Sunday, March 31, 2019

Monsters and Mandolins
Portland Chamber Orchestra

John Frankenheimer
USA, 1973

The New York Times, 6 January 2017

I think as a youngster, when I started acting, there was a pressure to be or look a certain way — a six-pack, straight teeth, tan. That’s just not going to be a constant that I could ever maintain. I’m a bit wonky. Even if I had a pretty face, I couldn’t capitalize on that. That’s not where my heart is.

I do like a beard as well. Not that my whole life comes down to beards and tattoos, but there is a certain level of yeah, I’ve got something you want, so I’m going to deface it. Or maybe I’m incredibly vulnerable, so if I look like this maybe you’ll leave me alone. Perhaps that, too.

Saturday, March 30, 2019

Agnès Varda (1928-2019)


A Native American elder once described his own inner struggles in this manner: Inside of me there are two dogs. One of the dogs is mean and evil. The other dog is good. The mean dog fights the good dog all the time. When asked which dog wins, he reflected for a moment and replied, The one I feed the most.

Friday, March 29, 2019

The Plummery is a suburban home where a backyard permaculture garden measuring only 100sq/m (1076 sq feet) produces over 400kg/900 pounds of food year-round.

Kat Lavers describes her approach to gardening, including vertical and biointensive growing, and how important it is – and possible! – for city dwellers to be food resilient in the face of natural, financial and social crises. We were very inspired by how little day-to-day effort goes into creating such an abundance of food!


A violinist had a violin, a painter his palette. All I had was myself. I was the instrument that I must care for.

Thursday, March 28, 2019

Jean Sibelius, 1899

Neeme Järvi
Gothenburg Symphony Orchestra
Deutsche Grammophon, 2007


April 9th - Breastpiece.

HANNAH ARENDT from The Origins of Totalitarianism

The ideal subject of totalitarian rule is not the convinced Nazi or the convinced Communist, but people for whom the distinction between fact and fiction (i.e., the reality of experience) and the distinction between true and false (i.e., the standards of thought) no longer exist.

Wednesday, March 27, 2019

Wang Wei - “Cooling Off”

Clear waters drift through the immensity of a tall forest.
In front of me a huge river mouth
receives the long wind.
Deep ripples hold white sand
and white fish swimming as in a void.
I sprawl on a big rock,
billows nourishing my humble body.
I gargle with water and wash my feet.
A fisherman pauses out on the surf.
So many fish long for bait.  I look
only to the east with its lotus leaves.

Leoš Janáček (1854-1928)

Antoni Wit
Warsaw Philharmonic Orchestra
Naxos, 2012
WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS from The Paris Review - The Art of Fiction No. 36

All of my work is directed against those who are bent on blowing up the planet.

Tuesday, March 26, 2019

Philip Glass (b. 1937)
 Víkingur Ólafsson
Deutsche Grammophon, 2017

Zal Batmanglij and Brit Marling
Netflix, 2018

Sheku Kanneh-Mason

Decca, 2018

The Paul Winter Consort

A&M, 1969

Vincent d'Indy (1851-1931)

Rumon Gamba
Iceland Symphony Orchestra
Chandos, 2008

Max Bruch, 1870

Kurt Masur
Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra

Phillips, 1998

OSCAR WILDE from The Importance of Being Earnest

All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does, and that is his.

Monday, March 25, 2019


I hear from here the howl resolving all, even if it is not mine. Meanwhile there’s no use knowing you are gone, you are not, you are writhing yet, the hair is growing, the nails are growing, the entrails emptying, all the morticians are dead.

Sunday, March 24, 2019

Ricky Gervais
UK, 2019


I am absolutely convinced that the main source of hate in the world is religion and organized religion. Absolutely convinced of that. And I think it should be - religion - treated with ridicule, hatred, and contempt.

So when I say that I think religion poisons everything, I’m not just doing what publishers like and coming up with a provocative subtitle. I mean to say it infects us in our most basic integrity.

It says we can’t be moral without “Big Brother,” without a totalitarian permission. It means we can’t be good to one another without this. It means we must be afraid.

We must also be forced to love someone whom we fear - the essence of sado-masochism, the essence of abjection, the essence of the Master/Slave relationship. And that it knows death is coming, and can’t wait to bring it on.

I say that is Evil.

And though I do, some nights, stay home, I enjoy more the nights when I go out and fight against this ultimate wickedness and this ultimate stupidity.

Saturday, March 23, 2019

Samuel R. Delany from Nova

Oh, for the rebirth of an educational system where understanding was an essential part of knowledge.
The Origins of Totalitarianism

One of the greatest advantages of the totalitarian elites of the twenties and thirties was to turn any statement of fact into a question of motive.
The Golden Notebook

I dislike us all, because of our capacity for not-thinking when it suits us; we choose not to think when we are reaching our for happiness.

JONATHAN GRIFFIN - “Blessed are the Clouds”

Nights—the long interims—when for a time
one’s mind is stifled in the stardust-storm…

       Yet day does come—again all’s well—
       suddenly a half-hidden tower
               is warming the whole square
with the Doge-crimson velvet of its bells

       I can feel each cloud as a thing
and seem to touch its turrets and to think
               the great curve of its birth
               and find then I am thanking
               watershepherdess Earth

Some nights, too, there are clouds silvered by Death
       sailing laden with star-oblivion

               or hurled clouds have lost form
and brought mercy muffling all the stars from us

Friday, March 22, 2019

"Ancient Voices"

"The wind whispers stories from far and long ago."



Grown-ups desperately need to feel safe, and then they project onto the kids. But what none of us seem to realize is how smart kids are. They don’t like what we write for them, what we dish up for them, because it’s vapid, so they’ll go for the hard words, they’ll go for the hard concepts, they’ll go for the stuff where they can learn something. Not didactic things, but passionate things.

Thursday, March 21, 2019

Christian Wiman, “This Inwardness, This Ice”

This inwardness, this ice,
this wide boreal whiteness

into which he’s come
with a crawling sort of care

for the sky’s severer blue,
the edge on the air,

trusting his own lightness
and the feel as feeling goes;

this discipline, this glaze,
this cold opacity of days

begins to crack.
No marks, not one scar,

no sign of where they are,
these weaknesses rumoring through,

growing loud if he stays,
louder if he turns back.

Nothing to do but move.
Nowhere to go but on,

to creep, and breathe, and learn
a blue beyond belief,

an air too sharp to pause,
this distance, this burn,

this element of flaws
that winces as it gives.

Nothing to do but live.
Nowhere to be but gone.


Warsaw Village Band

Orange Music, 2001

Rock and Roll Hall of Famer Sister Rosetta Tharpe 
playing her Gibson Les Paul Custom in England, 1964.

Barbara Loden

USA, 1970


Netflix Anthology, 2019

Daniel Nettheim

Australia,  2018

Emma Freeman

Australia, 2016

Margaret Atwood from Bluebeard's Egg

In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.     

Wednesday, March 20, 2019


David Frayne
Ireland, 2017

Each time I leaped I seemed to touch the sky and when I regained earth it seemed to be mine alone.

Tuesday, March 19, 2019


If something burns your soul with purpose and desire, it’s your duty to be reduced to ashes by it. Any other form of existence will be yet another dull book in the library of life.

Sunday, March 17, 2019

(English title: WINTER BROTHERS)

Hlynur Palmason
Denmark/Iceland, 2017

(English title: RAMS)

Grímur Hákonarson
Iceland, 2015


Eliseo Subiela
Argentina, 1992

JOHN KEATS - “Ode on Melancholy”

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
      Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
      By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
              Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
      Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
              Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;
      For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
              And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
      Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
      And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
      Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
              Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
      Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
              And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
      And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
      Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
      Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
              Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
      Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;
His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
              And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

Saturday, March 16, 2019


In my medicine cabinet
     the winter fly
has died of old age

Friday, March 15, 2019


That woman speaks eighteen languages, and can't say No in any of them.

Thursday, March 14, 2019


Sometimes you would think I was writing for the public.

Wednesday, March 13, 2019

VIRGINIA WOOLF from To The Lighthouse

Through the open window the voice of the beauty of the world came murmuring, too softly to hear exactly what it said—but what mattered if the meaning were plain?

Tuesday, March 12, 2019

GWENDOLYN BROOKS - "The Lovers of the Poor"

arrive. The Ladies from the Ladies’ Betterment League
Arrive in the afternoon, the late light slanting 
In diluted gold bars across the boulevard brag
Of proud, seamed faces with mercy and murder hinting 
Here, there, interrupting, all deep and debonair,
The pink paint on the innocence of fear; 
Walk in a gingerly manner up the hall.
Cutting with knives served by their softest care, 
Served by their love, so barbarously fair.
Whose mothers taught: You’d better not be cruel! 
You had better not throw stones upon the wrens! 
Herein they kiss and coddle and assault 
Anew and dearly in the innocence 
With which they baffle nature. Who are full, 
Sleek, tender-clad, fit, fiftyish, a-glow, all 
Sweetly abortive, hinting at fat fruit, 
Judge it high time that fiftyish fingers felt 
Beneath the lovelier planes of enterprise. 
To resurrect. To moisten with milky chill. 
To be a random hitching-post or plush.
To be, for wet eyes, random and handy hem.
                        Their guild is giving money to the poor.
The worthy poor. The very very worthy
And beautiful poor. Perhaps just not too swarthy?
perhaps just not too dirty nor too dim 
Nor—passionate. In truth, what they could wish
Is—something less than derelict or dull.
Not staunch enough to stab, though, gaze for gaze!
God shield them sharply from the beggar-bold! 
The noxious needy ones whose battle’s bald 
Nonetheless for being voiceless, hits one down.
                        But it’s all so bad! and entirely too much for them.
The stench; the urine, cabbage, and dead beans,
Dead porridges of assorted dusty grains,
The old smoke, heavy diapers, and, they’re told,
Something called chitterlings. The darkness. Drawn
Darkness, or dirty light. The soil that stirs. 
The soil that looks the soil of centuries.
And for that matter the general oldness. Old 
Wood. Old marble. Old tile. Old old old.
Not homekind Oldness! Not Lake Forest, Glencoe.
Nothing is sturdy, nothing is majestic,
There is no quiet drama, no rubbed glaze, no 
Unkillable infirmity of such
A tasteful turn as lately they have left, 
Glencoe, Lake Forest, and to which their cars 
Must presently restore them. When they’re done
With dullards and distortions of this fistic
Patience of the poor and put-upon.
                        They’ve never seen such a make-do-ness as 
Newspaper rugs before! In this, this “flat,” 
Their hostess is gathering up the oozed, the rich 
Rugs of the morning (tattered! the bespattered. . . .) 
Readies to spread clean rugs for afternoon. 
Here is a scene for you. The Ladies look, 
In horror, behind a substantial citizeness 
Whose trains clank out across her swollen heart. 
Who, arms akimbo, almost fills a door.
All tumbling children, quilts dragged to the floor 
And tortured thereover, potato peelings, soft-
Eyed kitten, hunched-up, haggard, to-be-hurt.
                        Their League is allotting largesse to the Lost. 
But to put their clean, their pretty money, to put 
Their money collected from delicate rose-fingers 
Tipped with their hundred flawless rose-nails seems . . .
                        They own Spode, Lowestoft, candelabra, 
Mantels, and hostess gowns, and sunburst clocks, 
Turtle soup, Chippendale, red satin “hangings,” 
Aubussons and Hattie Carnegie. They Winter 
In Palm Beach; cross the Water in June; attend, 
When suitable, the nice Art Institute;
Buy the right books in the best bindings; saunter 
On Michigan, Easter mornings, in sun or wind. 
Oh Squalor! This sick four-story hulk, this fibre 
With fissures everywhere! Why, what are bringings 
Of loathe-love largesse? What shall peril hungers 
So old old, what shall flatter the desolate? 
Tin can, blocked fire escape and chitterling
And swaggering seeking youth and the puzzled wreckage 
Of the middle passage, and urine and stale shames 
And, again, the porridges of the underslung
And children children children. Heavens! That
Was a rat, surely, off there, in the shadows? Long
And long-tailed? Gray? The Ladies from the Ladies’ 
Betterment League agree it will be better
To achieve the outer air that rights and steadies,
To hie to a house that does not holler, to ring
Bells elsetime, better presently to cater
To no more Possibilities, to get
Away. Perhaps the money can be posted.
Perhaps they two may choose another Slum!
Some serious sooty half-unhappy home!—
Where loathe-love likelier may be invested.
                        Keeping their scented bodies in the center 
Of the hall as they walk down the hysterical hall, 
They allow their lovely skirts to graze no wall,
Are off at what they manage of a canter,
And, resuming all the clues of what they were,
Try to avoid inhaling the laden air.

Monday, March 11, 2019


Tell him I was too fucking busy - or vice versa.

Sunday, March 10, 2019

Saturday, March 9, 2019


Gidon Kremer, Kremerata Baltica

Nonesuch, 2003