Skip to content

February 14, 2011

Advertisements

February 13, 2011

i am worn to the bone

February 13, 2011
by

my interior framework is susceptible to shearing, but despite the disruptions caused by extensive pressure, i align my layers and get back up, because, quite simply, there is work to be done, and work has no time for splinters.

gregorian chant

February 9, 2011
by

what can i say about this photo?  well, in mid september, just days before i left to return to school, our group sat in on an afternoon chant by the monks at abezzio san antimo, a town buried in the heart of tuscany.  why am i thinking of this?  well, today i stumbled upon the blog of  nicholas felton whose work i’ve been following since last winter when a classmate used his statistics to illustrate the power of microsoft excel.  apparently, his father has recently passed away and he’s collected the ephemera of his father’s life, categorized it, catalogued it and analyzed it into the most beautiful and pointant reports of the qualities and quantities of life i’ve ever seen.  so much happens day to day and while the majority of it seems like nothing, it is just these moments that end up the summation of our lives.  the post cards, the passport stamps, the echocardiograms, the births of our children, the deaths of our loved ones, the accumulation of friends, the loss of relationships, and all the other little minute details that seem singular but simply are not.

in the coming days, weeks, and months i challenge you to collect these memories and record them somewhere.  you’ll never know how many days of tai chi you’ve practiced in a month or the number of times you’ve listened to the arcade fire album until you’ve kept track.  it’s about being deliberate and recognizing the awesomeness of little stuff, like the olive leaf you picked at the abbey and find crumpled in your purse five months later, because even crumpled up pieces of The Nature are part of the story.

degrees of gray in butte

February 8, 2011
by

Degrees of Gray in Philipsburgh – Richard Hugo

You might come here Sunday on a whim.
Say your life broke down. The last good kiss
you had was years ago. You walk these streets
laid out by the insane, past hotels
that didn’t last, bars that did, the tortured try
of local drivers to accelerate their lives.
Only churches are kept up. The jail
turned 70 this year. The only prisoner
is always in, not knowing what he’s done.

 

The principal supporting business now
is rage. Hatred of the various grays
the mountain sends, hatred of the mill,
The Silver Bill repeal, the best liked girls
who leave each year for Butte. One good
restaurant and bars can’t wipe the boredom out.
The 1907 boom, eight going silver mines,
a dance floor built on springs—
all memory resolves itself in gaze,
in panoramic green you know the cattle eat
or two stacks high above the town,
two dead kilns, the huge mill in collapse
for fifty years that won’t fall finally down.

 

Isn’t this your life? That ancient kiss
still burning out your eyes? Isn’t this defeat
so accurate, the church bell simply seems
a pure announcement: ring and no one comes?
Don’t empty houses ring? Are magnesium
and scorn sufficient to support a town,
not just Philipsburg, but towns
of towering blondes, good jazz and booze
the world will never let you have
until the town you came from dies inside?

 

Say no to yourself. The old man, twenty
when the jail was built, still laughs
although his lips collapse. Someday soon,
he says, I’ll go to sleep and not wake up.
You tell him no. You’re talking to yourself.
The car that brought you here still runs.
The money you buy lunch with,
no matter where it’s mined, is silver
and the girl who serves your food
is slender and her red hair lights the wall.

 

You might come here Sunday on a whim.

Say your life broke down. The last good kiss

you had was years ago. You walk these streets

laid out by the insane, past hotels

that didn’t last, bars that did, the tortured try

of local drivers to accelerate their lives.

Only churches are kept up. The jail

turned 70 this year. The only prisoner

is always in, not knowing what he’s done.


The principal supporting business now
is rage. Hatred of the various grays
the mountain sends, hatred of the mill,
The Silver Bill repeal, the best liked girls
who leave each year for Butte. One good
restaurant and bars can’t wipe the boredom out.


The 1907 boom, eight going silver mines,

a dance floor built on springs—

all memory resolves itself in gaze,

in panoramic green you know the cattle eat

or two stacks high above the town,

two dead kilns, the huge mill in collapse

for fifty years that won’t fall finally down.

Isn’t this your life? That ancient kiss

still burning out your eyes? Isn’t this defeat

so accurate, the church bell simply seems

a pure announcement: ring and no one comes?

Don’t empty houses ring? Are magnesium

and scorn sufficient to support a town,

not just Philipsburg, but towns

of towering blondes, good jazz and booze

the world will never let you have

until the town you came from dies inside?


Say no to yourself. The old man, twenty
when the jail was built, still laughs
although his lips collapse. Someday soon,
he says, I’ll go to sleep and not wake up.
You tell him no. You’re talking to yourself.
The car that brought you here still runs.
The money you buy lunch with,
no matter where it’s mined, is silver
and the girl who serves your food
is slender and her red hair lights the wall.

February 7, 2011

i love these hands.

summer youth, people places

February 7, 2011
by

In The Death and Life of Great American Cities, Jane Jacobs describes illustrations as being “all about us.” She urges us to supplement diagrams and descriptions with experiences of “real cities.” She encourages us to “listen, linger and think about what you see.”  I’m concentrating on neighborhoods right now and nostalgically reminiscing about days spent running around the lilac tree,  climbing over these fences and running through a sprinkler very similar to the one in the distance.