Hymn
Gottfried Benn
That quality of the great boxers
to be able to stand there
and take shots,
gargle with firewater,
encounter intoxication
at sub- and supra-atomic levels,
to leave one’s sandals at the crater’s lip
like Empedocles, and descend,
not say: I’ll be back,
not think: fifty-fifty,
to vacate molehills
when dwarves want space to grow,
to dine alone,
indivisible,
and able to renounce your victory—
a hymn to that man.
This poem brings to mind Janis Joplin's lyric "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." It suggests that to be truly free you either have to renounce all attachments to the world, (possession, pride, achievement, fear, relationship, reputation), or that you have to be at solid bedrock bottom with no other direction than up available.
Either way, it's one giant leap into the fiery unknown. How many of us are brave enough to jump? Ready? onetwothreejump!
And just in case you don't believe that everything old is new again, Empedocles came up with his own "survival of the fittest" theory two thousand years before Darwin, and "sum of all things in the universe is constant", which as you know still jives with Einstein's principle of mass-energy conservation. That he lept into an active volcano is of interest as well. In the case you want to know what would cause a man to jump into a fiery pit, click here and here.
Artist of the Day: Free Spirit - Shira Sela
Free Spirit - Shira Sela www.shirasela.com shira.etsy.com
This illustration by Shira Sela reflects the exact state of being I'm inhabiting today. I am about to embark on a journey in six hours. I like to think of it as a journey back to myself. It's been a very long time since I've been called a free spirit. The last time I can recall was the summer of 2003 at a novel workshop with Jonis Agee. She wrote free spirit next to my name. I remember being surprised, and inwardly flattered. I'd like to get back to the place where my creativity, which I think of as my spirit, is truly free.
For more information about the featured artist, click on the links provided under the illustration. I've included her bio. here.
Bio:
I am an illustrator and designer. I work with both traditional and digital mediums and I love to use inks, markers and pastels as well as various graphic and illustration software.
The Coffee Project - February 25 - March 13, 2011
March 13, 2011.
March 11, 2011.
March 7, 2011.
March 6, 2011.
March 4, 2011.
March 2, 2011.
March 1, 2011.
February 27, 2011.
February 25, 2011.
Fat Tuesday Winter Wonderland
March 8, 2011.Other than the Utah Art Festival's Tardi Mardi Bash, Fat Tuesday slips by without much fanfare. The only thing really letting it rip in my neck of the woods, was the weather. It snowed relentlessly.
Here's a great New Orleans site on all things Mardi Gras. Be certain to check out the Mardi Gras History/Indians. The costumes are fabulous! Also, if you haven't checked out HBO's Treme, tonight's a good time to start.
I know I'm going to head to the store and find as much decadance I can stomach, literally. I'm not much of a faster, but I am going to find at least one delicacy I can give up for forty days, (I have a long list of vices I should give up, so no trouble there).
Go ahead and Eat, Drink, and be Merry, until the stroke of midnight, because tomorrow the party's over!
Artist of the Day: Ninny Boxes - Lynn Whipple
Lynn Whipple
Lynn WhippleI've been following Lynn Whipple's work ever since I came across her art in a magazine years ago. Again, she is a contemporary artist that has had tremendous influence on my own work.
Bio:
I am deeply grateful to live my life as an artist.
Play and discovery are my dearest and most constant companions. white type white type white type There are a zillion tiny challenges in each art making experience, and white type white type white type so often I find, just as many small, sweet victories. Without a doubt, white type white type white type living creatively is the most enjoyable and satisfying game I know.
Please visit my blog.
Here is where I share things I find inspiring, interesting, or just plain goofy.
Where you'll find my Show and Workshop schedule and a page to discuss
"100 Bad Paintings (so you had better get started)."from lynnwhipple.com
Libyan Poets
from The Poetry Foundation's Libya: Don't Look Away by Forrest Gander
EAST OF CARTHAGE: AN IDYLL Khaled Mattawa
1.
Look here, Marcus Aurelius, we’ve come to see
your temple, deluded the guards, crawled through a hole
in the fence. Why your descendent, my guide and friend
has opted for secrecy, I don’t know. But I do know
what to call the Africans, passport-less, yellow-eyed
who will ride the boat before me for Naples, they hope.
Here the sea curls its granite lip at them and flings a winter
storm like a cough, or the seadog drops them at Hannibal’s
shores, where they’ll stand stupefied like his elephants.
What dimension of time will they cross as the Hours loop
tight plastic ropes round their ankles and wrists?
What siren song will the trucks shipping them back
to Ouagadougou drone into their ears? I look at them
loitering, waiting for the second act of their darkness
to fall. I look at the sky shake her dicey fists.
One can be thankful, I suppose, for not being one of them,
and wrap the fabric of that thought around oneself
to keep the cold wind at bay. But what world is this
that makes our lives sufficient even as the horizon’s rope
is about to snap, while the sea and sky ache to become
a moment to peel itself like skin off fruit, and let us in
on its sweetness as we wait, smoking or fondling provisions,
listening to the engine’s invocational purr. In an hour
that will dawn and dusk at once, one that will stretch
into days strung like beads on the horizon’s throat,
they will ride their tormented ship as the dog star
begins to float on the water, so bright and still,
you’d want to scoop it out in the palm of your hand.
A situation 2
Ashur Atwebi
He likes to sit
as a respected master in the royal room
with his long hat and give orders.
The head of security, trying to tune himself to the royal room,
moves his head and slaps his thigh with his hand
so people can see him.
The Aud player wears a long dress.
She can open her legs in the royal room.
Improvisation,
B minor.
The Aud player strokes invisible strings
unaware that her daughter spit blood this morning,
that her husband stays awake reciting his rosary.
in the royal room.
Everything is permitted to the master
and to the head of security who moves his head
and slaps his thigh with his hand so people can see him.
In the royal room,
a dead girl & her husband suffocated with his wooden rosary.
The silver ring on the delicate finger
suggests what heavy henna
on the back of the hand doesn’t reveal.
The tattoo on the forehead,
points from a hidden corner
to a sleepy pink flower
in the palm of the hand.
It is not bothered by:
sparkling of silver,
by Berber carvings,
the narrowness of the stony window
or by the shy macula of light
on the young Berber girl’s body.
Simple questions
Are these birds or caravans
swimming through the air?
Neither the blueness nor those seated on beds in warm rooms will say.
Are these houses in a mirage or Bedouins
fleeing from ancient winds?
The sand and foxes alert for centuries will follow their trails.
Are these shadows of a city or a quavering flute?
A scene and visions emerge from its darkness.
EAST OF CARTHAGE: AN IDYLL Khaled Mattawa
1.
Look here, Marcus Aurelius, we’ve come to see
your temple, deluded the guards, crawled through a hole
in the fence. Why your descendent, my guide and friend
has opted for secrecy, I don’t know. But I do know
what to call the Africans, passport-less, yellow-eyed
who will ride the boat before me for Naples, they hope.
Here the sea curls its granite lip at them and flings a winter
storm like a cough, or the seadog drops them at Hannibal’s
shores, where they’ll stand stupefied like his elephants.
What dimension of time will they cross as the Hours loop
tight plastic ropes round their ankles and wrists?
What siren song will the trucks shipping them back
to Ouagadougou drone into their ears? I look at them
loitering, waiting for the second act of their darkness
to fall. I look at the sky shake her dicey fists.
One can be thankful, I suppose, for not being one of them,
and wrap the fabric of that thought around oneself
to keep the cold wind at bay. But what world is this
that makes our lives sufficient even as the horizon’s rope
is about to snap, while the sea and sky ache to become
a moment to peel itself like skin off fruit, and let us in
on its sweetness as we wait, smoking or fondling provisions,
listening to the engine’s invocational purr. In an hour
that will dawn and dusk at once, one that will stretch
into days strung like beads on the horizon’s throat,
they will ride their tormented ship as the dog star
begins to float on the water, so bright and still,
you’d want to scoop it out in the palm of your hand.
A situation 2
Ashur Atwebi
He likes to sit
as a respected master in the royal room
with his long hat and give orders.
The head of security, trying to tune himself to the royal room,
moves his head and slaps his thigh with his hand
so people can see him.
The Aud player wears a long dress.
She can open her legs in the royal room.
Improvisation,
B minor.
The Aud player strokes invisible strings
unaware that her daughter spit blood this morning,
that her husband stays awake reciting his rosary.
in the royal room.
Everything is permitted to the master
and to the head of security who moves his head
and slaps his thigh with his hand so people can see him.
In the royal room,
a dead girl & her husband suffocated with his wooden rosary.
The silver ring on the delicate finger
suggests what heavy henna
on the back of the hand doesn’t reveal.
The tattoo on the forehead,
points from a hidden corner
to a sleepy pink flower
in the palm of the hand.
It is not bothered by:
sparkling of silver,
by Berber carvings,
the narrowness of the stony window
or by the shy macula of light
on the young Berber girl’s body.
Simple questions
Are these birds or caravans
swimming through the air?
Neither the blueness nor those seated on beds in warm rooms will say.
Are these houses in a mirage or Bedouins
fleeing from ancient winds?
The sand and foxes alert for centuries will follow their trails.
Are these shadows of a city or a quavering flute?
A scene and visions emerge from its darkness.
The Coffee Project - February 9-23, 2011
February 23, 2011.
February 22, 2011.
February 21, 2011.
Afternoon coffee.
February 20, 2011.
February 19, 2011.
February 18, 2011.
February 16, 2011.
February 15, 2011.
February 14, 2011. Valentine's.
February 11, 2011.
February 10, 2011.
February 9, 2011.
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