tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73811134101593931212024-02-18T21:36:34.941-08:00carol the aphid eatercarol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.comBlogger263125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-75227168779213693232010-10-07T17:55:00.000-07:002010-10-07T17:59:04.573-07:00The one and only Mr. Mark Eitzel!!!<object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/inn5SaJvSh4?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/inn5SaJvSh4?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/-NPsfv6IuWQ?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/-NPsfv6IuWQ?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/8Ki2ppizVlI?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/8Ki2ppizVlI?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/51a3qt9ty0k?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/51a3qt9ty0k?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-29907687727890487872010-10-05T01:55:00.000-07:002010-10-05T02:05:48.542-07:00e. e. cummings<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgABSYoS9X9HxsDyp-9RP1NqQUwK68tlNunI-FXjWGC9DpXCvPU6KNpn6gvEOFPQE21rBYQFDE7O9peJXAgdXdHEGcTkuxOJBfgzKDdSPWTBsmZRgC0WkorIbuJSMpKSOOhsCz7yMXBsdvp/s1600/ee+one.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 202px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgABSYoS9X9HxsDyp-9RP1NqQUwK68tlNunI-FXjWGC9DpXCvPU6KNpn6gvEOFPQE21rBYQFDE7O9peJXAgdXdHEGcTkuxOJBfgzKDdSPWTBsmZRgC0WkorIbuJSMpKSOOhsCz7yMXBsdvp/s400/ee+one.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524484747744400594" /></a><br />i carry your heart with me<br /> <br />i carry your heart with me(i carry it in<br />my heart)i am never without it(anywhere<br />i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done<br />by only me is your doing,my darling)<br />i fear<br />no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want<br />no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)<br />and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant<br />and whatever a sun will always sing is you<br /><br />here is the deepest secret nobody knows<br />(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud<br />and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows<br />higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)<br />and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart<br /><br />i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi-_7dtA-7NbsRIrwqlCmcvQ2GQjKlKt1oPF-INJcndLpHa4qTDyi_0fQtQ8AbSJUOnAGjDgqHo9_ayVs3TyLrj4Ex978-j_zKxdlqgCPieqIDcuVlb9SZFLa4sAvmUd2O4suuXKEmgjoU/s1600/ee+three.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 334px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi-_7dtA-7NbsRIrwqlCmcvQ2GQjKlKt1oPF-INJcndLpHa4qTDyi_0fQtQ8AbSJUOnAGjDgqHo9_ayVs3TyLrj4Ex978-j_zKxdlqgCPieqIDcuVlb9SZFLa4sAvmUd2O4suuXKEmgjoU/s400/ee+three.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524484908534618242" /></a><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br />since feeling<br /><br />since feeling is first<br />who pays any attention<br />to the syntax of things<br />will never wholly kiss you;<br /><br />wholly to be a fool<br />while Spring is in the world<br />my blood approves,<br />and kisses are a better fate<br />than wisdom<br />lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry<br />- the best gesture of my brain is less than<br />your eyelids' flutter which says<br /><br />we are for each other; then<br />laugh, leaning back in my arms<br />for life's not a paragraph<br /><br />And death i think is no parenthesis<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4kaXg0CqqTY0tdyznTEz8mO4UDUqiQXAg2OIJWroafnmDiZHjscfpPT3TwvhqRMDtIYKukulsETG24E3H64mpE6BLY8BXZWIijYZ_bF3Z4ZHeQWPuHqQ6yBU3KnWQb4O-1Wtuyki6rr4P/s1600/ee+two.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 287px; height: 328px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4kaXg0CqqTY0tdyznTEz8mO4UDUqiQXAg2OIJWroafnmDiZHjscfpPT3TwvhqRMDtIYKukulsETG24E3H64mpE6BLY8BXZWIijYZ_bF3Z4ZHeQWPuHqQ6yBU3KnWQb4O-1Wtuyki6rr4P/s400/ee+two.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524485462344768082" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />it may not always be so<br /><br />it may not always be so; and i say<br />that if your lips, which i have loved, should touch<br />another's, and your dear strong fingers clutch<br />his heart, as mine in time not far away;<br />if on another's face your sweet hair lay<br />in such a silence as i know, or such<br />great writhing words as, uttering overmuch,<br />stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;<br /><br />if this should be, i say if this should be-<br />you of my heart, send me a little word;<br />that i may go unto him, and take his hands,<br />saying, Accept all happiness from me.<br />Then shall i turn my face, and hear one bird<br />sing terribly afar in the lost lands.carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-86935938606344591882010-10-05T01:40:00.000-07:002010-10-05T01:55:04.609-07:00Hanne Darboven<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-YiK58oYhoPm4jaZGl7uv_LzudQCmujgpxs6KDOL_l9uMyUFyu2p4KQ7K0c8BpqBMEqBlfvz0SRw5l1vDbMeLWIOGdhh7xC3TqdEZ9Z_00sjyvsQBtTDxuPrLgfJVXXP0Hc3ZKmK94PU-/s1600/hannah+five.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 287px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-YiK58oYhoPm4jaZGl7uv_LzudQCmujgpxs6KDOL_l9uMyUFyu2p4KQ7K0c8BpqBMEqBlfvz0SRw5l1vDbMeLWIOGdhh7xC3TqdEZ9Z_00sjyvsQBtTDxuPrLgfJVXXP0Hc3ZKmK94PU-/s400/hannah+five.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524482869098905570" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxCWZax4_t6HTyGxgRjnoCc1lF8xmmHYp2J1M3OPESwVzIQKoE_3SpPksGsdqYlrRPGfFMRB1zdpsVIB1CGdc52lhZx_gT7zP8ApobFHsIetOH_7db7mPrx_8an8x-VJkwl4M-1Rv_565n/s1600/hannah+four.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 252px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxCWZax4_t6HTyGxgRjnoCc1lF8xmmHYp2J1M3OPESwVzIQKoE_3SpPksGsdqYlrRPGfFMRB1zdpsVIB1CGdc52lhZx_gT7zP8ApobFHsIetOH_7db7mPrx_8an8x-VJkwl4M-1Rv_565n/s400/hannah+four.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524481344299843746" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2gx-SoYLwu33r4eB1pxlkViAqMm-HgtSibmrPJHAfqhYwHtXzl_UphpVEksePz3y_mzazfcO2sNt-wLgXt42ahGGYz9ctJTAeT7jvUtY9EOFiLlkvhKLsAG8LJYURX7yrgD_UZkJE_9lF/s1600/hannah+one.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2gx-SoYLwu33r4eB1pxlkViAqMm-HgtSibmrPJHAfqhYwHtXzl_UphpVEksePz3y_mzazfcO2sNt-wLgXt42ahGGYz9ctJTAeT7jvUtY9EOFiLlkvhKLsAG8LJYURX7yrgD_UZkJE_9lF/s400/hannah+one.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524480835693168338" /></a><br /><br />This is the Hanne Darboven project. You must see this!!!<br /><br /><br />http://www.diacenter.org/exhibs/darboven/project/<br /><br />Hanne Darboven (born 29 April 1941 in Munich, died 9 March 2009 in Hamburg) was a German conceptual artist. She became best known for her large scale minimalist installations consisting of handwritten tables of numbers.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcKuNu5qNozlUbexvPfcrdS10nMnNnbx7z1szNq8rY2Kil4Nt1aClZjinHKlVT3G4ZOLlsi3UlOlzq1lpP0n7HUv8O408tK4kfO1fq_f-zfKeUGZOmK0xGn-bBw3wxNpmCHfImu51ggda1/s1600/hannah+one+a.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/AVvXsEgcKuNu5qNozlUbexvPfcrdS10nMnNnbx7z1szNq8rY2Kil4Nt1aClZjinHKlVT3G4ZOLlsi3UlOlzq1lpP0n7HUv8O408tK4kfO1fq_f-zfKeUGZOmK0xGn-bBw3wxNpmCHfImu51ggda1/s400/hannah+one+a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524480571645703682" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglx5nhSKSXGfhhOegO2-Fd1DDcqVnQTnffQVN83QfCAHMo30MP5vqqipZRnge1YFeZM60MnJ2WI-9SvQmG82r3voVtsbjk7RIZRtFi4uHzVjsHiS4gJC47J14H7in6Dgp6Nui1d8cQ9h21/s1600/hannah+two.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglx5nhSKSXGfhhOegO2-Fd1DDcqVnQTnffQVN83QfCAHMo30MP5vqqipZRnge1YFeZM60MnJ2WI-9SvQmG82r3voVtsbjk7RIZRtFi4uHzVjsHiS4gJC47J14H7in6Dgp6Nui1d8cQ9h21/s400/hannah+two.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524481092148381074" /></a><br /><br /><br />Hanne Darboven grew up in Rönneburg, a southern suburb of Hamburg, as the second of three daughters of Cäsar Darboven and Kirsten Darboven. Her father was a well-to-do businessman in Hamburg.<br /><br />From 1962 to 1965 Darboven studied art with Willem Grimm and Almir Mavignier at the Hamburg Hochschule für bildende Künste. From 1966 to 1968 she lived in New York City, at first in total isolation from the New York art scene. In the winter of 1966/67 she met Sol LeWitt and Carl Andre, representatives of Minimal Art. Soon afterwards her first series of drawings on milimeter paper with lists of numbers, which resulted from complicated additions or multiplications with calendar dates, hours and days of the week.carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-77903914633660728762010-09-12T18:19:00.000-07:002010-09-12T18:21:11.881-07:00The inky fingered clerk<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgsiMBQBp9-7pEC09UxTOsfgp4QpNKqlX3l3eZxQhJ2Qp3kCCgVr1OPjW7hDTOJVtJy1ap5ybYbfclZvLkuPKk5LpM7dktV9AfxUAv1yfTR210WHOuEXFoiRKdI_RQdiM01bVXwAGSuU05/s1600/ink.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgsiMBQBp9-7pEC09UxTOsfgp4QpNKqlX3l3eZxQhJ2Qp3kCCgVr1OPjW7hDTOJVtJy1ap5ybYbfclZvLkuPKk5LpM7dktV9AfxUAv1yfTR210WHOuEXFoiRKdI_RQdiM01bVXwAGSuU05/s400/ink.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516202020748517842" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />His dumb ill-fitted glasses<br />Slide down his narrow nose<br />Quickly catching her profile<br />Bent in still repose<br />But as she turns toward the window <br />He sees her tiny smirk<br />And the way that she looks down on <br />The inky fingered clerk<br />The inky fingered clerk<br /><br />He follows her as the sun sets<br />As the day turns into night<br />He counts all of her footsteps<br />Getting every detail right<br />As he creeps upon the ledge <br />And to his deadly work<br />He knows no one would suspect<br />The inky fingered clerk<br />The inky fingered clerk<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />As the blood drains from her face<br />And her skin turns into chalk<br />She hears one last stroke<br />Of her mother’s carriage clock<br />Then finally she is still<br />After one last feeble jerk<br />Cradled in the arms<br />Of the inky fingered clerk<br />The inky fingered clerk<br /><br />The cops had only her body<br />Her hands and feet unbound<br />Not one single clue<br />Or evidence was found<br />No trail of blood leading<br />To where inky fingers lurk<br />Only treachery and cunning<br />And the inky fingered clerk<br />The inky fingered clerkcarol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-30635494439221869002010-09-05T04:53:00.000-07:002010-09-05T04:56:49.789-07:00A Lecture Upon The Shadow by John Dunne<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhDfz6ab9i1WDN05CDjfmS3KXUZP7wBN13TSqBqvTlI1uOwfd3Gk6AJsU8eMBiNtysFy2MNKYGrvyTm6BhsOdzQtPchyphenhyphengC6lqAWM-bVNqZDYJgENoVu3WNGAloo8VkrJBrZJts_kWzIL-L/s1600/shadow.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 208px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhDfz6ab9i1WDN05CDjfmS3KXUZP7wBN13TSqBqvTlI1uOwfd3Gk6AJsU8eMBiNtysFy2MNKYGrvyTm6BhsOdzQtPchyphenhyphengC6lqAWM-bVNqZDYJgENoVu3WNGAloo8VkrJBrZJts_kWzIL-L/s400/shadow.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513397137462704674" /></a><br />Stand still, and I will read to thee<br /><br />A lecture, love, in love's philosophy.<br /><br />These three hours that we have spent,<br /><br />Walking here, two shadows went<br /><br />Along with us, which we ourselves produc'd.<br /><br />But, now the sun is just above our head,<br /><br />We do those shadows tread,<br /><br />And to brave clearness all things are reduc'd.<br /><br />So whilst our infant loves did grow,<br /><br />Disguises did, and shadows, flow<br /><br />From us, and our cares; but now 'tis not so.<br /><br />That love has not attain'd the high'st degree,<br /><br />Which is still diligent lest others see.<br /><br /><br /><br />Except our loves at this noon stay,<br /><br />We shall new shadows make the other way.<br /><br />As the first were made to blind<br /><br />Others, these which come behind<br /><br />Will work upon ourselves, and blind our eyes.<br /><br />If our loves faint, and westwardly decline,<br /><br />To me thou, falsely, thine,<br /><br />And I to thee mine actions shall disguise.<br /><br />The morning shadows wear away,<br /><br />But these grow longer all the day;<br /><br />But oh, love's day is short, if love decay.<br /><br />Love is a growing, or full constant light,<br /><br />And his first minute, after noon, is night.carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-4824030507497760932010-07-14T15:12:00.000-07:002010-07-14T15:14:20.452-07:00…and why do I hate her<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcsqt8rxEGhr6Zb2SEZhU1BBINX28YiISd0p1SbjE5jdFOG6QBN8C1RcHHHVAzjYVEfR-7DMblAnm9K8tJQPiQWMXnfNC8T8C3K0uzNO3saQtEIlUjRKVpHVBRuAqvqSfkWneIU1BFbBds/s1600/partyhats1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 390px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcsqt8rxEGhr6Zb2SEZhU1BBINX28YiISd0p1SbjE5jdFOG6QBN8C1RcHHHVAzjYVEfR-7DMblAnm9K8tJQPiQWMXnfNC8T8C3K0uzNO3saQtEIlUjRKVpHVBRuAqvqSfkWneIU1BFbBds/s400/partyhats1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493888742534320098" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />…and why do I hate her?<br />She’s got the pinched face of a traitor<br />A liar<br />A fraud<br />She bleeds brown from the corners of her mouth<br />which wraps around her chalky skull filled with cobwebs connected to cunning <br />threads pulling her eyes this way and that<br />I hate her and I always will<br />And I will not hold onto it<br />This hate<br />As some have said<br />I simply will<br />I simply always will<br />Hate her<br />But not simply<br />I will hate her for all my days<br />I will give great parties in the name of my hate<br />And people<br />Friends<br />Will come to these parties and love me in spite of my hate<br />They will pity me for my hate<br />My friends<br />Pity me for my hate<br />…and why do I hate her?carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-73345058442719552102010-07-03T22:44:00.001-07:002010-07-03T22:47:20.854-07:00Wine and Groucho Marx<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqKxUViTHxHnAB3-9GU0Z4LZoXKJWhuYb6zZKRTT7sSozmDUdTRbbE8iLTfXWnYoJHdr5McDd9UUsz8Alu6daZfdm8NGIfYO2nalkrtCChrylBt69S7aruuCB9jco0ItxYAkCo0dtljEDQ/s1600/Groucho.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 367px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqKxUViTHxHnAB3-9GU0Z4LZoXKJWhuYb6zZKRTT7sSozmDUdTRbbE8iLTfXWnYoJHdr5McDd9UUsz8Alu6daZfdm8NGIfYO2nalkrtCChrylBt69S7aruuCB9jco0ItxYAkCo0dtljEDQ/s400/Groucho.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5489922982789563842" /></a><br /><br /><br />I really wouldn’t<br />I really couldn’t<br />I really shouldn’t<br />But here I am<br />With my glass raised aplomb<br />Feeling quite dignified in my reasoning<br />Why it was God who gave it to us was it not?<br />Of course following that logic, did not he, the inventor of hunger, sickness, death and war<br />Also have his hand in the making of summers and Groucho Marx?carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-90125614813842143372010-06-11T14:33:00.000-07:002010-06-11T14:56:19.253-07:00Guillaume Apollinaire<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLj1iIOvfQeSAlhcHEIDYvvwyxVprpOIDtsqklcoKfGqaeGbcFr23YAItdg1r8G7CTVJgpb4rbRVhBM-2TML36SK2Uvxz4szwW7SQs7Xc-bKLDjDmWKth_gMMXK_XqnYXsHiMX9-qFifEs/s1600/a-2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 285px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLj1iIOvfQeSAlhcHEIDYvvwyxVprpOIDtsqklcoKfGqaeGbcFr23YAItdg1r8G7CTVJgpb4rbRVhBM-2TML36SK2Uvxz4szwW7SQs7Xc-bKLDjDmWKth_gMMXK_XqnYXsHiMX9-qFifEs/s400/a-2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481637575288972450" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_58gYzOL5oQOk6GlTTgD9HSOLwJkBJtpTiZMo2t2LmhAvnErNGePALMI59HGo6MeePFaPlzZXCGvMKo-7koPdqurQ5mNCsORWUAtIdvncG-8OGMmwPJQWVz_YidW1cQMoucgl_iYmps7Q/s1600/472px-Apollinaire_by_Vlaminck_1903.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 315px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_58gYzOL5oQOk6GlTTgD9HSOLwJkBJtpTiZMo2t2LmhAvnErNGePALMI59HGo6MeePFaPlzZXCGvMKo-7koPdqurQ5mNCsORWUAtIdvncG-8OGMmwPJQWVz_YidW1cQMoucgl_iYmps7Q/s400/472px-Apollinaire_by_Vlaminck_1903.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481635388646872770" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5RUkHt1wHBIv1ACXTuStoaqX0gjBiJQkRjJrNAW-M_TcW6RVaXJO5SVzmsaLJp8P7RSsLmLxRv2fUeCR1jo1vVwaammCBtL3N-hEgSMHJjwUZZwzEl84SWHg5S2-GweiUoKs4q-fSpgc1/s1600/a-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 258px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5RUkHt1wHBIv1ACXTuStoaqX0gjBiJQkRjJrNAW-M_TcW6RVaXJO5SVzmsaLJp8P7RSsLmLxRv2fUeCR1jo1vVwaammCBtL3N-hEgSMHJjwUZZwzEl84SWHg5S2-GweiUoKs4q-fSpgc1/s400/a-1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481637323928143794" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Guillaume Apollinaire<br /><br />Born 26 August 1880(1880-08-26)<br />Rome, Italy1<br />Died 9 November 1918 (aged 38)<br />Paris, France<br />Occupation Poet, Writer, Art critic<br /><br />Wilhelm Albert Włodzimierz Apolinary Kostrowicki, known as Guillaume Apollinaire (French pronunciation: [ɡijom apɔliˈnɛʁ]; Rome, August 26, 1880–November 9, 1918, Paris) was a French poet, playwright, and art critic born in Italy to a Polish mother.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Hotels<br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br />The room is free<br /><br />Each for himself<br /><br />A new arrival<br /><br />Pays by the month<br /><br /> <br /><br />The boss is doubtful<br /><br />Whether you’ll pay<br /><br />Like a top<br /><br />I spin on the way<br /><br /> <br /><br />The traffic noise<br /><br />My neighbour gross<br /><br />Who puffs an acrid<br /><br />English smoke<br /><br /> <br /><br />O La Vallière<br /><br />Who limps and smiles<br /><br />In my prayers<br /><br />The bedside table<br /><br /> <br /><br />And all the company<br /><br />in this hotel<br /><br />know the languages<br /><br />of Babel<br /><br /> <br /><br />Let’s shut our doors<br /><br />With a double lock<br /><br />And each adore<br /><br />his lonely love<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB98U6qSMux8CXV4y2R1dXnMoHwbANIKOqmc_3ZIlSe81ALNRF9gFg4sCByXTaPTJelaONKUaSQKfsZR2TyAOq7CwnRQJaaLBOPLT1rT_nx2s5uy7yev6wkPh9cgys2IbAmk1284Xwzwn2/s1600/Guillaume_Apollinaire_1914.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 285px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB98U6qSMux8CXV4y2R1dXnMoHwbANIKOqmc_3ZIlSe81ALNRF9gFg4sCByXTaPTJelaONKUaSQKfsZR2TyAOq7CwnRQJaaLBOPLT1rT_nx2s5uy7yev6wkPh9cgys2IbAmk1284Xwzwn2/s400/Guillaume_Apollinaire_1914.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481635692273962402" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Among the foremost poets of the early 20th century, he is credited with coining the word Surrealism and writing one of the earliest works described as surrealist, the play The Breasts of Tiresias (1917, used as the basis for a 1947 opera). Two years after being wounded in World War I, he died in the Spanish flu pandemic of 1918 at age 38.<br /><br /><br /> <br /><br />Born Wilhelm Apollinaris de Kostrowitzky and raised speaking French, among other languages, he emigrated to France and adopted the name Guillaume Apollinaire. His mother, born Angelica Kostrowicka, was a Polish noblewoman born near Navahrudak (now in Belarus). Apollinaire's father is unknown but may have been Francesco Flugi d'Aspermont, a Swiss Italian aristocrat who disappeared early from Apollinaire's life. Apollinaire was partly educated in Monaco.<br /><br /><br /><br />Apollinaire was one of the most popular members of the artistic community of Montparnasse in Paris. His friends and collaborators in that period included Pablo Picasso, Gertrude Stein, Max Jacob, André Salmon, Marie Laurencin, André Breton, André Derain, Faik Konica, Blaise Cendrars, Pierre Reverdy, Alexandra Exter, Jean Cocteau, Erik Satie, Ossip Zadkine, Marc Chagall, and Marcel Duchamp. In 1911, he joined the Puteaux Group, a branch of the cubist movement.<br /><br />On September 7, 1911, police arrested and jailed him on suspicion of stealing the Mona Lisa, but released him a week later. Apollinaire then implicated his friend Pablo Picasso, who was also brought in for questioning in the art theft, but he was also exonerated. He once called for the Louvre to be burnt down.<br /><br />He fought in World War I and, in 1916, received a serious shrapnel wound to the temple. He wrote Les Mamelles de Tirésias while recovering from this wound. During this period he coined the word surrealism in the program notes for Jean Cocteau and Erik Satie's ballet Parade, first performed on 18 May 1917. He also published an artistic manifesto, L'Esprit nouveau et les poètes. Apollinaire's status as a literary critic is most famous and influential in his recognition of the Marquis de Sade, whose works were for a long time obscure, yet arising in popularity as an influence upon the Dada and Surrealist art movements going on in Montparnasse at the beginning of the twentieth century as, "The freest spirit that ever existed."<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijkrz6AYLYG3w7cX975X3eZtHWCPgYxJutT-3aqDdeflTHm1DFu2tSoL_zrC7FE1X214fwc3n6Mg6pm_SGf-G0MNuN6lqCnHlQSYwSSEb2IulsrS6ZgKXfPtImwq8unSqOHzyJdtc1Klb5/s1600/a-3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 283px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijkrz6AYLYG3w7cX975X3eZtHWCPgYxJutT-3aqDdeflTHm1DFu2tSoL_zrC7FE1X214fwc3n6Mg6pm_SGf-G0MNuN6lqCnHlQSYwSSEb2IulsrS6ZgKXfPtImwq8unSqOHzyJdtc1Klb5/s400/a-3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481637858679305650" /></a><br /><br />The war-weakened Apollinaire died of influenza during the Spanish Flu pandemic of 1918. He was interred in the Le Père Lachaise Cemetery, Paris.<br /><br />The White Snow<br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br />The angels the angels in the sky<br /><br />One’s dressed as an officer<br /><br />One’s dressed as a chef today<br /><br />And the others sing<br /><br /> <br /><br />Fine sky-coloured officer<br /><br />Sweet Spring when Christmas is long gone<br /><br />Will deck you with a lovely sun<br /><br /> A lovely sun<br /><br /> <br /><br />The chef plucks geese<br /><br /> Ah! Snowfalls hiss<br /><br /> Fall and how I miss<br /><br />My beloved in my arms<br /><br />Apollinaire's first collection of poetry was L'enchanteur pourrissant (1909), but Alcools (1913) established his reputation. The poems, influenced in part by the Symbolists, juxtapose the old and the new, combining traditional poetic forms with modern imagery. In 1913, Apollinaire published the essay Les Peintres cubistes on the cubist painters, a movement which he helped to define. He also coined the term orphism to describe a tendency towards absolute abstraction in the paintings of Robert Delaunay and others.<br /><br />Moonlight<br /><br />Mellifluent moon on the lips of the maddened<br /><br />The orchards and towns are greedy tonight<br /><br />The stars appear like the image of bees<br /><br />Of this luminous honey that offends the vines<br /><br />For now all sweet in their fall from the sky<br /><br />Each ray of moonlight’s a ray of honey<br /><br />Now hid I conceive the sweetest adventure<br /><br />I fear stings of fire from this Polar bee<br /><br />that sets these deceptive rays in my hands<br /><br />And takes its moon-honey to the rose of the winds<br /><br />In 1907, Apollinaire wrote the well-known erotic novel, The Eleven Thousand Rods (Les Onze Mille Verges). Officially banned in France until 1970, various printings of it circulated widely for many years. Apollinaire never publicly acknowledged authorship of the novel. Another erotic novel attributed to him was The Exploits of a Young Don Juan (Les exploits d'un jeune Don Juan), in which the 15-year-old hero fathers three children with various members of his entourage, including his aunt.<br /><br />Shortly after his death, Calligrammes, a collection of his concrete poetry (poetry in which typography and layout adds to the overall effect), and more orthodox, though still modernist poems informed by Apollinaire's experiences in the First World War and in which he often used the technique of automatic writing, was published.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizku0kV22MO3n9t5iThdHi6fD1sFlrYyB57bRG-7InOigaAHM5RX4eZAY9wogKufCxRAr6NGZ_doitok2X4Csti0VeKAEBxZRI1vNrS06RFQVFOJB8S_uInbzfk8zMVR43NRKZYgkHYJve/s1600/a-4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 308px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizku0kV22MO3n9t5iThdHi6fD1sFlrYyB57bRG-7InOigaAHM5RX4eZAY9wogKufCxRAr6NGZ_doitok2X4Csti0VeKAEBxZRI1vNrS06RFQVFOJB8S_uInbzfk8zMVR43NRKZYgkHYJve/s400/a-4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481638203421370626" /></a><br /><br />The Gypsy<br /><br />The gypsy knew in advance<br /><br />Our two lives star-crossed by night<br /><br />We said farewell to her and then<br /><br />from that deep well Hope began<br /><br />Love heavy a performing bear<br /><br />Danced upright when we wanted<br /><br />And the blue bird lost his plumes<br /><br />And the beggars lost their Ave<br /><br />We knew quite well that we were damned<br /><br />But hope of love in the street<br /><br />Made us think hand in hand<br /><br />Of what the Gypsy did foresee<br /><br />In his youth Apollinaire lived for a short while in Belgium, mastering the Walloon dialect sufficiently to write poetry through that medium, some of which has survived.carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-67667854178563452092010-06-11T14:29:00.000-07:002010-06-11T14:33:23.383-07:00A Curse Against Elegies by Anne Sexton<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihqtEBaJeyzvkJhaptuKkVCWze7aKkZLuAsQT0IoG3Qkj5Y0cEJYvVN1wvfKkg6Y3nxVP2kFkhLXJxkX_0iuftE3RCrhxMVDsUiw-Eopi-wzQOkSwIbQURm5A4Vk3L9wskHx7_ttruoKlD/s1600/annesexton.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 189px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihqtEBaJeyzvkJhaptuKkVCWze7aKkZLuAsQT0IoG3Qkj5Y0cEJYvVN1wvfKkg6Y3nxVP2kFkhLXJxkX_0iuftE3RCrhxMVDsUiw-Eopi-wzQOkSwIbQURm5A4Vk3L9wskHx7_ttruoKlD/s400/annesexton.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481632362912580466" /></a><br /><br /> <br />Oh, love, why do we argue like this?<br />I am tired of all your pious talk.<br />Also, I am tired of all the dead.<br />They refuse to listen,<br />so leave them alone.<br />Take your foot out of the graveyard,<br />they are busy being dead.<br /><br />Everyone was always to blame:<br />the last empty fifth of booze,<br />the rusty nails and chicken feathers<br />that stuck in the mud on the back doorstep,<br />the worms that lived under the cat's ear<br />and the thin-lipped preacher<br />who refused to call<br />except once on a flea-ridden day<br />when he came scuffing in through the yard<br />looking for a scapegoat.<br />I hid in the kitchen under the ragbag.<br /><br />I refuse to remember the dead.<br />And the dead are bored with the whole thing.<br />But you - you go ahead,<br />go on, go on back down<br />into the graveyard,<br />lie down where you think their faces are;<br />talk back to your old bad dreams.carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-78790362062172340672010-06-03T14:14:00.001-07:002010-06-03T15:43:04.730-07:00George Saunders<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgihfLcjARdmMpfMumzgNRBbSc3kU1GLgWHoOQbXwjn0mMK1lWBXV4ZLbdnK5cB8OwbTxrRuwnJBP-oJfxDt4jAmhtF4QgOQPjuvlqeW2Whlj0DJvsF4VlWeRYhhvNxplNRpNRis7hxdlqY/s1600/saunders.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgihfLcjARdmMpfMumzgNRBbSc3kU1GLgWHoOQbXwjn0mMK1lWBXV4ZLbdnK5cB8OwbTxrRuwnJBP-oJfxDt4jAmhtF4QgOQPjuvlqeW2Whlj0DJvsF4VlWeRYhhvNxplNRpNRis7hxdlqY/s400/saunders.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478681588731036658" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Born December 2, 1958 (1958-12-02) (age 51)<br />Amarillo, Texas<br />Occupation Short story writer, Journalist, College Professor<br />Nationality United States<br />Influences;<br />Kurt Vonnegut, John Steinbeck, John Updike<br />Official website<br /><br />George Saunders (born December 2, 1958) is a New York Times bestselling American writer of short stories, essays, novellas and children's books. His writing has appeared in The New Yorker, Harper's, McSweeney's and GQ, among others. He also contributed a weekly column, American Psyche, to the weekend magazine of The Guardian’s Saturday edition until October, 2008. Currently a professor at Syracuse University, he won the National Magazine Award for fiction in 1994, 1996, 2000, and 2004, and second prize in the O. Henry Awards in 1997. His first story collection, CivilWarLand in Bad Decline was a finalist for the 1996 PEN/Hemingway Award. In 2006, Saunders received one of that year's MacArthur Fellowships, more popularly known as the "genius grant". His story collection In Persuasion Nation was a finalist for The Story Prize in 2007.<br /> Early life and education<br /><br />Saunders was born in Amarillo, Texas and raised on the south side of Chicago. He is a graduate of Oak Forest High School, located in Oak Forest, Illinois, a south suburb of Chicago. In 1981, he received a B.S. in geophysical engineering from Colorado School of Mines in Golden, Colorado. Speaking of his scientific background, Saunders said "...any claim I might make to originality in my fiction is really just the result of this odd background: basically, just me working inefficiently, with flawed tools, in a mode I don't have sufficient background to really understand. Like if you put a welder to designing dresses."[1] In 1988, he obtained an M.A. in creative writing from Syracuse University.<br /> Career as author<br /><br />In his twenties, Saunders considered himself an Objectivist, but is now repulsed by the philosophy, comparing it to neoconservative thinking.[2] From 1989 to 1996 he worked for Radian International, an environmental engineering firm in Rochester, New York as a technical writer and geophysical engineer. He also worked for a time in Sumatra with an oil exploration crew. Since 1997, Saunders has been on the faculty of Syracuse University, teaching creative writing in the school's MFA program. In 2006, Saunders was awarded a $500,000 MacArthur Foundation Fellowship, commonly called a "genius grant". In the same year he was also awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship. Saunders currently resides in Syracuse, New York. He is married and has two daughters. He was a Visiting Writer at Wesleyan University and Hope College in 2010, and participated in Wesleyan's Distinguished Writers Series and Hope's Visiting Writers Series. His most recent book, a collection of recent non-fiction entitled The Braindead Megaphone, was published on September 4, 2007.While promoting The Braindead Megaphone, Saunders appeared on The Colbert Report and Late Night with David Letterman.<br /><br />Saunders' fiction often focuses on the absurdity of consumerism and corporate culture and the role of the mass media. While many reviewers are quick to mention the satirical tone in most of Saunders' writing, many of these same works also deal with philosophical questions of morality. The tragicomic element, concurrently devastating and wildly funny, has earned Saunders comparisons to Kurt Vonnegut, a writer to whom Saunders has acknowledged a debt.[17]<br /><br />The film rights to CivilWarLand in Bad Decline were purchased by Ben Stiller in the late 1990s and a film has been rumored to be in the works for several years now, to be produced by Stiller's company, Red Hour Productions.[18] Saunders has also written a feature-length screenplay for one of his stories from Pastoralia, 'Sea Oak'.<br /> Books<br /> Fiction<br /><br /> * CivilWarLand in Bad Decline (1996) (short stories and a novella)<br /> * Pastoralia (2000) (short stories and a novella)<br /> * The Very Persistent Gappers of Frip (2000) (novella with illustrations by Lane Smith (illustrator)) (New York Times bestseller)<br /> * The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil (2005) (novella)<br /> * In Persuasion Nation (2006) (short stories)<br /><br />Non-Fiction<br /> * A Bee Stung Me, So I Killed the Fish (2006) (promotional chapbook of essays, limited to 500 copies)<br /> * The Braindead Megaphone (2007) (collected essays)<br /><br /><br />This is the official fan page;<br /><br />http://www.georgesaundersland.com<br /><br />A fabulous essay on homelessness in GQ.<br /><br />http://www.gq.com/news-politics/big-issues/200909/homeless-tent-city-george-saunders-fresnocarol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-39383785000254482002010-05-18T23:55:00.001-07:002010-05-18T23:55:22.335-07:00carletta sue kayhttp://www.saucefaucet.com/csksongscarol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-87678228327685527662010-04-24T23:11:00.000-07:002010-07-03T22:50:07.936-07:00The Honey Mooners<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj9Se172yGgwicAaxGl9H0vtEBRNsZwVPGmwvQhMWsqa7ev6xfWxKyqGp7OjPFDbGsWh4OXQ7PhjxeYn1sz9Xtceo-Y28bGJzVvl59yxacrL15I-H5TY8J26omkQPgt3qEqi_IglEKZr4f/s1600/honeymooners.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj9Se172yGgwicAaxGl9H0vtEBRNsZwVPGmwvQhMWsqa7ev6xfWxKyqGp7OjPFDbGsWh4OXQ7PhjxeYn1sz9Xtceo-Y28bGJzVvl59yxacrL15I-H5TY8J26omkQPgt3qEqi_IglEKZr4f/s400/honeymooners.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5463955083396206866" /></a><br />grimy as the walls on The Honeymooner's set<br />you think no one sees that shit?<br />stupid ass!<br />EVERYONE SEES THAT SHIT!<br />you're dirty<br />you think you can hide the shadows?<br />the shadows are far too fast<br />and even if you could...<br />well...why would you want to?<br />every man has shadows<br />some are lined with shit and shame<br />others? well why would i care about others?<br />i can scarcely stomach my owncarol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-88037200632443662632010-03-26T18:02:00.000-07:002010-03-26T18:08:39.189-07:00Marc Riboud<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjapqvfLrsykqpPyM8_i9AO0_ve12n0knPW3HZk65gq-1u2L6l7ShIC9wGZ1LSzr_8OpK-na6EyKJ4dTUpWB16YWZ8iA3mgjEIzZzP2IXEcpRsNWQPvoftniKUAL53w5GsaZMK8_G99DJLz/s1600/riboud+two.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjapqvfLrsykqpPyM8_i9AO0_ve12n0knPW3HZk65gq-1u2L6l7ShIC9wGZ1LSzr_8OpK-na6EyKJ4dTUpWB16YWZ8iA3mgjEIzZzP2IXEcpRsNWQPvoftniKUAL53w5GsaZMK8_G99DJLz/s400/riboud+two.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453113749614161298" /></a><br /><br />Is he a street photographer? Yes. Is he a documentary photographer? Yes. A photojournalist? A travel photographer? A portraitist? A fine arts photographer? Yes, yes, yes and most certainly yes.<br /><br />French photographer Marc Riboud isn't easily categorized, because he's never specialized in any particular area of photography. There are some recurring themes and stylistic idiosyncrasies in his work, but the pictures fall easily into half a dozen different modes of photography. For half a century Riboud has been shooting highly personal images that appeal to a variety of markets. The marketplace, however, has never been uppermost in his mind.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga56BL-whwi6vYP4HZpce7PymoMypV5pQaq7wwTIXZs1mewTzGQMgH8WBrqWE6F0IUuojVwvEL3c8yuRkboviF23HVIJ-tW-TgCMIUUqzr0Ob1bNe2clv1ipr_vk6D8kIX6jqNdJ-A7rG8/s1600/riboud+one.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 261px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga56BL-whwi6vYP4HZpce7PymoMypV5pQaq7wwTIXZs1mewTzGQMgH8WBrqWE6F0IUuojVwvEL3c8yuRkboviF23HVIJ-tW-TgCMIUUqzr0Ob1bNe2clv1ipr_vk6D8kIX6jqNdJ-A7rG8/s400/riboud+one.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453113628898288418" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Born in Lyon, France in 1923, Riboud became interested in photography at an early age. His father, a combat veteran of the First World War, gave him the dented little Vest Pocket Kodak that he'd carried on the battlefield. It seems Riboud was initially as intrigued by the personal history of the camera as he was by the act of photography. "The camera stirred my imagination," he wrote, "for it had its own story to tell: it had witnessed the mud and the courage, the suffering and the absurdity of the trenches." In a very real way, that attitude epitomizes Riboud's photography; his work is about personal stories as interpreted through the camera.<br /><br /><br /><br />War came to France when Riboud was seventeen years old. He joined the French Resistance movement as an active member of the Maquis du Vercors and took place in several engagements. At the end of the war, Riboud enrolled in Lyon's Ecole Centrale, where he studied engineering. After graduating, he accepted a position at a factory in the nearby town of Villeurbanne and began a normal life. His interest in photography, however, hadn't diminished.<br /><br />Riboud took a week-long holiday from his job to attend (and, of course, to photograph) a drama festival held in Lyon. What was intended to be a brief holiday never ended; Riboud decided not to return to the factory. Perhaps the time he spent fighting with the Resistance made the regimented life of an engineer employed by a factory intolerable, perhaps he felt his position didn't permit him enough of an outlet for self-expression, perhaps Riboud went temporarily insane—we don't know. What we do know is that instead of resuming his safe and secure position, he decided to devote himself to photography.<br /><br />Riboud went to New York City for a short period before returning to France. He moved to Paris where he had the good fortune to meet another photographer, also a veteran of the war: Henri Cartier-Bresson. Cartier-Bresson and his partners had founded the Magnum photography agency shortly after the war. He encouraged Riboud to keep working at his photography. A year later Magnum accepted Riboud as a member.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLrvToXXIuq6_SMEfvfugaROfO7FSUW8Ejka15NXOvG4dyi0mNhjFN6zpj3aM_6Z14tskx85fIm9XP9VhPL77xQjdCAKyHYzjbkD_Vl8R5FRD6zN-lRsfKQGxU3fWgr5ofcT5rOw48rDCe/s1600/riboud+four.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLrvToXXIuq6_SMEfvfugaROfO7FSUW8Ejka15NXOvG4dyi0mNhjFN6zpj3aM_6Z14tskx85fIm9XP9VhPL77xQjdCAKyHYzjbkD_Vl8R5FRD6zN-lRsfKQGxU3fWgr5ofcT5rOw48rDCe/s400/riboud+four.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453113911435391202" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />The unique approach of the Magnum agency allowed Riboud to shoot the sorts of photographs he wanted to shoot, while giving him a grounding in the actual business of photography. He learned he could actually sell the photographs he would have taken anyway. One of his first photographs for Magnum, a man applying a coat of paint to the Eiffel Tower, was published in LIFE magazine. Coincidentally, that photo became one of Riboud's signature images. It contains all the elements that characterize his style: an emphasis on graphic composition that works in balance with the human figures, who are always depicted with compassion.<br /><br />Although his work for Magnum encompassed everything from portraits to photojournalism, Riboud never approached an assignment or a project with a political or social agenda. According to Riboud, photography "must not try to be persuasive. It cannot change the world, but it can show the world, especially when it is changing."<br /><br />With the support of the Magnum Agency, Riboud documented a lot of change. For the next few years, from 1955 to 1960, he found his way through India, Nepal, Mongolia and the Soviet Union. He drove a car from Alaska to Mexico, shooting photographs as he went. He became one of the first Western photographers to be allowed into China after the Cultural Revolution. Later he would document rebellions and civil insurrections and wars in Africa, Southeast Asia, Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Algeria.<br /><br />Wherever he went, his work always stressed the human element. English boys playing cowboy in the streets of London. Workers in China taking a brief break for lunch. Pilgrims at the ghats on the holy Ganges in Bénarès, India. Peasant herdsmen in Mongolia. He also shot portraits—both formal and informal—of movie stars, politicians, and diplomats, but his best work was always of common people.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4U8h46DO6TpMGum1_fu0SP-ZkVamnX4r7-SQgxqm4UsP87IucX4lRDdmESV_e9_NADXggSudAxZW2c_DHPcFWPnWLmUbMqbwNB4qFRJujwa-QRqmW9sBGtjN9RdloshVQQh_ZCx9fW7Hj/s1600/riboud+three.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 269px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4U8h46DO6TpMGum1_fu0SP-ZkVamnX4r7-SQgxqm4UsP87IucX4lRDdmESV_e9_NADXggSudAxZW2c_DHPcFWPnWLmUbMqbwNB4qFRJujwa-QRqmW9sBGtjN9RdloshVQQh_ZCx9fW7Hj/s400/riboud+three.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5453113836802545826" /></a><br /><br /><br />Riboud describes himself as a "shy" photographer, saying "I was torn between the fear of getting too close to people and another force that egged me on to get a closer look." Not surprisingly, over the years he has developed some strong opinions about the practice of photography. He takes his cue from René Char, the French poet who advocated people should "foresee as a strategist and act as a primitive." In other words, Riboud believes a photographer should mentally sketch out the scene in terms of composition, but must also be alert for the happy accident—the gesture, the turn of the head, the unexpected element—that turns an ordinary image into something extraordinary. "Surprises of every kind lie in wait for the photographer," Riboud has written. "They open the eyes and quicken the heartbeat of those with a passion for looking."<br /><br />His best work reveals a finely-tuned sense of balance between rigorous composition and openness to the moment. Experience allows him to put himself in the right spot to take advantage of the unexpected element while retaining the strong sense of composition. One of his iconic images—a 1967 photograph of a young woman protesting against the war in Vietnam facing a stern line of armed troops standing before the Pentagon and presenting them with a flower—is a classic example of Riboud's approach. He saw the situation as it was unfolding, took a position that provided a solid composition, and then remained poised in case a photograph presented itself. That same approach yielded a perfect moment one morning in China as his train stopped at a station. It's not just a matter of being in the right spot at the right moment; it's a matter of knowing where that spot is in case the moment takes place. Riboud was aware that the windows of the train would act as frames and he was prepared when each of the frames was filled.<br /><br /><br /><br />In 1979 Riboud resigned as a full member of Magnum, though he remains a 'contributing member.' He continues to shoot the things that interest him with minimal regard to the marketability of his photographs. His work hangs in museums in Europe and North America, his photos are published in magazines throughout the world, he has won awards from several international photography bodies.<br /><br />At 85 years of age, Marc Riboud feels he still sees the world in the same way he did when he was 13, looking through the lens of his father's camera. He still approaches his work the same way, though by now he's done it so often that it's almost instinctive. Riboud says it best: "I photograph the way a musician hums."carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-12940717345454682542010-03-09T20:25:00.000-08:002010-03-09T20:27:39.269-08:00The Mouth of The Hudson by Robert Lowell<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic-xrxhvm6VPGZEq8Bb06dRWBxltDvC3rs-2hG23vgqyVBowUHwLhqMsWtLzvnwg9PiiZqF8sxCNrOCDks6dulqpky2uRqLcx-ZYuNNKuKqFhUeMHu7TF6vqgrz-9RK42EmcPRcUjH_jrM/s1600-h/Hudson_river_from_bear_mountain_bridge.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic-xrxhvm6VPGZEq8Bb06dRWBxltDvC3rs-2hG23vgqyVBowUHwLhqMsWtLzvnwg9PiiZqF8sxCNrOCDks6dulqpky2uRqLcx-ZYuNNKuKqFhUeMHu7TF6vqgrz-9RK42EmcPRcUjH_jrM/s400/Hudson_river_from_bear_mountain_bridge.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446857140200419810" /></a><br /><br /><br />A single man stands like a bird-watcher,<br />and scuffles the pepper and salt snow<br />from a discarded, gray<br />Westinghouse Electric cable drum.<br />He cannot discover America by counting<br />the chains of condemned freight-trains<br />from thirty states. They jolt and jar<br />and junk in the siding below him.<br />He has trouble with his balance.<br />His eyes drop,<br />and he drifts with the wild ice<br />ticking seaward down the Hudson,<br />like the blank sides of a jig-saw puzzle.<br /><br />The ice ticks seaward like a clock.<br />A negro toasts<br />wheat-seeds over the coke-fumes<br />of a punctured barrel.<br />Chemical air<br />sweeps in from New Jersey,<br />and smells of coffee.<br /><br />Across the river,<br />ledges of suburban factories tan<br />in the sulphur-yellow sun<br />of the unforgivable landscape.carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-4668337227981008552010-03-06T15:40:00.000-08:002010-03-06T15:45:45.988-08:00Marcel Broodthaer<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvJMWoICYVIXZ0abhnWC9bxyHxfr1CmzDVHE3zPpWXLemskQBw_vyO26Hl3IuHavOM-i9yizzs-NsiIubwsgfK1NFQsDM7N5bfyR54BY3j56oQA_N580z2rwEkjPZe9bjI7VPQ1JRSyRJW/s1600-h/brood+six.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvJMWoICYVIXZ0abhnWC9bxyHxfr1CmzDVHE3zPpWXLemskQBw_vyO26Hl3IuHavOM-i9yizzs-NsiIubwsgfK1NFQsDM7N5bfyR54BY3j56oQA_N580z2rwEkjPZe9bjI7VPQ1JRSyRJW/s400/brood+six.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445671110331353058" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZiqQ4MAY1ypmj0VUGgnZoTSp1XOaXAPyHy4SpMaQdH123Rq5O0i-z6n4rZ_FjlEv0nlGZuvbd8QsA2vu7Kk6rNLDp0gtKwf2HxaapsKVj1r17w9LKmJSck5vdGcgPA5NPESA_dtkNU2e0/s1600-h/brood+five.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 382px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZiqQ4MAY1ypmj0VUGgnZoTSp1XOaXAPyHy4SpMaQdH123Rq5O0i-z6n4rZ_FjlEv0nlGZuvbd8QsA2vu7Kk6rNLDp0gtKwf2HxaapsKVj1r17w9LKmJSck5vdGcgPA5NPESA_dtkNU2e0/s400/brood+five.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445671050524057906" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIqI_xqmCgFP7RaZNVF6cKyXId-0KqzNR96DLygASsJmM_Dj4CsnuJowebWi85RVd_wdCdvqPMedKxzMNAKvNmDxdxX32yfLEo6WjjT0v06gM4KX1DoLK0y7-xVGeZhw-t1TH-C9DoWIF5/s1600-h/brood+four.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 316px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIqI_xqmCgFP7RaZNVF6cKyXId-0KqzNR96DLygASsJmM_Dj4CsnuJowebWi85RVd_wdCdvqPMedKxzMNAKvNmDxdxX32yfLEo6WjjT0v06gM4KX1DoLK0y7-xVGeZhw-t1TH-C9DoWIF5/s400/brood+four.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445670992290151330" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWHLlzG4Wgh7zUUSoMEtAppyzssoMWmuVJ-bt7G3MzHbDd3ek50UzKkqgm_HNDBKHVQwRY8-lGVezc0dwvZ3SaHecOB2LsCgSkbrBhxBMFdYi3_89cnigLbhXaDb_GKSelRMJAvXaCs-3Q/s1600-h/brood+three.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 333px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWHLlzG4Wgh7zUUSoMEtAppyzssoMWmuVJ-bt7G3MzHbDd3ek50UzKkqgm_HNDBKHVQwRY8-lGVezc0dwvZ3SaHecOB2LsCgSkbrBhxBMFdYi3_89cnigLbhXaDb_GKSelRMJAvXaCs-3Q/s400/brood+three.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445670926782930546" /></a><br />Marcel Broodthaers (January 28, 1924 – January 28, 1976) was a Belgian poet, filmmaker and artist with a highly literate and often witty approach to creating art works.<br /><br />He was born in Brussels, Belgium, where he was associated with the Groupe Surréaliste-revolutionnaire from 1945 and dabbled in journalism, film, and poetry. After spending 20 years in poverty as a struggling poet[1], he performed the symbolic act of embedding fifty unsold copies of his book of poems Pense-Bête in plaster, creating his first art object. That same year, 1964, for his first exhibition, he wrote a famous preface for the exhibition catalogue;<br /><br /> "I, too, wondered whether I could not sell something and succeed in life. For some time I had been no good at anything. I am forty years old... Finally the idea of inventing something insincere finally crossed my mind and I set to work straightaway. At the end of three months I showed what I had produced to Philippe Edouard Toussaint, the owner of the Galerie St Laurent. 'But it is art' he said 'and I will willingly exhibit all of it.' 'Agreed' I replied. If I sell something, he takes 30%. It seems these are the usual conditions, some galleries take 75%. What is it? In fact it is objects." Broodthaers, 1964[2]<br /><br />He worked principally with assemblies of found objects and collage, often containing written texts. His most noted work was an installation which began in his Brussels house which he called Musée d'Art Moderne, Départment des Aigles (1968). This installation was followed by a further eleven manifestations of the 'museum', including at the Düsseldorf Kunsthalle for an exhibition in 1970 and at documenta 5 in Kassel in 1972. For such works he is associated with the late 20th century global spread of both installation art, as well as "institutional critique," in which interrelationships between artworks, the artist, and the museum are a focus.<br /><br />Broodthaers died in Cologne, Germany on his 52nd birthday.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmxlM5Vrx4FlEN_vOyf79DmKUAfZeVFHzTlp2hBR0P1V4DLHvxI6I4Ym9ANr1kEkEdqU7k2l_D90n1LXJl60btQdBw57mR_85VpcxAj4Nk-78c4zMLktJE_71noQjM7XywE5l-PZYKBRcc/s1600-h/brood+two.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 232px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmxlM5Vrx4FlEN_vOyf79DmKUAfZeVFHzTlp2hBR0P1V4DLHvxI6I4Ym9ANr1kEkEdqU7k2l_D90n1LXJl60btQdBw57mR_85VpcxAj4Nk-78c4zMLktJE_71noQjM7XywE5l-PZYKBRcc/s400/brood+two.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445670861298472546" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNEFamWMvIVGzUsX6ge-GVd6FZpGUw7romWkQGC52QZ4DF0L9C_NJ8uTg1f6WBcnv0T4FCgIrgwz7tao7uXqpZeXh1XKpDEX0G1nJDaHAoL_YxvmjYJ8Ryj4jXMbqtp1kf7s0L0Eyz82de/s1600-h/brood+one.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 373px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNEFamWMvIVGzUsX6ge-GVd6FZpGUw7romWkQGC52QZ4DF0L9C_NJ8uTg1f6WBcnv0T4FCgIrgwz7tao7uXqpZeXh1XKpDEX0G1nJDaHAoL_YxvmjYJ8Ryj4jXMbqtp1kf7s0L0Eyz82de/s400/brood+one.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445670787652242258" /></a><br />Marcel Broodthaers was a poet and bookseller until age forty, when he turned to Conceptual art by creating a sculptural work composed of fifty copies of one of his poetry books, cast in plaster. He later became known for paradoxical word-image juxtapositions, as well as large-scale installations simulating museum exhibitions and assemblages made in part with eggshells, mussel shells, and European household goods. He also created paintings, films, performances, and sound pieces. In general, Broodthaers's work focuses on the ways in which social, economic, and institutional constructs influence and affect art's meaning.<br /><br />Broodthaers's printed work consists of twenty-six individual prints, several in diptych format, and some twenty artist's books, mostly created to function as part of his Conceptual projects rather than as explorations of printmaking techniques. The diptych Museum-Museum presents Broodthaers's views on an institution of culture, which, he believes, decontextualizes art. Here identical bars of gold bullion are each stamped with an eagle, a reference to the "Eagle Department" in his fictional museum. On the left, they are labeled with artists' names, such as Mantegna, Ingres, and Duchamp, and on the right, with names of commodities such as sugar, tobacco, and chocolate. The bars along the bottom row of each panel carry the following captions: "IMITATION," "KOPIE," "COPIE," "FALSCH," and "ORIGINAL." By integrating issues of art and commerce, Broodthaers raises questions concerning the reduction of art objects to basic exchange commodities. Created for one of his mock museum installations, this print implicates museums for their role as treasuries of artistic currency and for their collaboration in the process of commodification as they act as guarantors of aesthetic values.<br /><br />Raimond Livasganicarol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-12047451716837884442010-03-03T16:26:00.000-08:002010-07-14T15:26:41.006-07:00Tweaker Love<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfF-1oEAzn3751NgU2HLKYX4Eh7f39IVwixk2Xpkxp7gpvXT9WI_loVUuX8_e0GyIzMqE7oMgmQcAzSONfL7fypW-D1MuVWM_WY7-XqUbT8dWq6-5OkIGP_oIr_k8aCgM9dtVxTF7xDkV-/s1600/tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 321px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfF-1oEAzn3751NgU2HLKYX4Eh7f39IVwixk2Xpkxp7gpvXT9WI_loVUuX8_e0GyIzMqE7oMgmQcAzSONfL7fypW-D1MuVWM_WY7-XqUbT8dWq6-5OkIGP_oIr_k8aCgM9dtVxTF7xDkV-/s400/tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493891940071235266" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPljFJhffa3C4JaC32k2PK2wdYKsOWw2FAGN-wR8Lb89wwMAP1RrNhYpuVHEQWqdsFAo5YCGMoyJskn8DBffueYmOGvHWjgt8YFMcsuwHhrgo7x7RhZTO4OoGkba7GFOU9We0dDHR8wyCn/s1600/tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek+1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 321px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPljFJhffa3C4JaC32k2PK2wdYKsOWw2FAGN-wR8Lb89wwMAP1RrNhYpuVHEQWqdsFAo5YCGMoyJskn8DBffueYmOGvHWjgt8YFMcsuwHhrgo7x7RhZTO4OoGkba7GFOU9We0dDHR8wyCn/s400/tweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek+1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493890584735371538" /></a><br />On the TV an endless loop of cum shots with a voice over in Dutch<br />They never go out in the day and they always do way too much<br />Benny and Cesar, two inseparable, insufferable fools<br />A couple of real rag dolls stuffed with sand and straw and real plastic jewels<br />Benny, a young Buster Keaton got up in powder, brilliant and in his prime<br />Cesar, a whisper of a man, full of good intention and petty crime<br />They take on many lovers who only live inside of their heads<br />They’re all very handsome and of course they’re all very dead<br />He hates it when he looks at him that way<br />With his pretty mouth full of obscenities, lies and decay<br />You don’t think that I’m man enough well then baby just you try me<br />We’ll move out to the desert where everyone wears Chrystal crowns in the shit hole kingdom a.k.a. i.e.<br />Where the shit is always good and the endless day always bad<br />Always the same question, how can you miss what you never had?<br />Wrapped up in pink shower curtains and several rolls of packing tape<br />Cesar looks flushed, his skin red, his mouth agape<br />Twitching with a sudden doubt in his eyes a budding fear<br />“Ah fuck baby I’m sorry, I forgot you were still even here”carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-13133943829869887272010-02-27T13:50:00.000-08:002010-02-27T14:13:01.324-08:00Sufjan Stevens<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" 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allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLC_vT-J3APWUFAbuXX1f7TdesAZaoUmnKxGOo34_CX9l7nIdWS6aowDshee7GhewwIlUKadt8qciHA1M_2qx03xXKp2bJyqLXkRvC83nCoyAwFVu0hErVwTC9fVai10-XkjtM7qFU7s-b/s1600-h/Sufjan+Stevens.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 339px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLC_vT-J3APWUFAbuXX1f7TdesAZaoUmnKxGOo34_CX9l7nIdWS6aowDshee7GhewwIlUKadt8qciHA1M_2qx03xXKp2bJyqLXkRvC83nCoyAwFVu0hErVwTC9fVai10-XkjtM7qFU7s-b/s400/Sufjan+Stevens.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443045037145905890" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcnyaxcqCXrpkUxjJabCCnpuN9G9CHV1GpGQK-QlWHarPvVL3bn-hgmuGy1oVk9qLZWuOxRv2zyb99gF2QJSs9IKnmYIJR6-ZufpivsQy8DcY0vrUqt-5U0BLT7rEOueNJ0JvGYehkZvb/s1600-h/sufjan-stevens.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcnyaxcqCXrpkUxjJabCCnpuN9G9CHV1GpGQK-QlWHarPvVL3bn-hgmuGy1oVk9qLZWuOxRv2zyb99gF2QJSs9IKnmYIJR6-ZufpivsQy8DcY0vrUqt-5U0BLT7rEOueNJ0JvGYehkZvb/s400/sufjan-stevens.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443044968837609810" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8N2OepypzTDMEaYUB3B3nA9FWKPIj81MZahTeomits8CJhF80_sTOdURg8dvVYXTgYr0Hian1mLGGK7_4H2aNi0yy7iH1i0D1Bt1Gf6NdrdA39kg7DvRyrfRwBhqsV3PvEt7CuDAHyqE6/s1600-h/Sufjan-Stevens-5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8N2OepypzTDMEaYUB3B3nA9FWKPIj81MZahTeomits8CJhF80_sTOdURg8dvVYXTgYr0Hian1mLGGK7_4H2aNi0yy7iH1i0D1Bt1Gf6NdrdA39kg7DvRyrfRwBhqsV3PvEt7CuDAHyqE6/s400/Sufjan-Stevens-5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443044900572037026" border="0" /></a>http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sufjan_Stevens<br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kRwzAYGz5Ug&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/kRwzAYGz5Ug&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/otx49Ko3fxw&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/otx49Ko3fxw&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><object height="340" width="560"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/YkiXxSu-qso&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/YkiXxSu-qso&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="340" width="560"></embed></object><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/gKctxZ68y0w&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/gKctxZ68y0w&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object>carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-73627368359210880972010-02-27T13:46:00.000-08:002010-02-27T14:41:11.814-08:00Romulus Linney<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/So_C9Yz948A&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/So_C9Yz948A&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/9Zp54pltbWs&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/9Zp54pltbWs&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object>http://www.blackbird.vcu.edu/v1n1/features/linney_r_81502/linney_r.htm<br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Y4i3cwAAttM&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Y4i3cwAAttM&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/qWe7x29-lIc&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/qWe7x29-lIc&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object>carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-39505912711549756682010-02-27T12:05:00.000-08:002010-02-27T12:08:52.998-08:00Pina Bausch<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/4MK5Hbvuf3k&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/4MK5Hbvuf3k&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Jm70fMM3JAk&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Jm70fMM3JAk&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/FvGS4CLiqGo&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/FvGS4CLiqGo&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/C0_uOWJapDA&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/C0_uOWJapDA&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/mGQ-VD5hU3k&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/mGQ-VD5hU3k&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/dtqrqjERhkQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/dtqrqjERhkQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object>carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-65484774858238439562010-02-27T11:54:00.000-08:002010-02-27T12:03:58.006-08:00Jim Lambie<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" 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src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFnocvpGhNLD_zP2f3j-f6gTYlF8nVODLPyz6qiXOUzqGE68Oax2PUSWIQZGVbFT2xHryRfmnRwFW2chVT0RxsH0b-jEtNLn9oC3Vl7QOMARPd3P9Dixu0zSYcNS_IQbL0Gv7SoTXcgMgS/s400/installation_lambie3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443016095874359442" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglAGMpntX6lMfUN62mecvIt8k_r7JRQMG_LcUmhCZ772ZcZjzZixumdzBo4EPQJh4_fhitqMACssisbBn7iZu78k-Vxa-Fi9H9xO3ZWhpFuMLwWG6RPFarjdvKXWpShmRP7WddnTU-MLTE/s1600-h/installation_lambie2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglAGMpntX6lMfUN62mecvIt8k_r7JRQMG_LcUmhCZ772ZcZjzZixumdzBo4EPQJh4_fhitqMACssisbBn7iZu78k-Vxa-Fi9H9xO3ZWhpFuMLwWG6RPFarjdvKXWpShmRP7WddnTU-MLTE/s400/installation_lambie2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443016007183735890" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><object height="340" width="560"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/MXweVvuU-MY&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/MXweVvuU-MY&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="340" width="560"></embed></object><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/26F3SqrfVtc&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/26F3SqrfVtc&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/UeovMiJMcm4&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/UeovMiJMcm4&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object>carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-48959404462415715622010-02-27T11:35:00.000-08:002010-02-27T11:50:00.481-08:00CASA de RETIRO ESPIRITUAL by Emilio Ambasz<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaVlMKSpHMo8ZFV4zv4fNTY8q0kvAbnIqMWm-V8TccMClcg2iv8LsGDu1E_c1G3ttVdvdx_P8gja7gjwP3q-UzreCiba4aLgQIprf-BgGEkYq7q6zJrFEivUYV20vabysaYOvsi3-_gIIE/s1600-h/70f1b1da.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaVlMKSpHMo8ZFV4zv4fNTY8q0kvAbnIqMWm-V8TccMClcg2iv8LsGDu1E_c1G3ttVdvdx_P8gja7gjwP3q-UzreCiba4aLgQIprf-BgGEkYq7q6zJrFEivUYV20vabysaYOvsi3-_gIIE/s400/70f1b1da.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443012887461654482" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQe763EFp1xireQ8wQdUwiQj8Zdx7Kd_UGLgSqVb9O4eMqUoR5R_Y-Yfxvs3CdaYlHF9hlV-GdQF539ZbJhinXyQLVfBEkWHupt1nv1EIc9EumI3qLQbLQmSWD_s1erp9PjOZ234WpBdTq/s1600-h/casa2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 340px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQe763EFp1xireQ8wQdUwiQj8Zdx7Kd_UGLgSqVb9O4eMqUoR5R_Y-Yfxvs3CdaYlHF9hlV-GdQF539ZbJhinXyQLVfBEkWHupt1nv1EIc9EumI3qLQbLQmSWD_s1erp9PjOZ234WpBdTq/s400/casa2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443012673433888962" border="0" /></a><br /><table border="0" width="900"><tbody><tr> <td><br /></td> </tr> <tr> <td><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/H-42QeaY3zk&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/H-42QeaY3zk&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object>carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-34217287159700275022010-02-26T16:54:00.000-08:002010-02-26T17:02:49.259-08:00March Willows by Ben Belitt<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhweUdS2rSViTWiuPCMnDjKkbEOvplm-sycXl06MxMXz7ZxBUfuX_3mvBsLGkAzCloXHnJCgJmNbjGOyz7heOmXey5ZNuYW51EigOBPlTdyllC8JAlNlA0q-wmE6KLElAdmEOLbRnc_zB6w/s1600-h/willow-tree.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhweUdS2rSViTWiuPCMnDjKkbEOvplm-sycXl06MxMXz7ZxBUfuX_3mvBsLGkAzCloXHnJCgJmNbjGOyz7heOmXey5ZNuYW51EigOBPlTdyllC8JAlNlA0q-wmE6KLElAdmEOLbRnc_zB6w/s400/willow-tree.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442722415037119378" border="0" /></a><br />This kindling of sacramental color---El Greco's<br />collapsed Count, a cadaver of haze, the green<br />of a closed or an opening grave,<br /><br />fillets under the bent<br />wands, diagrams of fountians<br />rising and falling in faintly sinister gases,<br /><br />phosphorus and pistachio--<br />yields to its seasonal Summoner as the diamond<br />yields to the shock of the diamond-breaker's hammer.<br /><br />Now the daft<br />ward of a mad song hacks at her laces<br />and spins in her farthingale's balloon<br /><br />under the deckle of a mortuary tree<br />past Kedron and Babylon,<br />dangling her weeper's hair<br /><br />and combing the primitive<br />leaf in valences and serrations---<br />a stonecutter's sense of the willow<br /><br />chiseled in airy chartreuse.<br />O the mind breaks this way and that, says the Summoner,<br />of its own crazed weight, shows an anvil's<br /><br />underside, as the catamount's breath is seen<br />a moment between the thunderhead in the snow<br />and a glinting of evergreen,<br /><br />while the whole of the willow breathes like a heart,<br />turning its rag-bag of leaves,<br />one way, leaden, like the meat of the olive,<br /><br />the other way, yellow; and the lute in the stone<br />is heard in its lunatic sweetness<br />in a rising and falling of branches:<br />"O willow, willow!"carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-55357244945345280692010-02-25T00:26:00.000-08:002010-02-25T00:33:03.671-08:00Stutterer by Alan Dugan<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2RumPUF-biDDrEVtGGovSTti0cYDikbBtsahJkb2t5EWM8kjC81BrkHJ8dJ4yaznGBEAsUvUcpQ8rTyGfYwAk9wsy41CCMgD2nL0qmnMYxAebw78tWbkw-fRKBAsDUrKPKVa59523pFCv/s1600-h/mill+stream.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 143px; height: 107px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2RumPUF-biDDrEVtGGovSTti0cYDikbBtsahJkb2t5EWM8kjC81BrkHJ8dJ4yaznGBEAsUvUcpQ8rTyGfYwAk9wsy41CCMgD2nL0qmnMYxAebw78tWbkw-fRKBAsDUrKPKVa59523pFCv/s400/mill+stream.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442096270370972146" border="0" /></a><br />Courage: your tongue has left<br />its natural position in the cheek<br />where eddies of the breath<br />are navigable calms. Now<br />it locks against the glottis or<br />is snapped at by the teeth,<br />in midstream: it must be work<br />to get out what you mean:<br />the rapids of the breath<br />are furious with belief<br />and the tongue, as blood<br />and animal of speech,<br />to stop it, block it, or come clean<br />over the rocks of teeth<br />and down the races of the air,<br />tumbled and bruised to death.<br />Relax it into acting, be<br />the air's straw-hat<br />canoeist with a mandolin<br />yodeling over the falls.<br />This is the sound advice<br />of experts and a true despair:<br />it is the toll to pass the locks<br />down to the old mill stream<br />where lies of love are fair.carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-66115345001863596312010-02-13T23:24:00.001-08:002010-02-27T12:43:46.424-08:00Big Louise Scott Walker<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMalzJx09zM_m9hK8O4kWQKPyXd6DCj59l5EXLmNi8YwJZ1w6x3a4GyaGtNg-fq3UAVU3GEpLQ1zO-ScxQuDoNtXN9SnEymkQlJt1TTGWWsyQ_x0_P8rbHdjqE3BxQpuCWNt7fZBHuX4q/s1600-h/scott.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 261px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMalzJx09zM_m9hK8O4kWQKPyXd6DCj59l5EXLmNi8YwJZ1w6x3a4GyaGtNg-fq3UAVU3GEpLQ1zO-ScxQuDoNtXN9SnEymkQlJt1TTGWWsyQ_x0_P8rbHdjqE3BxQpuCWNt7fZBHuX4q/s400/scott.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437996981443701698" border="0" /></a><br />She stands all alone<br />You can hear her hum softly<br />From her fire escape in the sky<br />She fills the bags 'neath her eyes<br />With the moonbeams<br />And cries 'cause the world's passed her by<br /><br />Didn't time sounds sweet yesterday?<br />In a world filled with friends<br />You lose your way<br /><br />She's a haunted house<br />And her windows are broken<br />And the sad young man's gone away<br />Her bathrobe's torn<br />And tears smudge her lipstick<br />And the neighbors just whisper all day<br /><br />Didn't time sounds sweet yesterday?<br />In a world filled with friends<br />You lose your way<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/HZ-NPo-s9IE&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/HZ-NPo-s9IE&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7381113410159393121.post-33725677998978368272010-01-28T02:13:00.001-08:002010-02-27T12:44:37.604-08:00Andalucia<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisTnMtzZwDCOvLm2CSN5-WLJ_CJ9vUZdZ1WkULRy2ls7bIs5kzs1rzK-s0UjUZdgajCNS810tqSSrolF5k9kBGaZlPwC8nhSfiubagr6lyMVZXAz-amDRf3BRVJq5wLgJY8Dzfm8pV2GdI/s1600-h/andalucia_1.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 274px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisTnMtzZwDCOvLm2CSN5-WLJ_CJ9vUZdZ1WkULRy2ls7bIs5kzs1rzK-s0UjUZdgajCNS810tqSSrolF5k9kBGaZlPwC8nhSfiubagr6lyMVZXAz-amDRf3BRVJq5wLgJY8Dzfm8pV2GdI/s400/andalucia_1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431732390663749682" border="0" /></a><br />you were hogging the stereo<br />it was your birthday<br />...and when i finally convinced you to let me put on a record<br />i did<br />john cale<br />andalucia<br />you hummed a few bars<br />and then left the room<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/r7iLFuapeY8&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/r7iLFuapeY8&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>carol the aphid eaterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01291974446314261327noreply@blogger.com0