Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Live laborious days.

20 comments:

Σφιγξ said...

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/09/20/magazine/20jung-t.html?_r=2

Σφιγξ said...

Yes, a creative routine. I am interested in the return to this during a Scorpio moon transit.

Σφιγξ said...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dD5VlE_flpU

Σφιγξ said...

The Etch-a-Sketch assumed a new significance for me, and not that I want to erase the constructs of 2013.

Σφιγξ said...

I consider myself blessed to have lost the things that came before. Much love to you. http://books.google.com/books?id=0FiIB9vI2cMC&pg=PT90&lpg=PT90&focus=viewport&vq=blessed&dq=Anne+Carson+If+Not,+Winter&output=html_text

Σφιγξ said...

http://books.google.com/books?id=Hu_I580M4eIC&pg=PA84&dq=Several+rooms+that+Balzac+describes+are+similar+to+the+ones+he+himself+was+decorating+at+the+time.&hl=en&sa=X&ei=eIUcU9DNIImNrAHIg4DICQ&ved=0CCkQ6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=Several%20rooms%20that%20Balzac%20describes%20are%20similar%20to%20the%20ones%20he%20himself%20was%20decorating%20at%20the%20time.&f=false

Σφιγξ said...

I tried hold back, but briny viscera, particularly when it is gilded and arranged in a floral motif, has been guilty pleasure. I used to have one I used as a jewelry dish.

http://www.pinterest.com/jannellpower/oyster-plates/#

Σφιγξ said...

While the chimney cap was being fabricated, the flue has been open. Today, I was alerted to a juvenile mourning dove in the fireplace by the cat, which I caught, and let go.

Σφιγξ said...

As my prayer become more attentive and inward
I had less and less to say.
I finally became completely silent.
I started to listen
– which is even further removed from speaking.
I first thought that praying entailed speaking.
I then learnt that praying is hearing,
not merely being silent.
This is how it is.
To pray does not mean to listen to oneself speaking,
Prayer involves becoming silent,
And being silent,
And waiting until God is heard.

–Søren Kierkegaard, quoted by Joachim Berendt in "The Third Ear," translated by Tim Nevill (Shaftsbury, England: Element Books, 1988).

Σφιγξ said...

http://www.thisiscolossal.com/2015/01/worlds-within-our-worlds-macro-photos-of-everyday-objects/

http://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/can-siberian-tiger-make-comeback-180953973/?no-ist

Sunday, I was reading about Zolushka waiting for coffee. That afternoon, my niece faceplanted in her impractical UGG boots walking down a steep sidewalk, and then cried uncontrollably for her mother, who she has not seen for a month. Outside of Sunday, I have little contact with any of the parties, so it was upsetting to be at a loss. We were walking home, and a woman stopped us offering us this, since her daughter had outgrown it, and she was doing some cleaning. I am glad it made her happy; she turns five on February 17th.

http://cheapsweetdollstored.blogspot.com/2013/06/walt-disney-cinderella-enchanted.html

Sunday evening, I was contemplating Julian Bell's latest, since the artist's use of color was the earliest interest I can remember. I was reading this:

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/25/books/review/van-gogh-by-julian-bell.html?_r=0

For years, as a small child, I had my hair cut by a Russian stylist, and while the feeling was not sexual, I felt very connected to her, as a relative, or friend in another life. Any how, I often remember reading a coffee table book about Van Gogh; rather, staring at the pictures; this morning, I saw her again, and we made eye contact in passing.

Σφιγξ said...

A future exploration, after Giotto's La Cappella degli Scrovegni (1305):

http://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-hampshire-28668894

Σφιγξ said...

http://www.economist.com/news/obituary/21571846-andr%C3%A9-cassagnes-inventor-died-january-16th-aged-86-andr%C3%A9-cassagnes

Σφιγξ said...

Exercise 36 goes here.

One of my earliest memories is of being engrossed in an Etch-a-Sketch, and trying to form circles, and then settling on infinite rooms.

In addition to piles of Lapham's Quarterly I bought on impulse, and have not read, my archives unloosed this, which I bought for the red and sea foam green cover, as much as for bringing the texts to life. I notice a giraffe grounded on the rotting flower, Rafflesia, which I could not have named, then. See cover:

http://www.artbook.com/1880353202.html

Play is serious work, and until being among children again, one easily forgets.

http://janehammondartist.com/work/painting/the-john-ashbery-collaboration/


...still loving ourselves into an illustrative and textual convergence.

Σφιγξ said...

http://www.loc.gov/rr/scitech/mysteries/flower.html

Σφιγξ said...

I am developing the idea from "A Carnival Evening" (1886) that they are now in their room, where one is seated on the bed, with shadows from an unseen window (the negative space in moonlit sea foam) of coraline branches.

http://www.charmenapoli.it/style/corallo-lavorazione-loro-rosso-che-sboccia-dal-mare/

http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/59593.html

Σφιγξ said...

https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B3DfyJRIT4jydkRyVFBBYXJ6YUE/view?usp=sharing

Σφιγξ said...

"The Bridge" by James Merrill

Leaves burn green
Over the stupid little wooden bridge.
Almost the same swan
Feeds at the pond's edge.

The sun is high. The shadow of my head
Floating blank in its flame-dusty halo
Lets me so down through it to a bed
Or mire inert and pale

That all at once this outlook, cross-plank, rung
And worn handrail,
Is wrong, is wrong
To seem unchanged—have / been faithful

To what I came here with
Less than one love ago?
Hush. At my feet a diabolic wraith
Remains obscurely so.

Not quite out of the blue A asks B, for when it must end between them, to help them to behave nicely. Her whole face beams—as if he could ever not be nice! Weeks pass. He tries a new tack: "Don't burn our bridge. Whole families, feelings, habits, etc., still use it every day." But C has all along been using B, so there is only the usual way out. At the park gates A pauses. Inside are thickets, mazes. mirrors charred & croaking, which he will never again visit after dark alone.

The sun is low. A golden fleece
Drowns the toy water.
Boys call their boats in. It is more and less
Than they had set out after.

And at the zenith of the bridge somebody
Else is enduring
With shut eyes, like a god,
That bounced-from-below uppouring

Of rapid pulses, ripple, flash,
Whose drunken script
Scrawls on the scene, on the seer's very flesh,
A message undecipherable except

For its tone of buoyant impatience
With anything downcast —
Long sad truths let fall misshapen
By one and all, to skitter in the dust.

All but that one. His shadow melting, flowing
Upwards into the green and azure blue, fire-pale.
At the stake, but smiling unharmed, he is not going
To die, no, no. He has put wind into sail

Designed never to bear his weight and mass;
And now, having seen this last of many float
To a white standstill on the burning-glass,
Will not recoil, feeling the deck grow hot.

1962-66, from The Yellow Pages (1974)

Σφιγξ said...

http://www.astrostudio.org/xhip.php?hip=40167

https://books.google.com/books?id=d4ghAwAAQBAJ&lpg=PA34&dq=Cancer%20Leo%20Beehive%20Cluster&pg=PA34#v=onepage&q=Cancer%20Leo%20Beehive%20Cluster&f=false

Σφιγξ said...

http://www.parisinfo.com/decouvrir-paris/guides-thematiques/paris-patrimoine-en-or/paris-incontournable/paris-la-seine-ses-ponts-et-passerelles

Σφιγξ said...

https://youtu.be/rrT3XLkA3Gk?si=KStBK3qNRze-lZRt