there are not enough hours in a day
Tuesday, August 20, 2019
Monday, August 19, 2019
Tradition, not history, holds David old when he wrote 29. Joyce published Finnegan's Wake in 1939, two years before his death.
Psalm 29:3 The voice of the Lord is over the waters, the God of glory thunders, the Lord thunders over the mighty waters.
a translation of
|Devonians roam under us, feel fish.|
A rock thought ought to be possible.
Imagine slow poetry sounds from the ground,
as old as, as alive as, this.
Broken words in stone tongues still speaking here,
Sunday, August 18, 2019
吉増 剛造| Yoshimasu Gōzō reminded me it's not shodo. I watched him, writing beautifully exact kana and kanji in four colors - blue, black, green, red. The characters were a few millimeters, entirely legible. His writing enveloped him. an organic extension, nourishment. symbiotic performance.
Imagine alphabets as crypto-genesis. Understand other life writes in living languages, have their poets too. The Anthropocene could mean we've been given a chance to honor other-handedness, its persistence in spite of us. I ask myself to stop entertaining illusions of solitude.
Monday, August 12, 2019
Sunday, August 11, 2019
Tao Yuanming (Tao Chi'en) brings poverty to the peony, gifts compassion to flower and ant. Gardens adore color, abundance. Tao Yuanming sought language and landscape laid as bare as cold trees. He saw more at his eastern door than all the wonders of Kew. Stand at the edge of Lynden and look. Wild aster, buds swelling, foretell cold. Bold peonies seem a dream now.
Imagine filming seasons as ghosts - prosperity, peace, turbulence, war. Explore more your personal and cultural memory.
the yellow dog
If struggling to swim, the approaching swell may well drown him. If the incline describes a breaker near-shore, more life may be waiting for him. We may see the edge of grave not wave, war rubble, troubled house, roof edge, a felled tree not the sea.
Nothing is certain - not despair, not hope.
Imagine a film only of the head of a dog, light, and darkness. Recordings of peace, war, creation, and destruction play. There is no dialogue, just dog, sound. dark, and light. What might you,
seeing, listening, discover about yourself?
the yellow dog
|Vittore Scarpanza (Italianised as Carpaccio), the son of, perhaps, an immigrant Dalmation merchant, was a Venetian painter who lived from around 1460 into the 1520s, as one century slid into another. The actual dates of his birth and death remain uncertain, as do most biographical facts about him. Before he drifted in obscurity after age 50, he painted many beautifully luminous paintings. Here, a dog from St. Augustine in his Study (1502-1507), patiently sits and stares up and, I think, out the lit window, as does Augustine. Outside is an annunciation, the death of Jerome, to whom Augustine may or may not be writing a letter. Scholars believe the dog looks at the living saint, but I wonder. That dogs see ghosts is an old human belief, still persisting in many cultures. Why not man and dog aware of an old friend?|
Imagine a film of a small mongrel dog grooming itself, and a woman writing, both seated before a daylit window. Radiance gradually increases. Both look up and out until the radiance, as slowly as it came, abates. They return to their tasks.
Ask yourself. What do they see?
Probe deeper, with a dog's eye.
Thursday, August 8, 2019
Lymantria dispar (Linneaus 1758) Lymantriidae(1893), Noctuidae (2006), then Erebidae (2012) were sought out and brought to America (1869) by artist Étienne Léopold Trouvelot, to be interbred
with Bombyx mori, the domestic silkmoth. Trouvelot's disastrous imagination produces a century of poisons and insect introductions. It is interesting to note two native species, the daddy-long-legs (Pholcus phalangioides) and the deer mouse (Peromyscus maniculatus), have been observed to be very effective predators. The emergent female, shown here, never flies but dies after producing a soft woolen, doe-colored egg pouch.
Imagine cloaks made of white wings, things as revered as the Gaelic poet's tuigean (teygen), or as that of a Maori kakahu, each exhibiting a kind of cool climate delicacy. Imagine the beautiful brown egg pouch covers collected and pressed into felt for children's slippers or prayer book covers. I've discovered in this moth how the unwanted and reviled deserve attention. This war on a species began with us; our mistakes and manipulations have driven its persecution. The creature itself? Contemplate this - a gypsy moth's persistence in existing.