This was going around twitter a couple days ago and I just finally watched it. Incredible. I need to watch it a few more times.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Gerard Manly Hopkins
Hopkins is a masterful poet, one of the greatest in the English language. So I had to pause to read this article on Slate.com just out of curiosity.
What's strange to me is the author's contrasting of those two poems for the purposes of the article, because it's easier to say what's different about those works than to say what's similar. The subject matter is entirely contrasting, the authors' perspectives utterly different, the messages and themes completely at odds with each other. One may as well take an apple and an orange and list all the ways that one is not like the other although they are both fruit. Thomas is commenting on the ironies of class and Hopkins is struggling with God, for chrissakes.
Not saying that the author of the article doesn't make some interesting points about the poems, but I'm wondering why he chose to contrast these two to begin with. That is all.
What's strange to me is the author's contrasting of those two poems for the purposes of the article, because it's easier to say what's different about those works than to say what's similar. The subject matter is entirely contrasting, the authors' perspectives utterly different, the messages and themes completely at odds with each other. One may as well take an apple and an orange and list all the ways that one is not like the other although they are both fruit. Thomas is commenting on the ironies of class and Hopkins is struggling with God, for chrissakes.
Not saying that the author of the article doesn't make some interesting points about the poems, but I'm wondering why he chose to contrast these two to begin with. That is all.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Envoi- Eavan Boland
Appropriate for me on so many levels right now.
It is Easter in the suburb. Clematis
shrubs the eaves and trellises with pastel.
The evenings lengthen and before the rain
the Dublin mountains become visible.
My muse must be better than those of men
who made theirs in the image of their myth.
The work is half-finished and I have nothing
but the crudest measures to complete it with.
Under the street lamps the dustbins brighten.
The winter-flowering jasmine casts a shadow
outside my window in my neighbor's garden.
These are things my muse must know.
She must come to me. Let her come
to be among the donnee, the given.
I need her to remain with me until
the day is over and the song is proven.
Surely she comes, surely she comes to me--
no lizard skin, no paps, no podded womb
about her but a brightening and
the consequences of an April tomb.
What I have done I have done alone.
What I have seen is unverified.
I have the truth and I need the faith.
It is time I put my hand in her side.
If she will not bless the ordinary,
if she will not sanctify the common,
then here I am and here I stay and then am I
the most miserable of women.
It is Easter in the suburb. Clematis
shrubs the eaves and trellises with pastel.
The evenings lengthen and before the rain
the Dublin mountains become visible.
My muse must be better than those of men
who made theirs in the image of their myth.
The work is half-finished and I have nothing
but the crudest measures to complete it with.
Under the street lamps the dustbins brighten.
The winter-flowering jasmine casts a shadow
outside my window in my neighbor's garden.
These are things my muse must know.
She must come to me. Let her come
to be among the donnee, the given.
I need her to remain with me until
the day is over and the song is proven.
Surely she comes, surely she comes to me--
no lizard skin, no paps, no podded womb
about her but a brightening and
the consequences of an April tomb.
What I have done I have done alone.
What I have seen is unverified.
I have the truth and I need the faith.
It is time I put my hand in her side.
If she will not bless the ordinary,
if she will not sanctify the common,
then here I am and here I stay and then am I
the most miserable of women.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Balance
This is an amazing short that I hadn't seen for years (despite looking for it from time to time) until my friend Kristen posted it on Facebook today. Wonderful!
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Abt Vogler- Robert Browning
Just about my favorite poem ever.
Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build,
Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work,
Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when Solomon willed
Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk,
Man, brute, reptile, fly,--alien of end and of aim,
Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed,--
Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable Name,
And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he loved!
Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine,
This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise!
Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and now combine,
Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise!
And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to hell,
Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots of things,
Then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace well,
Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs.
And another would mount and march, like the excellent minion he was,
Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest,
Raising my rampired walls of gold as transparent as glass,
Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest:
For higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire,
When a great illumination surprises a festal night--
Outlining round and round Rome's dome from space to spire)
Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul was in sight.
In sight? Not half! for it seemed, it was certain, to match man's birth,
Nature in turn conceived, obeying an impulse as I;
And the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to reach the earth,
As the earth had done her best, in my passion, to scale the sky:
Novel splendours burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine,
Not a point nor peak but found and fixed its wandering star;
Meteor-moons, balls of blaze: and they did not pale nor pine,
For earth had attained to heaven, there was no more near nor far.
Nay more; for there wanted not who walked in the glare and glow,
Presences plain in the place; or, fresh from the Protoplast,
Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow,
Lured now to begin and live, in a house to their liking at last;
Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed through the body and gone,
But were back once more to breathe in an old world worth their new:
What never had been, was now; what was, as it shall be anon;
And what is,--shall I say, matched both? for I was made perfect too.
All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul,
All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth,
All through music and me! For think, had I painted the whole,
Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder-worth:
Had I written the same, made verse--still, effect proceeds from cause,
Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told;
It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws,
Painter and poet are proud in the artist-list enrolled:--
But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can,
Existent behind all laws, that made them and, lo, they are!
And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man,
That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star.
Consider it well: each tone of our scale in itself is nought;
It is everywhere in the world--loud, soft, and all is said:
Give it to me to use! I mix it with two in my thought:
And, there! Ye have heard and seen: consider and bow the head!
Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared;
Gone! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow;
For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared,
That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go.
Never to be again! But many more of the kind
As good, nay, better, perchance: is this your comfort to me?
To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mind
To the same, same self, same love, same God: ay, what was, shall be.
Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name?
Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands!
What, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same?
Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power expands?
There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before;
The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound;
What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more;
On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round.
All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist;
Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power
Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist
When eternity affirms the conception of an hour.
The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard,
The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky,
Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard;
Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it by and by.
And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence
For the fulness of the days? Have we withered or agonized?
Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence?
Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be prized?
Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear,
Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe:
But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear;
The rest may reason and welcome; 'tis we musicians know.
Well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign:
I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce.
Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again,
Sliding by semitones till I sink to the minor,--yes,
And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground,
Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into the deep;
Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my resting-place is found,
The C Major of this life: so, now I will try to sleep.
Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build,
Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work,
Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when Solomon willed
Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk,
Man, brute, reptile, fly,--alien of end and of aim,
Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed,--
Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable Name,
And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he loved!
Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine,
This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise!
Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and now combine,
Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise!
And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to hell,
Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots of things,
Then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace well,
Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs.
And another would mount and march, like the excellent minion he was,
Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest,
Raising my rampired walls of gold as transparent as glass,
Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest:
For higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire,
When a great illumination surprises a festal night--
Outlining round and round Rome's dome from space to spire)
Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul was in sight.
In sight? Not half! for it seemed, it was certain, to match man's birth,
Nature in turn conceived, obeying an impulse as I;
And the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to reach the earth,
As the earth had done her best, in my passion, to scale the sky:
Novel splendours burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine,
Not a point nor peak but found and fixed its wandering star;
Meteor-moons, balls of blaze: and they did not pale nor pine,
For earth had attained to heaven, there was no more near nor far.
Nay more; for there wanted not who walked in the glare and glow,
Presences plain in the place; or, fresh from the Protoplast,
Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow,
Lured now to begin and live, in a house to their liking at last;
Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed through the body and gone,
But were back once more to breathe in an old world worth their new:
What never had been, was now; what was, as it shall be anon;
And what is,--shall I say, matched both? for I was made perfect too.
All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul,
All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth,
All through music and me! For think, had I painted the whole,
Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder-worth:
Had I written the same, made verse--still, effect proceeds from cause,
Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told;
It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws,
Painter and poet are proud in the artist-list enrolled:--
But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can,
Existent behind all laws, that made them and, lo, they are!
And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man,
That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star.
Consider it well: each tone of our scale in itself is nought;
It is everywhere in the world--loud, soft, and all is said:
Give it to me to use! I mix it with two in my thought:
And, there! Ye have heard and seen: consider and bow the head!
Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared;
Gone! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow;
For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared,
That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go.
Never to be again! But many more of the kind
As good, nay, better, perchance: is this your comfort to me?
To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mind
To the same, same self, same love, same God: ay, what was, shall be.
Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name?
Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands!
What, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same?
Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power expands?
There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before;
The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound;
What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more;
On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round.
All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist;
Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power
Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist
When eternity affirms the conception of an hour.
The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard,
The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky,
Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard;
Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it by and by.
And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence
For the fulness of the days? Have we withered or agonized?
Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence?
Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be prized?
Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear,
Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe:
But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear;
The rest may reason and welcome; 'tis we musicians know.
Well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign:
I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce.
Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again,
Sliding by semitones till I sink to the minor,--yes,
And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground,
Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into the deep;
Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my resting-place is found,
The C Major of this life: so, now I will try to sleep.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Uninspired
So, as you may have noticed, this blog is less and less about the community and more about myself personally.
I think it's just that I'm in a bit of a down place lately- a lot of collaborative projects have sort of fallen apart due to one thing or another, so I'm having a little rebound period where I rethink what I want to be involved in and the extent of my involvement.
On the other hand, being done with those things is incredibly freeing, and I'm starting to feel a spark of creativity and enthusiasm for personal projects. So it's fine, I'm just not in the same place I was six months ago when I started blogging.
One of the things I'm thinking about is that I need to take on personal projects that specifically don't resemble the work I do for money. I really enjoy the weird stuff I make with wire and paper and find it gratifying, and want to explore working more with physical stuff, rather than looking at a monitor.
Also, I need to make more substantial connections with some of the amazing people I know, because I think that having people to bounce things off of would be really helpful for me. I have a hard time prioritizing spending meaningful time with people, but I need to do that.
So if you don't mind, I'll continue to share like I have been, and keep the title the same. And thank you for your patience.
I think it's just that I'm in a bit of a down place lately- a lot of collaborative projects have sort of fallen apart due to one thing or another, so I'm having a little rebound period where I rethink what I want to be involved in and the extent of my involvement.
On the other hand, being done with those things is incredibly freeing, and I'm starting to feel a spark of creativity and enthusiasm for personal projects. So it's fine, I'm just not in the same place I was six months ago when I started blogging.
One of the things I'm thinking about is that I need to take on personal projects that specifically don't resemble the work I do for money. I really enjoy the weird stuff I make with wire and paper and find it gratifying, and want to explore working more with physical stuff, rather than looking at a monitor.
Also, I need to make more substantial connections with some of the amazing people I know, because I think that having people to bounce things off of would be really helpful for me. I have a hard time prioritizing spending meaningful time with people, but I need to do that.
So if you don't mind, I'll continue to share like I have been, and keep the title the same. And thank you for your patience.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The Neighbor- Rilke
Dangit, I can't find the Snow translation online, so I'm going to have to try this from memory.
Strange violin, do you follow me?
In how many distant cities before this
Did your lonely night speak to mine?
Do thousands play you? Does only one?
Are there in all the great cities those who, without you,
Would have long since lost themselves in the rivers?
And why does it always reach me?
Why am I always the neighbor of those who force you
From fear to sing, and to say out loud
Life is heavier than the weight of all things.
Strange violin, do you follow me?
In how many distant cities before this
Did your lonely night speak to mine?
Do thousands play you? Does only one?
Are there in all the great cities those who, without you,
Would have long since lost themselves in the rivers?
And why does it always reach me?
Why am I always the neighbor of those who force you
From fear to sing, and to say out loud
Life is heavier than the weight of all things.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Art I
Oh my gosh! This is Boujemaa Lahkdar, who had some absolutely amazing pieces in a museum in Marrakech, but who's work I've never ever seen on the web before. Thank you, flickr!
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