet gazelle.

Tuesday, January 29, 2019

Maurice Sendak

I was sickly as a child and gravitated to books and drawing. During my early teen years, I spent hundreds of hours at my window, sketching neighborhood children at play. I sketched and listened, and those notebooks became the fertile field of my work later on. There is not a book I have written or a picture I have drawn that does not, in some way, owe them its existence. 
Josef Suk (1874-1935)

JoAnn Falletta
Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra

Naxos, 2011

Monday, January 28, 2019

Albert Camus from “The Myth of Sisyphus”

I draw from the absurd three consequences, which are my revolt, my freedom, and my passion.

Sunday, January 27, 2019

Katsuki Sekida from Zen Training - Methods and Philosophy

When all other ways of dissolving internal pressure are blocked, and the only way of discharging it is upon others, anger appears. When internal pressure finds no outlet and is driven inward, we feel sorrow and distress. Crying, barking (“You fool!”), and laughing are all modes of discharge of internal pressure through the drain called the respiratory organs. In laughing, as in expressing anger or sorrow, physical action plays a very important part.

If, when you are angry, someone by chance makes you laugh, you will forget your anger for a while; and when the old anger comes back you will find it much moderated. Part of the internal pressure has been physically discharged. When someone is crying, we feel touched with compassion, but from a physical point of view crying is the ego breaking wind and dissipating itself. However, when the ego does not consent to submit, and stubbornly maintains its position, then anger appears.  


Luigi Boccherini (1743-1805)

Jordi Savall
Le Concert des Nations

Saturday, January 26, 2019

Pier Paolo Pasolini - “Poem No. 1 for Ninetto Davoli”

Your place was at my side,
and you were proud of this.
But, sitting with your arm on the steering wheel
you said, “I can’t go on. I must stay here, alone.”
If you remain in this provincial village you’ll fall into a trap.
We all do. I don’t know how or when but you will.
The years that comprise a life vanish in an instant.
You are quiet, pensive. I know it is love
that is tearing us apart.
I have given you
all the power of my existence,
yet you are humble and proud, obeying a destiny
that wants you to remain impoverished. You don’t know
what to do, whether to give in or not.
I can’t pretend your resistance
doesn’t cause me pain.
I can see the future. There is blood on the sand.

Friday, January 25, 2019

Rainer Maria Rilke - “The Neighbor”

Strange violin, are you following me?
In how many distant cities already
has your lonely night spoken to mine?
Do hundreds play you? Or does one?
Are there in all great cities
such as without you would
already have lost themselves in the rivers?
And why does it always happen to me?
Why am I always neighbor to those
who fearfully force you to sing
and to say: Life is heavier
than the heaviness of all things?


M.D. Herter Norton translation

Thursday, January 24, 2019

Anjelica Huston cutting Harry Dean Stanton’s hair in Jack Nicholson’s backyard, late 1970s.

Wednesday, January 23, 2019

Gabriel García Márquez from One Hundred Years of Solitude

Carmelita Montiel, a twenty-year-old virgin, had just bathed in orange-blossom water and was strewing rosemary leaves over Pilar Ternera’s bed when the shot rang out. Aureliano Jose had been destined to find with her the happiness that Amaranta had denied him, to have seven children, and to die in her arms of old age, but the bullet that entered his chest had been directed by a wrong interpretation of the cards. 

Lucia Pergiovanni
Colpevoli presenze

Tuesday, January 22, 2019

Simone de Beauvoir from The Coming of Age

It is old age, rather than death, that is to be contrasted with life. Old age is life’s parody, whereas death transforms life into a destiny: in a way it preserves it by giving it the absolute dimension. Death does away with time. 

Lucia Periovanni
La presenza di un assenza

Monday, January 21, 2019

Sun Buer

Cut brambles long enough,
Sprout after sprout,
And the lotus will bloom
Of its own accord:
Already waiting in the clearing,
The single image of light.
The day you see this,
That day you will become it.

STORYHIVE supports compelling, original stories told by filmmakers from BC and Alberta by providing production funding, training and exposure to new audiences. Meet the Canadians choosing to do home differently. From life off the grid to living in a converted school bus, this series explores the motivations behind these unique lifestyles.

Fags against racism.
Photographer unknown.

Saturday, January 19, 2019

Well, he has performed more abortions than all the 
"abortion doctors" combined. Shall I list the verses of 
the murder of children throughout your good book?

Philip Gelatt - USA - 2018

George Miller - Australia - 2015

Donald G Jackson & RJ Kizer - USA - 1988

Alex Cox - USA - 1984
STeve Barron - USA - 1990
Paul Bartel - USA - 1975

Mélanie Laurent - USA - 2018
Debra Granik - USA - 2018

Tuesday, January 15, 2019



Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy - “Wai”

The lameness of an unborn child
The tidiness of cry
The only way I’m leaving here
Is curling up and die

The way our shelter moves above
Controlled by just my hand
Insures the death you’re dreaming of
The drowning down of man

O love, O love, O careless love
I only want to lay with you
My love, my love, my careful love
I’ve found the hard way love is true

And always love the smiling one
And rounding out will come
With bitter bile and heartless fun
And consciousness made numb

And fearful hate that’s stemming out
From fear and only fear
Has made your inner croco-shout
And bring his victims here

O love, O love, O careless love
I only want to lay with you
My love, my love, my careful love
I’ve found the hard way love is true

A creature born in listlessness
His hatred to become
It’s here his love is swollen in
And consciousness made numb

And relegate your youth and trust
Your table and your skin
And share the love the godly must
And hold it til the end

O love, O love, O careless love
I only want to lay with you
My love, my love, my careful love
I’ve found the hard way love is true

I only want to lay with you
My love, my love, my careful love
I’ve found the hard way love is true

Saturday, January 12, 2019

Denise Levertov - “The Dog of Art”

That dog with daisies for eyes
who flashes forth
flame of his very self at every bark
is the Dog of Art.
Worked in wool, his blind eyes
look inward to caverns and jewels
which they see perfectly,
and his voice
measures forth the treasure
in music sharp and loud,
sharp and bright,
bright flaming barks,
and growling smoky soft, the Dog
of Art turns to the world
the quietness of his eyes. 

Monday, January 7, 2019

Creatures of Place is an insight into the wonderful world of Artist as Family: Meg Ulman, Patrick Jones, and their youngest son, Woody. Living on a 1/4-acre section in a small Australian town, Meg and Patrick have designed their property using permaculture principals.

They grow most of their own food, don't own cars and ride their bikes instead, use very little electricity, and forage food and materials from their local forest. We found their story super inspiring and we think you will too!

Sunday, January 6, 2019

W.H. Auden – “A Shock”

Housman was perfectly right.
Our world rapidly worsens:
nothing now is so horrid
or silly it can’t occur.
Still, I’m stumped by what happened
to upper-middle-class me,
born in ‘07, that is,
the same time as Elektra,
gun-shy myopic grandchild
of Anglican clergymen,
suspicious of all passion,
including passionate love,
day-dreaming of leafy dells
that shelter carefree shepherds,
averse to violent weather,
pained by the predator beasts,
shocked by boxing and blood-sports,
when I, I, I, if you please,
at Schwechat Flughafen was
frisked by a cop for weapons.

Saturday, January 5, 2019

Thomas Merton from The New Man

Freedom of choice is not, itself, the perfection of liberty. But it helps us take our first step toward freedom or slavery, spontaneity or compulsion. The free man is the one whose choices have given him the power to stand on his own feet and determine his own life according to the higher light and spirit that are in him. The slave, in the spiritual order, is the man whose choices have destroyed all spontaneity in him and have delivered him over, bound hand and foot, to his own compulsions, idiosyncrasies and illusions, so that he never does what he really wants to do, but only what he has to do.