Thursday, February 28, 2019


Did I ever tell you about the man
who taught his asshole to talk?
His whole abdomen would move up and down,
you dig, farting out the words.
It was unlike anything I ever heard.
Bubbly, thick, stagnant sound.
A sound you could smell.
This man worked for the carnival,you dig?
And to start with it was
like a novelty ventriloquist act.
After a while,
the ass started talking on its own.
He would go in
without anything prepared…
and his ass would ad-lib
and toss the gags back at him every time.
Then it developed sort of teethlike…
little raspy incurving hooks
and started eating.
He thought this was cute at first
and built an act around it…
but the asshole would eat its way through
his pants and start talking on the street…
shouting out it wanted equal rights.
It would get drunk, too, and have crying jags.
Nobody loved it.
And it wanted to be kissed,
same as any other mouth.
Finally, it talked all the time,
day and night.
You could hear him for blocks,
screaming at it to shut up…
beating at it with his fists…
and sticking candles up it, but…
nothing did any good,
and the asshole said to him…
“It is you who will shut up
in the end, not me…
“because we don’t need you
around here anymore.
I can talk and eat and shit.”
After that, he began waking up
in the morning with transparentjelly…
like a tadpole’s tail
all over his mouth.
He would tear it off his mouth
and the pieces would stick to his hands…
like burning gasoline jelly
and grow there.
So, finally, his mouth sealed over…
and the whole head…
would have amputated spontaneously
except for the eyes, you dig?
That’s the one thing
that the asshole couldn’t do was see.
It needed the eyes.
Nerve connections were blocked…
and infiltrated and atrophied.
So, the brain couldn’t
give orders anymore.
It was trapped inside the skull…
sealed off.
For a while, you could see…
the silent, helpless suffering
of the brain behind the eyes.
And then finally
the brain must have died…
because the eyes went out…
and there was no more feeling in them
than a crab’s eye at the end of a stalk.

Everything A Beginner Needs To Know About Grow Lights


Wednesday, February 27, 2019

RYŌKAN - “For Children Killed in a Smallpox Epidemic”

When spring arrives
From every tree tip
Flowers will bloom,
But those children
Who fell with last autumn’s leaves
Will never return.

Keep your heart clear and transparent
And you will never be bound.
A single disturbed thought, though,
Creates ten thousand distractions.
Let myriad things captivate you
And you’ll go further and further astray.
How painful to see people
All wrapped up in themselves.

I watch people in the world
Throw away their lives lusting after things,
Never able to satisfy their desires,
Falling into deep despair
And torturing themselves.
Even if they get what they want
How long will they be able to enjoy it?
For one heavenly pleasure
They suffer ten torments of hell,
Binding themselves more firmly to the grindstone.
Such people are like monkeys
Frantically grasping for the moon in the water
And then falling into a whirlpool.
How endlessly those caught up in the floating world suffer.
Despite myself, I fret over them all night
And cannot staunch my flow of tears.

Sometimes I sit quietly,
Listening to the sound of falling leaves.
Peaceful indeed is the life of a monk,
Cut off from all worldly matters.
Then why do I shed these tears?

I’m so aware
That it’s all unreal:
One by one, the things
Of this world pass on.
But why do I still grieve?

When I think
About the misery
Of those in this world
Their sadness
Becomes mine.

Oh, that my monk’s robe
Were wide enough
To gather up all
The suffering people
In this floating world.

Nothing makes me
More happy than
Amida Buddha’s Vow
To save

If you are not put off
By the voice of the valley
And the starry peaks,
Why not walk through the shady cedars
And come see me?

At dusk
Come to my hut—
The crickets will
Serenade you, and I will
Introduce you to the moonlit woods.

Life After Warming

David Wallace-Wells
Penguin, 2019

Maurice Ravel (1929/31)

Yuja Want
Lionel Bringuier
Tonhalle-Orchester Zürich

Deutsche Grammophon, 2015

Georg Philipp Telemann (1681-1767)

Akademie für Alte Musik Berlin

Harmonia Mundi, 2017

Tuesday, February 26, 2019

Demonstrating for AYASA INSTRUMENTS


Demonstrating for AYASA INSTRUMENTS





There is a sacredness in tears.They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.

Vincent D'Indy, 1886

Antonio de Almeida,
Francois-Joel Thiollier
RTÉ National Symphony Orchestra

Monday, February 25, 2019


Everybody thinks that this civilization has lasted a very long time, but it really does take very few grandfathers’ granddaughters to take us back to the dark ages.

Richard Fleischer - USA - 1966

Antonio Vivaldi, 1705

Naïve, 2012

Photo Credit: EW, no photographer listed.

Sunday, February 24, 2019

So now the sadness comes — the revelation. There is a depression after an answer is given. It was almost fun not knowing. Yes, now we know. At least we know what we sought in the beginning. 

But there is still the question: why? And this question will go on and on until the final answer comes. Then the knowing is so full, there is no room for questions.
JOHN PRINE - ”Speed of the Sound of Loneliness”

You come home late and you come home early
You come on big when you’re feeling small
You come home straight and you come home curly
Sometimes you don’t come home at all

So what in the world’s come over you
And what in heaven’s name have you done
You’ve broken the speed of the sound of loneliness
You’re out there running just to be on the run

Well I got a heart that burns with a fever
And I got a worried and a jealous mind
How can a love that’ll last forever
Get left so far behind

It’s a mighty mean and a dreadful sorrow
It’s crossed the evil line today
Well, how can you ask about tomorrow
We ain’t got one word to say

So what in the world’s come over you
And what in heaven’s name have you done
You’ve broken the speed of the sound of loneliness
You’re out there running just to be on the run

Frédéric Chopin, 1839

Nikolai Lugansky

Erato, 2002

Saturday, February 23, 2019


Those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything.


Bruno Rocha & Victor Mello

Friday, February 22, 2019

NOAH LEVINE from Against The Stream

God has abandoned you. Fear does not serve you. Your heart has betrayed you. Only the music can guide you.

Will McPhail


Michel Bianco
Le Coro de Berra

Josquin des Prez (c1455-1521)

Peter Urquhart
Capella Alamire


Thursday, February 21, 2019

FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY from The Brothers Karamazov

The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love.

Wednesday, February 20, 2019

The Designated Mourner

She said something like, “I don’t understand your relationship to society. I don’t understand your relationship to the world.”

“You know what?” I said snippily. “I don’t understand my relationship to my own ass. I was standing naked in the bathroom and I saw my ass in the mirror and I said, ‘What is that? What is that? And what does it have to do with me?’”

Monday, February 18, 2019

RUMI - “The Pull of Reality”

Reality is what grabs hold of you
and pulls you away from mere things.

Reality is not what makes you blind
    and deaf
and causes you to cling more tightly.

The spiritually blind imagine things
that only increase their suffering;
the fancies of selflessness
are what come to the eyes of

Sunday, February 17, 2019

LUCAS HUNT from “A Story Sung - Why Fiction Writers Should Read Poetry”

Any writer who desires to get at the truth of human experience should read poetry, because it contains a multitude of possibility. Poetry is the mud that grows the seed that becomes the forest. It is the clay that makes the brick that forms the building. It is the blood that moves the body that holds the spirit. Poetry has the essence of life in it.

Yet because small seeds grow tall trees, baby bricks make big buildings, and single moments have the power to change lives; poetry and fiction have a crucial relationship. It is a matter of fertility, potency, and efficacy. A novel becomes greater than the sum of its chapters when it has the blood and guts of poetry in it. Then people really feel what they read, and understand the meaning of the story on different levels.

Saturday, February 16, 2019


Beauty and ugliness have one origin.
Name beauty, and ugliness is.
Recognizing virtue recognizes evil.

Is and is not produce one another.
The difficult is born in the easy,
long is defined by short, the high by the low.
Instrument and voice achieve one harmony.
Before and after have places.

That is why the sage can act without effort
and teach without words,
nurture things without possessing them,
and accomplish things without expecting merit:

only one who makes no attempt to possess it
cannot lose it.

Friday, February 15, 2019

HAROLD PINTER from No Man’s Land

I have known this before. The voice unheard. A listener. The command from an upper floor.

Because my property taxes should pay for your shitty kid's shitting public education.

Right, maggots?

Thursday, February 14, 2019


I went up to my room again, drew back the curtains on a calamitous sky and lay down. I could not understand what was happening to me. I found it painful at that period not to understand. I tried to pull myself together. In vain. I might have known. My life was running out, I knew not through what breach.

Happy VD.

Wednesday, February 13, 2019


Surely the day will come when color means nothing more than the skin tone, when religion is seen uniquely as a way to speak one's soul; when birth places have the weight of a throw of the dice and all men are born free, when understanding breeds love and brotherhood.