tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23800575037761426642024-03-04T21:41:23.576-08:00starlight junkiesChristianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.comBlogger155125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-42194952422093037392014-04-29T18:44:00.001-07:002014-04-29T18:44:36.320-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ9e5ixA71mveGe5acBS5anSikO5UKODPa7NUBARflvy9TdTHEf59y67PvCx_XbUWgB2IOklNUN8T3V_gehEDVZvrjq7VrPfIZ_bgDZNVAd8kPdEDIGWyaqMaNM5UVTr8R6EIueAylT1I/s1600/cloud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ9e5ixA71mveGe5acBS5anSikO5UKODPa7NUBARflvy9TdTHEf59y67PvCx_XbUWgB2IOklNUN8T3V_gehEDVZvrjq7VrPfIZ_bgDZNVAd8kPdEDIGWyaqMaNM5UVTr8R6EIueAylT1I/s1600/cloud.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></div>
They watched storms out there so distant they could not be heard, the
silent lightning flaring sheetwise and the thin black spine of the
mountain chain fluttering and sucked away again in the dark. They saw
wild horses racing on the plain, pounding their shadows down the night
and- leaving in the moonlight a vaporous dust like the palest stain of
their passing.<br />
<br />
-Cormac McCarthy Christianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-54330326240873120362014-04-29T18:37:00.001-07:002014-04-29T18:37:20.495-07:00Piano Practice<div>
<div class="yiv1224460000WordSection1">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie5EXIh54JQZQVx6BLrwppMzjIQFWmTsotD5FSBgLiQxGcJZsYDOIM1SEa5Ag8-skOpU6xw0F8TxG0ShjYua-eMDPA6_5H4vOsmItrcYE_Cb4PkIrTquauU7-30eAdk9pkiGJSQ41iq7g/s1600/8fc55e096ae185b325556fd3f073c0848b9ddd94_m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie5EXIh54JQZQVx6BLrwppMzjIQFWmTsotD5FSBgLiQxGcJZsYDOIM1SEa5Ag8-skOpU6xw0F8TxG0ShjYua-eMDPA6_5H4vOsmItrcYE_Cb4PkIrTquauU7-30eAdk9pkiGJSQ41iq7g/s1600/8fc55e096ae185b325556fd3f073c0848b9ddd94_m.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="yiv1224460000MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The summer hums. The afternoon fatigues;<br />she breathed her crisp white dress distractedly<br />and put into it that sharply etched etude<br />her impatience for a reality</span></div>
<div class="yiv1224460000MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />that could come: tomorrow, this evening--,<br />that perhaps was there, was just kept hidden;<br />and at the window, tall and having everything,<br />she suddenly could feel the pampered park.<br /><br />With that she broke off; gazed outside, locked<br />her hands together; wished for a long book--<br />and in a burst of anger shoved back<br />the jasmine scent. She found it sickened her.</span></div>
<div class="yiv1224460000MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="yiv1224460000MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">-Rainer Maria Rilke (Translated by Edward Snow)</span></div>
<div class="yiv1224460000MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond", "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
</div>
</div>
Christianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-57912937969548508132014-04-23T15:37:00.003-07:002014-04-23T15:37:20.965-07:00Saturday Morning No. 2<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/GqFvOblL9cQ" width="420"></iframe>Christianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-91706174744810285882011-09-15T01:39:00.001-07:002011-09-15T01:39:26.690-07:00I Found a Reason<iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/uEApf_FT25M" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Christianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-15320575216640553162011-09-01T18:10:00.001-07:002011-09-01T18:10:19.380-07:00Winter Windows<iframe width="420" height="345" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/2GcQQFdUvmw" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Christianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-81511781769643976482011-08-31T22:11:00.002-07:002011-08-31T22:16:27.225-07:00Absences<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTgY_yojk2yKenn-i4PLe2bd-W8QyDlE8DPWqJrvcq1J3cv1ZPSJ_QLex4uUpc7X3M2OPV0oy25T8rz9IPbBbGXU_XZTkdwwcblWCTl7XChbJodUumZXdimVOivKy3KSOnyqsKHORjJA4/s1600/tumblr_lq6n9hPtnL1qzrblzo1_500.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTgY_yojk2yKenn-i4PLe2bd-W8QyDlE8DPWqJrvcq1J3cv1ZPSJ_QLex4uUpc7X3M2OPV0oy25T8rz9IPbBbGXU_XZTkdwwcblWCTl7XChbJodUumZXdimVOivKy3KSOnyqsKHORjJA4/s320/tumblr_lq6n9hPtnL1qzrblzo1_500.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647255676145723282" /></a>
<br /> Smear out the last star.
<br /> No lights from the islands
<br /> Or hills. In the great square
<br /> The prolonged vowel of silence
<br /> Makes itself plainly heard
<br /> Round the ghost of a headland
<br /> Clouds, leaves, shreds of bird
<br /> Eddy, hindering the wind.
<br />
<br /> No vigils left to keep.
<br /> No enemies left to slaughter.
<br /> The rough roofs of the slopes,
<br /> Loosely thatched with splayed water,
<br /> Only shelter microliths and fossils.
<br /> Unwatched, the rainbows build
<br /> On the architraves of hills.
<br /> No wounds left to be healed.
<br />
<br /> Nobody left to be beautiful.
<br /> No polyp admiral to sip
<br /> Blood and whiskey from a skull
<br /> While fingering his warships.
<br /> Terrible relics, by tiderace
<br /> Untouched, the stromalites breathe.
<br /> Bubbles plop on the surface,
<br /> Disturbing the balance of death.
<br />
<br /> No sound would be heard if
<br /> So much silence was not heard.
<br /> Clouds scuff like sheep on the cliff.
<br /> The echoes of stones are restored.
<br /> No longer any foreshore
<br /> Or any abyss, this
<br /> World only held together
<br /> By its variety of absences.
<br />
<br />- Dom MoraesChristianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-66421154810263122362011-08-31T20:06:00.000-07:002011-08-31T20:32:15.752-07:00Cities & The Sky 5<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyNDVQ1cG7bCA1FlGEeH2I0VVoOBWAKDFe4j778wkcAfQ4uo3DiILjwBZNZ880DPdkVz66z-CBcQnv3B_reFwIsON7xHjHgzJcA-paTP1kdr5qKUS34YykD3-3dKVquViltfoJJKGmXDM/s1600/73732f231f09cc00dca33a481ab3253a4155d605_m.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyNDVQ1cG7bCA1FlGEeH2I0VVoOBWAKDFe4j778wkcAfQ4uo3DiILjwBZNZ880DPdkVz66z-CBcQnv3B_reFwIsON7xHjHgzJcA-paTP1kdr5qKUS34YykD3-3dKVquViltfoJJKGmXDM/s320/73732f231f09cc00dca33a481ab3253a4155d605_m.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647228812220896514" /></a>
<br />Andria was built so artfully that its every street follows a planet's orbit, and the buildings and the places of community life repeat the order of the constellations and the position of the most luminous stars: Antares, Alpheratz, Capricorn, the Cepheids. The city's calendar is so regulated that jobs and offices and ceremonies are arranged in a map corresponding to the firmament on that date: and thus the days on earth and the nights in the sky reflect each other.
<br />
<br /> Though it is painstakingly regimented, the city's life flows calmly like the motion of the celestial bodies and it acquires the inevitability of phenomena not subject to human caprice. In praising Andria's citizens for their productive industry and their spiritual ease, I was led to say: I can well understand how you, feeling yourselves part of an unchanging heaven, cogs in a meticulous clockwork, take care not to make the slightest change in your city and your habits. Andria is the only city I know where it is best to remain motionless in time.
<br />
<br /> They looked at one another dumbfounded. "But why? Whoever said such a thing?" And they led me to visit a suspended street recently opened over a bamboo grove, a shadow-theater under construction in the place of the municipal kennels, now moved to the pavilions of the former lazaretto, abolished when the last plague victims were cured, and--just inaugurated--a river port, a statue of Thales, a toboggan slide.
<br />
<br /> "And these innovations do not disturb your city's astral rhythm?" I asked.
<br />
<br /> "Our city and the sky correspond so perfectly, " they answered, "that any change in Andria involves some novelty among the stars." The astronomers, after each change takes place in Andria, peer into their telescopes and report a nova's explosion, or a remote point in the firmament's change of color from orange to yellow, the expansion of a nebula, the bending of a spiral of the Milky Way. Each change implies a sequence of other changes, in Andria as among the stars: the city and the sky never remain the same.
<br />
<br /> As for the character of Andria's inhabitants, two virtues are worth mentioning: self-confidence and prudence. Convinced that every innovation in the city influences the sky's pattern, before taking any decision they calculate the risks and advantages for themselves and for the city and for all worlds.
<br />
<br />-Italo Calvino Christianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-61170532213723815652011-08-21T08:48:00.000-07:002011-08-21T08:50:18.725-07:00i am a little church<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE4Z2oOTsqf2hu4ac6bNYMK78XziQWKi6vuPxxh_DYbDwlOaLMfXnZhYF0UA8h1XfQN3QjR1qAdl0HdX0Wy9u48GYfKjeKxUWtkoUFhFX669iZkvSazYIBWem0TQ2Hq4LGlwMhh510gn8/s1600/creetonchurch.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE4Z2oOTsqf2hu4ac6bNYMK78XziQWKi6vuPxxh_DYbDwlOaLMfXnZhYF0UA8h1XfQN3QjR1qAdl0HdX0Wy9u48GYfKjeKxUWtkoUFhFX669iZkvSazYIBWem0TQ2Hq4LGlwMhh510gn8/s320/creetonchurch.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5643337115319186178" /></a>
<br />i am a little church(no great cathedral)
<br />far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities
<br />-i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
<br />i am not sorry when sun and rain make april
<br />
<br />my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
<br />my prayers are prayers of earth's own clumsily striving
<br />(finding and losing and laughing and crying)children
<br />whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness
<br />
<br />around me surges a miracle of unceasing
<br />birth and glory and death and resurrection:
<br />over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
<br />of hope,and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains
<br />
<br />i am a little church(far from the frantic
<br />world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature
<br />-i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
<br />i am not sorry when silence becomes singing
<br />
<br />winter by spring,i lift my diminutive spire to
<br />merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
<br />standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
<br />(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)
<br />
<br />-e.e. cummings
<br />
<br />Christianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-19915287879313384692011-07-07T20:29:00.000-07:002011-07-07T20:32:49.880-07:00Sensation<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9K_BZhstTrEukXhwmVAkZNAdwJHodc6yKrIY0IjK0R_agGfS5yhjnX2nLZFhIsnxhffDWJgSM-hOylPZSaAsJW2Fvcl0ktOc4Eeyjv8d8JiSp8NoLUDA09sulx-4bl9qYBSlxvxM0C0c/s1600/tumblr_l3b5y4E4cI1qzshtmo1_500.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 252px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9K_BZhstTrEukXhwmVAkZNAdwJHodc6yKrIY0IjK0R_agGfS5yhjnX2nLZFhIsnxhffDWJgSM-hOylPZSaAsJW2Fvcl0ktOc4Eeyjv8d8JiSp8NoLUDA09sulx-4bl9qYBSlxvxM0C0c/s320/tumblr_l3b5y4E4cI1qzshtmo1_500.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626819312675022050" /></a><br /> Through blue summer nights I will pass along paths,<br /> Pricked by wheat, trampling short grass:<br /> Dreaming, I will feel coolness underfoot,<br /> Will let breezes bathe my bare head.<br /><br /> Not a word, not a thought:<br /> Boundless love will surge through my soul,<br /> And I will wander far away, a vagabond<br /> In Nature - as happily as with a woman.<br /><br />- Arthur RimbaudChristianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-10779974957786337582011-06-19T11:12:00.001-07:002011-06-19T11:12:35.368-07:00Christian Kindschy - Hallelujahs Whispered<iframe width="560" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/cd-DxYi9blg" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Christianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-78387648155665074862011-06-16T23:57:00.001-07:002011-06-16T23:57:57.018-07:00Galahad<iframe width="560" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/wh-4DtAt3Mc" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Christianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-53962286443055953992011-06-16T07:50:00.000-07:002011-06-16T17:25:29.131-07:00Romance Sonambulo<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrzLtPqli_qnHHqK6YRquQt4dmzDzwPNhpFYlSmRTEZIHabxxeh-CO4pkLEF0dfUpcJtkSbhiJczvYbrsCYIAtV0DBtEaAHfy1a8sG9d0xqZQ4aU3eeywAZoylHFa7IQRAcsQ58Ig2PmE/s1600/tumblr_lf2tpiGlsm1qz6f9yo1_500.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrzLtPqli_qnHHqK6YRquQt4dmzDzwPNhpFYlSmRTEZIHabxxeh-CO4pkLEF0dfUpcJtkSbhiJczvYbrsCYIAtV0DBtEaAHfy1a8sG9d0xqZQ4aU3eeywAZoylHFa7IQRAcsQ58Ig2PmE/s320/tumblr_lf2tpiGlsm1qz6f9yo1_500.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618978238650708962" /></a><br /> Green, how I want you green.<br /> Green wind. Green branches.<br /> The ship out on the sea<br /> and the horse on the mountain.<br /> With the shade around her waist<br /> she dreams on her balcony,<br /> green flesh, her hair green,<br /> with eyes of cold silver.<br /> Green, how I want you green.<br /> Under the gypsy moon,<br /> all things are watching her<br /> and she cannot see them.<br /><br /> Green, how I want you green.<br /> Big hoarfrost stars<br /> come with the fish of shadow<br /> that opens the road of dawn.<br /> The fig tree rubs its wind<br /> with the sandpaper of its branches,<br /> and the forest, cunning cat,<br /> bristles its brittle fibers.<br /> But who will come? And from where?<br /> She is still on her balcony<br /> green flesh, her hair green,<br /> dreaming in the bitter sea.<br /><br /> --My friend, I want to trade<br /> my horse for her house,<br /> my saddle for her mirror,<br /> my knife for her blanket.<br /> My friend, I come bleeding<br /> from the gates of Cabra.<br /> --If it were possible, my boy,<br /> I'd help you fix that trade.<br /> But now I am not I,<br /> nor is my house now my house.<br /> --My friend, I want to die<br /> decently in my bed.<br /> Of iron, if that's possible,<br /> with blankets of fine chambray.<br /> Don't you see the wound I have<br /> from my chest up to my throat?<br /> --Your white shirt has grown<br /> thirsty dark brown roses.<br /> Your blood oozes and flees<br /> around the corners of your sash.<br /> But now I am not I,<br /> nor is my house now my house.<br /> --Let me climb up, at least,<br /> up to the high balconies;<br /> Let me climb up! Let me,<br /> up to the green balconies.<br /> Railings of the moon<br /> through which the water rumbles.<br /><br /> Now the two friends climb up,<br /> up to the high balconies.<br /> Leaving a trail of blood.<br /> Leaving a trail of teardrops.<br /> Tin bell vines<br /> were trembling on the roofs.<br /> A thousand crystal tambourines<br /> struck at the dawn light.<br /><br /> Green, how I want you green,<br /> green wind, green branches.<br /> The two friends climbed up.<br /> The stiff wind left<br /> in their mouths, a strange taste<br /> of bile, of mint, and of basil<br /> My friend, where is she--tell me--<br /> where is your bitter girl?<br /> How many times she waited for you!<br /> How many times would she wait for you,<br /> cool face, black hair,<br /> on this green balcony!<br /> Over the mouth of the cistern<br /> the gypsy girl was swinging,<br /> green flesh, her hair green,<br /> with eyes of cold silver.<br /> An icicle of moon<br /> holds her up above the water.<br /> The night became intimate<br /> like a little plaza.<br /> Drunken "Guardias Civiles"<br /> were pounding on the door.<br /> Green, how I want you green.<br /> Green wind. Green branches.<br /> The ship out on the sea.<br /> And the horse on the mountain.<br /><br />- Federico Garcia LorcaChristianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-81535713568228091822011-06-15T15:37:00.000-07:002011-06-15T15:38:54.411-07:00Not for Chopin<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQlIiwAaUgwqfLNiceGgcxbQ1oLT1pxt2OPpUipauRLXr_1D4dEEzXjqJP0m5jvdWGTwV9k3fyszd09AyaTi8ix6eFzjBsBw9vcofgDSyI-21PuG_tmJ9sYqAwK_5LqwBC5it8TBwIPms/s1600/2351447593_4f0d472967.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 309px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQlIiwAaUgwqfLNiceGgcxbQ1oLT1pxt2OPpUipauRLXr_1D4dEEzXjqJP0m5jvdWGTwV9k3fyszd09AyaTi8ix6eFzjBsBw9vcofgDSyI-21PuG_tmJ9sYqAwK_5LqwBC5it8TBwIPms/s320/2351447593_4f0d472967.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618579688069829714" /></a><br />Don’t put off your shower anymore<br />listening to Chopin.<br />Take the Preludes personally;<br />he’s telling you that he can describe a progression<br />that you yourself have been unable to see,<br />shapely, broad light at one-thirty,<br />evening travelling up a road,<br />an overcast day as gentle bones.<br />Don’t remember the music;<br />remember it as something obvious<br />that you are compelled, doomed, to obscure<br />and complicate. You erase it twice.<br />The first time<br />as you listened, unable<br />to have it,<br />the second time<br />as you were unable<br />to remember it.<br />Angry with Chopin,<br />what does he know?<br />The components of your dinner are waiting for you downstairs.<br />The golden evening takes flat, slow turns outside.<br />Become gray.<br />Listen to him describe what you would be like<br />if you were blind, sitting in a chair, at a wake, the days short, that there might<br /> be nothing<br />else, night,<br />content, unable, unwishing, to recall desire, or sight.<br /><br />-Arda CollinsChristianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-34601436659900919932011-06-14T07:27:00.000-07:002011-06-14T07:32:35.614-07:00The House Was Quiet and the World Was Calm<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDslXuIgulvhQNlTMddMhlcNpS0fJ5DtDPYOlJR3AP6T7mZPbGZDEPfW6ExEICpbRC-2f6gfp1s1bgH0GusM72WNoH8E4Ms4XW_EOK3GpCGFk40kaFALreEiL9SkC7kqdYomsBhyphenhyphenI8kHs/s1600/Vintage-Book-reading-17437789-1024-683.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDslXuIgulvhQNlTMddMhlcNpS0fJ5DtDPYOlJR3AP6T7mZPbGZDEPfW6ExEICpbRC-2f6gfp1s1bgH0GusM72WNoH8E4Ms4XW_EOK3GpCGFk40kaFALreEiL9SkC7kqdYomsBhyphenhyphenI8kHs/s320/Vintage-Book-reading-17437789-1024-683.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618083274253278818" /></a><br /> The house was quiet and the world was calm.<br /> The reader became the book; and summer night<br /> Was like the conscious being of the book.<br /> The house was quiet and the world was calm.<br /> The words were spoken as if there was no book,<br /> Except that the reader leaned above the page,<br /> Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be<br /> The scholar to whom the book is true, to whom<br /> The summer night is like a perfection of thought.<br /> The house was quiet because it had to be.<br /> The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:<br /> The access of perfection to the page.<br /> And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,<br /> In which there is no other meaning, itself<br /> Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself<br /> Is the reader leaning late and reading there.<br /><br />- Wallace StevensChristianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-36984625660308685472011-06-11T00:36:00.001-07:002011-06-11T00:38:35.662-07:00Incident<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFzQsp1qm57ZYOmnG9UGh7fiQUcRbMssTsg27mOaIbzQpEM7nTNgxG5wQk9qImlMeM517v7kGAYgF2cHn05nrHzzKcJoCXKW9_fv02-dtXJaYm5Qxmqlo3U8BuIYQ6ScCJbthof1KDh4/s1600/919073eee7d23f99f3a1b96e5bce963ecb19818c_m.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 254px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisFzQsp1qm57ZYOmnG9UGh7fiQUcRbMssTsg27mOaIbzQpEM7nTNgxG5wQk9qImlMeM517v7kGAYgF2cHn05nrHzzKcJoCXKW9_fv02-dtXJaYm5Qxmqlo3U8BuIYQ6ScCJbthof1KDh4/s320/919073eee7d23f99f3a1b96e5bce963ecb19818c_m.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616863335509023362" /></a><br /> I look across the table and think<br /> (fiery with love)<br /> Ask me, go on, ask me<br /> to do something impossible,<br /> something freakishly useless,<br /> something unimaginable and inimitable<br /><br /> Like making a finger break into blossom<br /> or walking for half an hour in twenty minutes<br /> or remembering tomorrow.<br /><br /> I will you to ask it.<br /> But all you say is<br /> Will you give me a cigarette?<br /> And I smile and,<br /> returning to the marvelous world<br /> of possibility<br /> I give you one<br /> with a hand that trembles<br /> with a human trembling.<br /><br />- Norman MacCaigChristianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-71071737067424007832011-06-11T00:34:00.001-07:002011-06-11T00:35:08.344-07:00Sensation<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2bTpN7BH6k93gaRLaktf80yZUkUTnExF8QKh2ikZHke669k60AGON4a-zRxHeGVgvM4eE9StqLALr6JSSNlbY6y3aR_kuhRn0S301GE-FMP-t7AvMEF3bQ0xB2lq4ysU05yHR-HjUL_M/s1600/3951049564_b6bb06d23a_b.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2bTpN7BH6k93gaRLaktf80yZUkUTnExF8QKh2ikZHke669k60AGON4a-zRxHeGVgvM4eE9StqLALr6JSSNlbY6y3aR_kuhRn0S301GE-FMP-t7AvMEF3bQ0xB2lq4ysU05yHR-HjUL_M/s320/3951049564_b6bb06d23a_b.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616862439145110850" /></a><br /> Through blue summer nights I will pass along paths,<br /> Pricked by wheat, trampling short grass:<br /> Dreaming, I will feel coolness underfoot,<br /> Will let breezes bathe my bare head.<br /><br /> Not a word, not a thought:<br /> Boundless love will surge through my soul,<br /> And I will wander far away, a vagabond<br /> In Nature - as happily as with a woman.<br /><br />- Arthur RimbaudChristianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-41341206157256795352011-06-11T00:24:00.000-07:002011-06-11T00:25:06.966-07:00Linger On<iframe width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/9TLDWEQ8o1Y" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Christianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-11343075937385373192011-06-11T00:10:00.000-07:002011-06-11T00:12:59.241-07:00A Song Of The Degrees<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfWIWk4ZKudEy1eFG6oiqP_jNRbg6ewXy0DcS8t-oP07-OXOJpp5WjCpQ6NbdPYUvZLCb2Gx9xXmgpNp-53ZjNg6KdItQ8te8obfbhJuUKlFPXuxaX3IQ0gu6SeBSyiEdmalJS1ubBTB8/s1600/2906614374_43717d0f39.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfWIWk4ZKudEy1eFG6oiqP_jNRbg6ewXy0DcS8t-oP07-OXOJpp5WjCpQ6NbdPYUvZLCb2Gx9xXmgpNp-53ZjNg6KdItQ8te8obfbhJuUKlFPXuxaX3IQ0gu6SeBSyiEdmalJS1ubBTB8/s320/2906614374_43717d0f39.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616856726726815506" /></a><br />I<br />Rest me with Chinese colours,<br />For I think the glass is evil.<br /><br />II<br />The wind moves above the wheat-<br />With a silver crashing,<br />A thin war of metal.<br /><br />I have known the golden disc,<br />I have seen it melting above me.<br />I have known the stone-bright place,<br />The hall of clear colours.<br /><br />III<br />O glass subtly evil, O confusion of colours!<br />O light bound and bent in, soul of the captive,<br />Why am I warned? Why am I sent away?<br />Why is your glitter full of curious mistrust?<br />O glass subtle and cunning, O powdery gold!<br />O filaments of amber, two-faced iridescence! <br /><br />-Ezra PoundChristianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-25709724311763646802011-06-10T18:00:00.001-07:002011-06-10T18:00:54.626-07:00Dancing With the Enemy<iframe width="560" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/9jhIbbNDqfo" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Christianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-44020237847621531982011-06-10T17:58:00.000-07:002011-06-10T18:00:15.546-07:005. Angel of Blizzards & Blackouts<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJY4GarsoRHo64mwpMbsS0nK2XUJg32mUsnDopr1IRppj9UcigNDq-uazBHFWADRLix9qiJ_V-iO7hz45T_1pf3YhmurjnfnTku5qY-SLb9uLmGNwknMyuBOadaVHZYGIMq7LaIQxm_no/s1600/tumblr_ljytwlJ08s1qi9puro1_500.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJY4GarsoRHo64mwpMbsS0nK2XUJg32mUsnDopr1IRppj9UcigNDq-uazBHFWADRLix9qiJ_V-iO7hz45T_1pf3YhmurjnfnTku5qY-SLb9uLmGNwknMyuBOadaVHZYGIMq7LaIQxm_no/s320/tumblr_ljytwlJ08s1qi9puro1_500.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616760691884065826" /></a><br />Angel of blizzards and blackouts, do you know raspberries,<br />those rubies that sat in the green of my grandfather's garden?<br />You of the snow tires, you of the sugary wings, you freeze<br />me out. Let me crawl through the patch. Let me be ten.<br />Let me pick those sweet kisses, thief that I was,<br />as the sea on my left slapped its applause.<br /><br />Only my grandfather was allowed there. Or the maid<br />who came with a scullery pan to pick for breakfast.<br />She of the rolls that floated in the air, she of the inlaid<br />woodwork all greasy with lemon, she of the feather and dust,<br />not I. Nonetheless I came sneaking across the salt lawn<br />in bare feet and jumping-jack pajamas in the spongy dawn.<br /><br />Oh Angel of the blizzard and blackout, Madam white face,<br />take me back to that red mouth, that July 21st place.<br /><br />-Anne SextonChristianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-84101056529718999372011-06-10T17:42:00.000-07:002011-06-10T17:44:58.226-07:00Rima VII<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4k4LopN7qXMP7Qb21Ie5RoeC9m7a8SQ5Bl47qmEAQrkK0Pk4b70_eZY-Kp9P82jC6-SqAz3hHL0jXetpzFjY7nziQ0npbsBcZH1cksx2TNOrNT_7rmgZetAOOo1F5UFHDhlFNZfmJFUQ/s1600/tumblr_lgzptlq4s81qc9n1zo1_500.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4k4LopN7qXMP7Qb21Ie5RoeC9m7a8SQ5Bl47qmEAQrkK0Pk4b70_eZY-Kp9P82jC6-SqAz3hHL0jXetpzFjY7nziQ0npbsBcZH1cksx2TNOrNT_7rmgZetAOOo1F5UFHDhlFNZfmJFUQ/s320/tumblr_lgzptlq4s81qc9n1zo1_500.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616756748351037602" /></a><br />In the dark corner of the hall,<br />perhaps forgotten by her mistress,<br />silent and dusty,<br />laid the harp.<br /><br />So many notes slept in her strings,<br />as the songbird sleeps in the branches,<br />waiting for the snowy hand<br />that knows how to awake them!<br /><br />Alas! - I thought - how often does genius<br />likewise sleep in the deepest of the heart,<br />and a voice, like Lazarus, awaits<br />to be told "Rise and walk!<br /><br />-Gustavo Adolfo BécquerChristianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-47839416337187355162011-06-06T18:22:00.001-07:002011-06-06T18:22:49.975-07:00East Harlem<iframe width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/WzORRh6lzg4" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Christianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-12540963741125332102011-06-05T09:27:00.001-07:002011-06-05T09:47:01.886-07:00Lament<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJoOM-UTnZsX-RtE6cExUk7Rc-haF_eSscl-7B8NgDXl0GgNsZFgSawxGJ8t3Bgd4eQvLpujawZisAZjLii2NP_avkyX1nd2qBjjQmSvp11OLuLzLUm9RZC65NsICXOFvDiZLmPvq4W5A/s1600/tumblr_kukt2v8hGG1qzqv1po1_500.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJoOM-UTnZsX-RtE6cExUk7Rc-haF_eSscl-7B8NgDXl0GgNsZFgSawxGJ8t3Bgd4eQvLpujawZisAZjLii2NP_avkyX1nd2qBjjQmSvp11OLuLzLUm9RZC65NsICXOFvDiZLmPvq4W5A/s320/tumblr_kukt2v8hGG1qzqv1po1_500.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614778173219376706" /></a><br />Everything is far<br />and long gone by.<br />I think that the star<br />glittering above me<br />has been dead for a million years.<br />I think there were tears<br />in the car I heard pass<br />and something terrible was said.<br />A clock has stopped striking in the house<br />across the road...<br />When did it start?...<br />I would like to step out of my heart<br />an go walking beneath the enormous sky.<br />I would like to pray.<br />And surely of all the stars that perished<br />long ago,<br />one still exists.<br />I think that I know<br />which one it is--<br />which one, at the end of its beam in the sky,<br />stands like a white city... <br /><br />-RilkeChristianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-75323164762649630462011-06-03T23:46:00.000-07:002011-06-03T23:52:30.295-07:00Heartstopper<iframe width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/yZc0y0HQO78" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Christianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2380057503776142664.post-72065267531255479052011-06-03T23:37:00.001-07:002011-06-04T00:09:02.724-07:00for a friend of a friend<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2jJSVZ29J560pWV6NLjw-LCBQLC_q8MfD7zXdB6Ek1nMpYTQw1avsJXxCOjmMCDEJv6XMMpjsKqldw80XlTwaXmn09gdcCQfUd_H71AwKIsjXOfhs_L_EPfgdJwIVpJADv37bUGHVFI/s1600/4b4cbf833313b29d0a570b573cbbc7a5363d89e1_m.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 233px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2jJSVZ29J560pWV6NLjw-LCBQLC_q8MfD7zXdB6Ek1nMpYTQw1avsJXxCOjmMCDEJv6XMMpjsKqldw80XlTwaXmn09gdcCQfUd_H71AwKIsjXOfhs_L_EPfgdJwIVpJADv37bUGHVFI/s320/4b4cbf833313b29d0a570b573cbbc7a5363d89e1_m.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614250904071329890" /></a><br />all life's washed out<br />and washed up on this shore;<br />pale bones & <br />tides ignore our pleas,<br />and our "please"<br />and our most pleasant thoughts.<br />tonight's a night to stay indoors<br />& count the blessings the night affords<br />ours...our weary souls,<br />all full of holes<br />and loss and death<br />and the "i wish i told"s<br />all washed upon this shore.Christianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17633213987927892918noreply@blogger.com0