tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22488116360424630912024-03-18T21:04:46.050-07:00Liz CrossAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618374775195836767noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2248811636042463091.post-62392903149630976372018-01-08T16:23:00.001-08:002018-01-08T16:23:48.271-08:00Richard O. MooreLearned so much this summer at Home School writing retreat/workshop/reading/wondershow. Slowly processing. Think this might be a nice place to share some things.<br />
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About the time I was born, Richard O. Moore was inventing public radio and television out in California. He studied with Kenneth Koch, was in class with Jack Spicer, and was friends with Brenda Hillman. He didn't publish much of his own work, but when he did it won awards. Something he did do though was shoot some cinema verité style documentaries of poets (among others).<br />
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Here's an excerpt from the Frank O'Hara piece he did. Warning: it may make you want to smoke, walk for hours down NYC streets with a friend, take your shirt off and discuss paintings, talk on the phone while typing and holding a friend's hand, write a play, take a new lover, write a poem, smoke another cigarette.<br />
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=344TyqLlSFAAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618374775195836767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2248811636042463091.post-11378440949973245202016-10-05T06:55:00.001-07:002016-10-05T06:55:05.157-07:00Bring Me a Little WaterToday is apparently a day for avoiding the fact that I am dry, that I cannot find the well, that I may have lost the well, that maybe I never had any well. Even attempting the tricky, illogic of finding a path to the well is full of sidetracking, pitfalling, distracting (When did I care about the ideal non-ticking travel clock to put in my bathroom? Why am I labeling the freshly ground peanut butter with its carb count for my daughter's type 1 diabetes?). I have no faith that the thing I set out to do this morning will help. Like the dream that fades before you roll out of bed, I had an idea that watching the Basquiat documentary might, might, I don't know what. So instead of that I am here. Writing this. When I need to drag my unbeliever to the woods.<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tUcMZpIRRNM" target="_blank">Bring Me a Little Water, Sylvie</a><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618374775195836767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2248811636042463091.post-41404704570885961732016-08-22T15:39:00.000-07:002016-08-22T15:57:39.438-07:00Butterflies, Parkinson's, & the ATMy husband, Greg and I were hiking along a creek this weekend when we came across a kaleidoscope of butterflies lifting into flight from a small puddle formed by the previous evening's rain. The trail was narrow, so when I pulled up abruptly mid Tiger Swallowtail swarm, my husband crashed into me. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLdCQRyptf5WKXcPjPhA4AZL57qZizzl8vymdbXLp20NR-SK9OKl2IPUmVD5nsPX1txgcV3ugn4TZHEHF0YLxBvstL9a8blAGjvyOXPdOgR_SC5VIWfipYw8IJhDFIQ8Y3D65yrAQgeEip/s1600/tiger_swallowtail380.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="123" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLdCQRyptf5WKXcPjPhA4AZL57qZizzl8vymdbXLp20NR-SK9OKl2IPUmVD5nsPX1txgcV3ugn4TZHEHF0YLxBvstL9a8blAGjvyOXPdOgR_SC5VIWfipYw8IJhDFIQ8Y3D65yrAQgeEip/s200/tiger_swallowtail380.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tiger Swallowtail Butterfly</td></tr>
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This happens fairly often—the crashing/bumping/stepping on the back of a shoe, not the butterfly event—and has been the cause of more than one episode of me sending Greg off ahead, far ahead, on the trail without me.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2AzyRphk8JbyHYIUJSayuSLaOYxB-PDjQPAOIeNDsYbruzBMUWiMoV2WZiRpBC33cxas_UcZtGO0r7wohxBPaSxjTeomNEMqwmLC4dLmQuNBTJM7LVGQc1zDcAAWG6dTrBwY2JvE9MoeV/s1600/IMG_5683.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2AzyRphk8JbyHYIUJSayuSLaOYxB-PDjQPAOIeNDsYbruzBMUWiMoV2WZiRpBC33cxas_UcZtGO0r7wohxBPaSxjTeomNEMqwmLC4dLmQuNBTJM7LVGQc1zDcAAWG6dTrBwY2JvE9MoeV/s200/IMG_5683.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hiking on the AT in PA</td></tr>
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I never really thought about it until recently. An avid hiker, Greg has dreamt of hiking the Appalachian Trail since he was 13 years old and walked a small section with his dad. After a full year of preparing, we began to hike the AT this summer. The plan was I would walk the first month with him and then hop off to take care of my daughters while he continued on towards Maine. It was a terrible start out of Harper's Ferry, West Virginia. It rained every day for two weeks. <br />
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We spent those two weeks plus one more walking over the rocks—no dirt, just rocks—of Pennsylvania. That pain that made me think I had knives in my feet that started in week two? A nasty case of plantar fasciitis. Still, I loved the long days of walking with Greg, sleeping outdoors, waking up to plan how far to go, see where the next spring on the trail was located so we could refill our water supply, and talking over the elevation gains and rest stops.<br />
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It was on the trail though that we began to notice just how often Greg stumbled when he stood up, slipped or even fell on rocks, or bumped into me. He began to be increasingly frustrated with what he called his clumsiness, but I put it down to pushing too hard to get in 15 and more miles a day. I began pushing back for more rest stops, insisting that we both add electrolytes to our water to try to stay hydrated and keep our energy up, but when I left the trail in New York to go see my daughters, Greg was exhausted. It turns out that he'd picked up the <i>h pylori</i> bacteria and was hemorrhaging internally. A lot. 2 weeks, 4 trips to the ER, 1 stay in the ICU, and 8 bags of blood later, he was still a bit anemic but was going to be okay. Except.<br />
<br />
Except, while we were in the hospital the last time, the doctors noticed the tremor in Greg's left hand. The tremor that a couple of months ago our doctor had reassured us was simply an Essential Tremor, a normal development for some people as they age. Just to be safe though, Greg made an appointment to see a neurologist expecting confirmation that the tremor was nothing serious. Instead, the doctor diagnosed the tremor as Parkinson's Disease. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5mPzNicLq4Xzgufk-ItwH4y-a0WZK2CI38MCym64l54Q6STEwUU2B_MfBYC1W3NKa-VoswYGYQhFoh2ZDHap5dUbC_ZZia5PFyXDSBx5jklMyA2ltFfPJRj80noOw0telydYdN-kJfc7C/s1600/PublicTMB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5mPzNicLq4Xzgufk-ItwH4y-a0WZK2CI38MCym64l54Q6STEwUU2B_MfBYC1W3NKa-VoswYGYQhFoh2ZDHap5dUbC_ZZia5PFyXDSBx5jklMyA2ltFfPJRj80noOw0telydYdN-kJfc7C/s200/PublicTMB.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Mt. Blanc trail</td></tr>
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We haven't wrapped our heads around what this means for Greg, for us. Tomorrow we go in together to see the neurologist to learn how we can care for this and what to expect. In the mean time though, we are already planning our next big hike. This one's shorter. <br />
Where the AT takes 5-6 months, this one will only take about 10 days, but it's a walk around Mont Blanc. <br />
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We're already back in training, which is how we saw the butterflies this weekend. Our trail that day took us out to a bridge with a waterfall for lunch and then back the same way to the car. Somehow Greg remembered key markers to the butterfly puddle—a sawn log, a sharp curve in the trail after a hill that I'd not paid any attention to as I'd been staring at the upward swooping of yellow wings—so we were able to slow down and approach the place ready to watch. Would they be there? They were! Maybe more this time, and maybe because of the warmer afternoon air, instead of just flying away, they flew slow, vortex circles around us and up.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618374775195836767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2248811636042463091.post-66443939357684814612016-04-13T09:15:00.000-07:002016-04-13T09:15:32.415-07:00Sir Thomas Browne Fan Flare<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdHF5R9R9l0T403qygh_R40s-svCgEYsGloS1Pf-TC4RCvaJr-mXj8sIfA9LwfvbcPHzr35o76QpLI3zOtSVMR-AM2Z5tWSTH9aKQZGJtsYUR-T-q_hDwDGnvoreEN3wVtVxGjnpTgp3H/s1600/monro1_front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifdHF5R9R9l0T403qygh_R40s-svCgEYsGloS1Pf-TC4RCvaJr-mXj8sIfA9LwfvbcPHzr35o76QpLI3zOtSVMR-AM2Z5tWSTH9aKQZGJtsYUR-T-q_hDwDGnvoreEN3wVtVxGjnpTgp3H/s320/monro1_front.jpg" width="174" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b style="background-color: white; color: #404040; font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif, 'ms sans serif'; font-size: 12.8px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Monro 1 (first pirated edition of <br />1642): frontispiece </span></b></td></tr>
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<br />
If I were 12, I would write Sir Thomas Browne Sir Thomas Browne Sir Thomas Browne all over my notebook, carve it into a park bench, and write it in Sharpie on my bluejeans. There are so many reasons why, but here are two from this morning's reading.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQmvA078k9p9UFh5QPjd93MEMbBUm8Q9y2HqIiCc3hqoJxtBxLrnzuU1Ug0tSM6o6HItmU8_zAUEz6bBoolM3AusjPv7O9frRBVO18lBJi_xQ6hnFHk32tVbJePeem-ubEvXepkwB4qAJe/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQmvA078k9p9UFh5QPjd93MEMbBUm8Q9y2HqIiCc3hqoJxtBxLrnzuU1Ug0tSM6o6HItmU8_zAUEz6bBoolM3AusjPv7O9frRBVO18lBJi_xQ6hnFHk32tVbJePeem-ubEvXepkwB4qAJe/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alchemy Table</td></tr>
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For the uninitiated, Browne was a physician and considered himself a man of science. For a 17th century intellectual that meant he combined the science, philosophy, and religion of the day with a healthy dose of alchemy without necessarily seeing distinctions between them. As a result, you find incandescent passages such as the following.<br />
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In the first, Browne considers the end of the world. The problem for Browne in the final scenario as its usually presented is fire. It just does not add up to the total annihilation promised by religious officials. In Browne's hands, religion plus chemistry equals an apocalypse ending, not in ashes, but in a world covered in beautiful fused glass. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJY1vzop-HpM03yvB0g5HX7BlF2ipoSdXTaIAo218HFu6hPzs9-Txx9lw4QD2_aZf4Jj2-HIvBjfS1gWME6pQtFFMr_a6bBAMHiSMusRJ3doBOWZlU4gz_5569FM_yitCeC6rOLbaX3SGA/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJY1vzop-HpM03yvB0g5HX7BlF2ipoSdXTaIAo218HFu6hPzs9-Txx9lw4QD2_aZf4Jj2-HIvBjfS1gWME6pQtFFMr_a6bBAMHiSMusRJ3doBOWZlU4gz_5569FM_yitCeC6rOLbaX3SGA/s320/6.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moldavite formed by meteor collsion. Credit: <a href="https://www.believersinglass.com/EcoLogicallyGlass.php" target="_blank">Earth Loves Glass</a></td></tr>
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<i><br /></i>
<i>Religio Medici, </i>from<i> Se</i>ction 50:<br />
I cannot tell how to say that fire is the essence of hell; I know not what to make of Purgatory, or conceive a flame that can either prey upon, or purifie the substance of a soule....Philosophers that opinioned the worlds destruction by fire, did never dreame of annihilation, which is beyond the power of sublunary causes; for the last and powerfullest action of that element is but vitrification or a reduction of a body into Glasse; & therefore some of our Chymicks facetiously affirm... that at the last fire all shall be crystallized & reverberated into glasse, which is the utmost action of that element.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOE7QXHOBXn0iRSgldba7V2-mqLk6lPw7BLAj1LCjGdSusYAa9T0f54MXfpBZNiWotwGwuofOJ2q47-k4USpoAipojrE_UFn8l1GuyBKCmZuXY50uu5w-vPUFwHoQiwjOLbnq2mm6o0Ym7/s1600/e8dbe099-faa7-46c2-b8af-14e73485121f_268.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOE7QXHOBXn0iRSgldba7V2-mqLk6lPw7BLAj1LCjGdSusYAa9T0f54MXfpBZNiWotwGwuofOJ2q47-k4USpoAipojrE_UFn8l1GuyBKCmZuXY50uu5w-vPUFwHoQiwjOLbnq2mm6o0Ym7/s1600/e8dbe099-faa7-46c2-b8af-14e73485121f_268.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pieter Bruegel, "The Triumph of Death." Museo del Prado.</td></tr>
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As if that were not enough, he follows this with an empathetic rendering of suffering via a proto-Byronic Satan:<br />
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from Section 51:<br />
Men commonly set forth the tortures of Hell by fire....[however] The heart of man is the place the devill dwels in; I feele sometimes a hell within my selfe, <i>Lucifer</i> keeps his court in my brest, Legion is revived in me....Who can but pity the mercifull intention of those hands that doe destroy themselves? the devill, were it in his power, would doe the like; which being impossible, his miseries are endlesse...<br />
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For me, this writing is so remarkable that I find myself thinking this prose is better than any poetry I've ever read. In fact, I keep thinking that it is poetry. George Orwell credits Browne with introducing the essay to those of us reading in English. It's a new kind of writing for 1630, and one that begins with information and ends somewhere uncharted deep within the self. <br />
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In an introduction to an essay in his most recent <a href="https://www.graywolfpress.org/books/lost-origins-essay" target="_blank">anthology</a>, John D'Agata works toward articulating the elusive domain of that genre: "that which we think about but cannot grasp, 'to vividly wander,' 'to be anxious,' 'to exhaustingly ponder' ... [T]he term suggests a literary form...[of] instinctual essaying of ideas, images, and feelings. It is, in its best sense, an impulsive exploration. It is not storytelling. It is not moralizing. It is not theorizing, learning, or knowing." Rather it is the kind of writing, D'Agata argues that can explore the world of "emotional doubt." <br />
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So I will leave off here, with having just opened the question of genre because 1) Can you say rabbit hole? and 2) I recognize that by calling it "poetry," I am simply saying that I love this writing.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618374775195836767noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2248811636042463091.post-33229979423693529362016-04-05T08:25:00.002-07:002016-04-05T08:25:47.595-07:00My BirthdayI'm getting older. In ten days, I'll head out with a few close friends to celebrate turning 50. Here's the thing, since I was an angst-ridden teenager I've looked forward to turning 50, convinced that by then I'd have a clear vision of myself and the world, and therefore, have found peace with both. As laudatory as it was for a 13 year old to believe that life goes on after 30, I find it hasn't worked out the way I'd hoped.<br />
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Instead, as I type this, my body is ridiculously covered with small, red, itchy pustules. I have the chickenpox, generally considered a childhood disease; this in spite of the fact that recently x-rays and MRI revealed degenerative arthritis in my hips and spine, some of it severe; my eyesight has gotten to the point where I am now one of those older people in the aisle of the grocery story with a box in my hand moving it closer and farther, while moving my head up and down to line up my progressive lenses with the impossibly small type. ( As a side note, I did once see a snowy haired woman with an enormous magnifying glass in her hand roaming the same aisles. This may be my future.); and I seem to have misplaced my short-term memory (Actually, I know exactly where it is. I parked it where many women do: no sleep-and-working-mother-land. At I time when I didn't even realized I was bargaining, I made the barter, and it was done.)<br />
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Which brings me to my point. In a month, my husband and I head out to hike the Appalachian Trail.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGHaVaYb9KKtZEhcYUIzhOa2n4Q_GtR4VbC2OypuXHgrk_DVjO4Ug4kek9IY3y7goURWMFCB0ojkZXUbwNG5N13T0_etdg4nZQDnWmjXzx-7KQW3_YRaTZgBzFi79mbFJGIwjCXF8QCv3U/s1600/AT_IMG_4154.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGHaVaYb9KKtZEhcYUIzhOa2n4Q_GtR4VbC2OypuXHgrk_DVjO4Ug4kek9IY3y7goURWMFCB0ojkZXUbwNG5N13T0_etdg4nZQDnWmjXzx-7KQW3_YRaTZgBzFi79mbFJGIwjCXF8QCv3U/s200/AT_IMG_4154.jpg" width="200" /></a> He plans to do the whole thing; while I will walk the first month with him and then hop off to take care of my daughters. I have decided to trust my physical therapist and not worry about whether my body can handle such an effort. What I have decided to worry about instead is what to read while out there. As I thought about it, this shifted into maybe I could memorize poems and passages that I love. A woman who was well into the libation stage of a dinner party once amazed us all by reciting the opening pages of <i>A Hundred Years of Solitude </i>in Spanish. The beauty of it is something I hope to never forget. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNqSxSgRPwD2nGYozvs2yjJ9EF11A3YLo2Bmg_eQv8UA6Bcl8JWUIkgaPY5BbYUavtRW-ipbDvE6AO8IU4gFXatX3tg7SZE4lbDLl_C4Ygd-gDCKLrnowhqvSeucxLEFkO4XhLRO9dZQGr/s1600/IMG_0238.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNqSxSgRPwD2nGYozvs2yjJ9EF11A3YLo2Bmg_eQv8UA6Bcl8JWUIkgaPY5BbYUavtRW-ipbDvE6AO8IU4gFXatX3tg7SZE4lbDLl_C4Ygd-gDCKLrnowhqvSeucxLEFkO4XhLRO9dZQGr/s200/IMG_0238.JPG" width="150" /></a><br />
Memorization is a patient person's game. I am not patient. I forget my address and phone number as soon as I move. To be honest, at this point, I sometimes double check my current address before sending out an envelope to be sure I remembered it correctly. But I think it's time. There is, after all, still a way I hope to walk in the world as I turn 50. I think maybe this long walk is the time to take a few of the things I love in the world and hold them more patiently. This would be a good place to start.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618374775195836767noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2248811636042463091.post-42458790316495172772015-12-13T21:39:00.003-08:002015-12-24T07:56:28.901-08:002015: A (Very Short) Reading ListI was thinking it would be nice to put together a year-end list of the books I'd read and loved in 2015, but that list got too long and complicated by various factors that I had trouble editing out (for instance, I wanted to find a way to include the Twitter account* that gave me the most delight this year), and so I decided rigor was required if I were to do this at all. What follows is the result of an internal dialogue that you do not need to hear. This then, is the Very Short List. These are the books that made my brain and heart bigger than they were in 2014; they are the books that I hope that if you've already read them, you shout, "Yes!" when you see them here; they are the books that if you haven't already read them, you either write them down in the notebook you keep for when you go to your favorite local bookstore, or you skip that and just immediately download it/them onto your e-reader.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCDvLWC8iZ4vHKRD5o-3pRHhDYaCnkI83H3f5nKVAR8spr9YhuPO6jToRLofyiMRcA6oJ2j-PLfmh80pyt3CwgMmq08lgynofp26LBQWua1ZNExprZX-Cf0lgcGhwJV6rNYOOfxYA4eLwR/s1600/51qH%252BFc5rGL._SX331_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCDvLWC8iZ4vHKRD5o-3pRHhDYaCnkI83H3f5nKVAR8spr9YhuPO6jToRLofyiMRcA6oJ2j-PLfmh80pyt3CwgMmq08lgynofp26LBQWua1ZNExprZX-Cf0lgcGhwJV6rNYOOfxYA4eLwR/s320/51qH%252BFc5rGL._SX331_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" width="213" /></a><b>For the this-may-blow-your-mind category</b>:<br />
<a href="http://www.abebooks.com/products/isbn/9781555977177?cm_sp=rec-_-bdp-_-plp"><i>The Wake</i></a>, Paul Kingsnorth. In an <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2014/04/20/magazine/its-the-end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it-and-he-feels-fine.html?_r=0">interview</a> with the <i>New York Times</i>, Kingsnorth says, "<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;">We are living...through the “age of ecocide,” and like a long-dazed widower, we are finally becoming sensible to the magnitude of our loss, which it is our duty to face." So there's that cheery note. It's an apocalyptic novel set in 11th century (pre) England in the aftermath of the Danes and William the Conquerer. It's awful, and it's told in the voice of an awful man who seems to believe he can channel the old gods to save his land. It's also remarkably difficult to read since Kingsnorth took the trouble to invent what he calls a "shadow language," a mash up of old, middle, and modern english to write the novel. In one of the most enviable, and potentially biggest labor intensive time-waste risks in recent memory, the whole book is written in a made-up, but linguistically viable, language. But here's the thing: it's utterly compelling. The language, and the gore, and that voice combine to create a force of nature. It is this Nature that emerges as the largest voice with the most to loose. Word of warning: I bought the e-version of this book, which was a mistake as I could not for the life of me flip back and forth to the dictionary/index at the back of the book, which you need to be able to do--not too often, but often enough that I wished I had it in book form. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;"><b>For more apocryphal-nature-stories, but this time sci-fi</b>:<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQJ2DL56-AQ4X4SlooOH88ClcKXWx_NFyya4lNtmOVRnx6o5dmM6-JW4XEQynM2NfGzOGXJZSCPkOhN-EIGQ_2ZFDVYhkQ92t74xu9TjcXLF_CdC_wxaD4iu5PqozLzUDDPNJLA8Yde_hp/s1600/mapa-de-la-llamada-area-x.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQJ2DL56-AQ4X4SlooOH88ClcKXWx_NFyya4lNtmOVRnx6o5dmM6-JW4XEQynM2NfGzOGXJZSCPkOhN-EIGQ_2ZFDVYhkQ92t74xu9TjcXLF_CdC_wxaD4iu5PqozLzUDDPNJLA8Yde_hp/s320/mapa-de-la-llamada-area-x.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image from Jeff Vandemeer's Southern Reach website.</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;">I think I've read the Southern Reach Trilogy by Jeff Vandemeer all the way through three times this year. They were the kind of books that after downloading them on my Kindle, I would buy them in hard copy. I waited in the difficulty of real waiting for each installment after part one, <i>Annihilation</i>, came out. I got the date wrong for the third book's release and suffered disappointment for days, checking back repeatedly to make sure I hadn't missed it. These book are so weird (Joshua Rothman called him "The Weird Thoreau" in his New Yorker <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/weird-thoreau-jeff-vandermeer-southern-reach">article</a> with heavy emphasis on <i>weird</i>.) and so affecting, and by now you are probably thinking I may have gotten a little too obsessive, but it's not me. <i>It's the books</i>. Reading them, I had the sensation that, like the characters, I could grasp the difference between the world I knew and the one that was unfolding in front of me, but I could not comprehend what was unfolding in front of me. And it never got normal. I have since gone back and read most of Vandemeer's work, much of which is not nearly as interesting to me as this series. It's as if his work took a giant leap in focus and capability, and it's remarkable to see. I keep wanting to cheer for him. I keep wanting him to write more of this.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMds6a3lgGo05sGbdKAtq45o2yBBY0tQxlNwcguHweDOaRBn7bo-W5LardfToj2wG3U_Cx1tPCHLsyvygED5gVpKkIImwNP-_SZrY9QUw2KB6XBLje6Ce2XJs9v9DcNKjkJz7RMSIXoC7V/s1600/19HOLT-master675.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMds6a3lgGo05sGbdKAtq45o2yBBY0tQxlNwcguHweDOaRBn7bo-W5LardfToj2wG3U_Cx1tPCHLsyvygED5gVpKkIImwNP-_SZrY9QUw2KB6XBLje6Ce2XJs9v9DcNKjkJz7RMSIXoC7V/s320/19HOLT-master675.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="caption-text" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: , "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; text-align: start;">Dorothy and Sir Thomas Browne, circa 1645.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: , "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; text-align: start;"><br /></span><span class="credit" itemprop="copyrightHolder" style="background-color: white; color: #999999; display: inline-block; font-family: , "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 0.6875rem; line-height: 1rem; text-align: start;"><span class="visually-hidden" style="border: 0px; clip: rect(0px 0px 0px 0px); height: 1px; margin: -1px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; position: absolute; width: 1px;">Credit</span>National Portrait Gallery, London</span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;"><b>For the how-in-the-world-did-I-not-know-of-this-guy?!?! category</b>: </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;">Thomas Browne. As in the 17th century Sir Thomas Browne, who may be the best writer in the English language, and yet I'd never read him before. There is a new, but not very enthusiastically reviewed <a href="http://www.abebooks.com/servlet/BookDetailsPL?bi=17581678443&searchurl=sts%3Dt%26tn%3Din%2520search%2520of%2520sir%2520thomas%2520browne">biography</a> out on him this year. It was through the wonderful John D'Agata anthology <i><a href="http://www.abebooks.com/servlet/BookDetailsPL?bi=16452098258&searchurl=sts%3Dt%26tn%3Dlost%2520origins%2520of%2520the%2520essay">The Lost Origins of the Essay</a>, </i>however<i>, </i>that I just (as of last week) found Browne. W.G. Sebald loved him, as did Virginia Woolf, and Borges. He is consistently rated as the author most unread and most passionately adored by other writers. Like Kingsnorth above, the writing takes a few minutes for your reading mind to calibrate to it, but once it does...brace yourself for the most wide-ranging, beautifully written ride. Amazon's author <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sir-Thomas-Browne/e/B001H6URHW/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1450054027&sr=1-2-ent">page</a> groups the writing--all essays for you. As for those who point to that nasty business of a <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2015/07/19/books/review/in-search-of-sir-thomas-browne-by-hugh-aldersey-williams.html">witch trial</a> for a reason to not read Browne, I need to read more on this, but given his writing's remarkable <a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1079241/">broad mindedness</a> in religious matters, I find it difficult to see his hands shoving those poor women into the water to drown.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;"><b>For the Optimism-and -Romantic-Era-are-not-dead-Long-live-the-humanities category</b>: <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOV6JOGMjM-u0sR9a9J9NWuzT4J9cfPBNqvxUEQINr22sUNeyCSpIFDZ7mYiDzlf_mU-qfCYu016ltJWOS9lpjk1yT-VQsinhGtF4IqAzXj_DF1FmHFZj47va7VMW9Mo0gK4OF0oKc8K1x/s1600/220px-Newton-WilliamBlake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOV6JOGMjM-u0sR9a9J9NWuzT4J9cfPBNqvxUEQINr22sUNeyCSpIFDZ7mYiDzlf_mU-qfCYu016ltJWOS9lpjk1yT-VQsinhGtF4IqAzXj_DF1FmHFZj47va7VMW9Mo0gK4OF0oKc8K1x/s1600/220px-Newton-WilliamBlake.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Newton" by William Blake. Source: William Blake Archive. </td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;">This was fueled by reading Curtis White's rampage in <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Science-Delusion-Questions-Culture-Answers/dp/1612193900/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1450056291&sr=1-3&keywords=curtis+white">The Science Delusion</a></i>, which connects to other reading this year in Richard Rorty (specifically, "19th Century Idealism and 20th century Textualism" <i>The Monist </i>Vol 64, No. 2, April 1981) and <a href="https://philosophynow.org/issues/32/Donald_Davidson">Donald Davidson</a>, who I love to try to read regularly. (As a result of reading these last two, I've added Mary Hesse to my need-to-read list). White's triumphant chewing of the scenery in his book is meant to be a accessible; he clearly wants everyone to think about the way we've thrown culture (especially the arts) under the bus in order to embrace science. His argument that we are still in the Romantic age of rebellion and love of the individual's relationship to freedom is not new, but it's great to see someone not just championing it so fiercely, but taking it to the people.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;"><b>For another-rage-against-the-machine book</b>:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHrRbTNvB42SyvzJljwrHxohVgxjeeO9iLpfclEITKQ-69knwaGhMy3iMotDCDj4RjoLgcUg7ZZTCQlxb3XY-0UMHP2MYEqvJupZXI6VqyxNpmliCfyxNDiDYBbGi-X_wzcxzXJm_voZLh/s1600/Claudia-rankine-citizen_0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHrRbTNvB42SyvzJljwrHxohVgxjeeO9iLpfclEITKQ-69knwaGhMy3iMotDCDj4RjoLgcUg7ZZTCQlxb3XY-0UMHP2MYEqvJupZXI6VqyxNpmliCfyxNDiDYBbGi-X_wzcxzXJm_voZLh/s320/Claudia-rankine-citizen_0.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;"><i>Citizen: An American Lyric</i> by Claudia Rankine. If you haven't already read it, and if you are reading this list to add to your own list of books to read in 2015 and only pick one, pick this one. A National Book Award finalist in 2014, it's in that genre bending non-category (much like the next writer Maggie Nelson) that I like to call the poetic essay. It takes up the subject of race as its primary topic, particularly as experienced by middle class black women in the U.S.. Given the project and the times we are in, it's been reviewed by all the heavy hitters, <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2014/10/27/color-codes" style="font-style: italic;">The New Yorker</a><i>, </i><a href="http://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/aug/30/claudia-rankine-citizen-american-lyric-review" style="font-style: italic;">The Guardian</a>, etc<i>., </i>but Rankine's <a href="http://www.nationalbook.org/nba2014_p_rankine.html#.Vm5ChRp950I">reading</a> from the work is lovelier. It's a beautiful and sobering book, and yes, so full of anger and heart-break that you will have to put it down at points. You must, however, pick it up again. You must. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi885MM0ZrZK4stihmiAZbmk6_jmDOYcdYObTFoKV8A1FhYqnW0nue363_ET4NIDujZq8-qmirodkE6izRnJABL8ZGCh4F7sFKPnX2A3AJXyRPzvz2YO60MFJi50mMQQYGl8UNzcw-Z3OEw/s1600/EVT_Nelson_Maggie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi885MM0ZrZK4stihmiAZbmk6_jmDOYcdYObTFoKV8A1FhYqnW0nue363_ET4NIDujZq8-qmirodkE6izRnJABL8ZGCh4F7sFKPnX2A3AJXyRPzvz2YO60MFJi50mMQQYGl8UNzcw-Z3OEw/s320/EVT_Nelson_Maggie.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maggie Nelson</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;"><b>For the So-you-want-to-feel-the-force-of-the-Romantic-fight-against-conformity? category:</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;">Maggie Nelson. I read <i><a href="http://www.spdbooks.org/Search/Default.aspx?SearchTerm=bluets">Bluets</a></i> earlier this year (twice and then kept dipping into it) and then <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Argonauts-Maggie-Nelson/dp/1555977073/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1450060352&sr=1-1&keywords=the+argonauts+maggie+nelson">Argonauts</a></i> as soon as it came out. The descriptions in reviews of either book don't do the force of the all out, never hold back beauty of a writing that manages to forge erotics, emotional rigor, and intelligence with shocking vulnerability, but here's a pretty great interview with Nelson and Chloe Caldwell in <i><a href="http://www.salon.com/2015/05/08/author_maggie_nelson_on_fielding_nosy_questions_about_queer_families_you_have_to_be_tough_and_foxy%E2%80%9D/">Salon</a></i>.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;"><b>And-now-for-something-completely-different category</b>:</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyPPH5eHUePkbcCOWAMhaPpIWJLCBJM9ApF3Oz2UAL3LcxE-fItbAw5uQIAZWIoUoendVjwsBroXVCdRxx7Tj61wOcfixB9AAGxAjoGAJv0SYXvYv0Nc2WzinFTqp7NzKnNrY1fs_irVox/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-12-14+at+12.57.29+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyPPH5eHUePkbcCOWAMhaPpIWJLCBJM9ApF3Oz2UAL3LcxE-fItbAw5uQIAZWIoUoendVjwsBroXVCdRxx7Tj61wOcfixB9AAGxAjoGAJv0SYXvYv0Nc2WzinFTqp7NzKnNrY1fs_irVox/s320/Screen+Shot+2015-12-14+at+12.57.29+PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #767676; font-family: "guardian text sans web" , "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , "lucida grande" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: start;">Drawing from nature … The Dangerous Journey by Tove Jansson PR</span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 23px;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/bookseries/B00CKBT03A/ref=sr_1_3_acs_b_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1450061762&sr=1-3-acs">Moomin</a>! If you haven't already discovered them, you are in for the best grown-up childhood mashup of surreal joy ever. The whole series is fantastic. If you read them in order, you'll see a development in the depth of characterization, but there's no need to read them in order. I keep them in heavy rotation on my bedside table. Author Tove Jannson (1914-2001) , a Swedish speaking Finn, led a fascinating life— raised in an artist colony in Helsinki, she survived the Russian bombing of Finland, and drew satirical cartoons for an anti-fascist magazine before dreaming up the Finn Family Moomin.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, times new roman, times, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 23px;"><b>In the Books-that-don't-act-like-books category</b>:</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 23px;">This has been one of my top reasons to keep buying material books this year, as opposed to just loading up the Kindle. From the glow-in-the-dark flip chart, to a </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb8zyCmCahhVBvOJt-oryhdlc8F4WdgqNTnbFqN1AwbwQDzQwsubeRZllYsnaXPNJSfH6sUyIF-wQ-XQ214GvsKq5aN2f2femB18aHRJwZ-1DKlIIFBIs7iOPlmXb_0UR5J79i23CSBDYR/s1600/9780812993172.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb8zyCmCahhVBvOJt-oryhdlc8F4WdgqNTnbFqN1AwbwQDzQwsubeRZllYsnaXPNJSfH6sUyIF-wQ-XQ214GvsKq5aN2f2femB18aHRJwZ-1DKlIIFBIs7iOPlmXb_0UR5J79i23CSBDYR/s320/9780812993172.jpg" width="238" /></a></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">fold out map of world history, to the book-within-a-book of <i>S</i> by J.J. Abrams and Doug Dorst, to <i>The Familiar</i> series, which author Mark Z. Danielewski says will reach 27 volumes (Volume 1 was, meh, more experiment than success, but according to a <a href="http://www.npr.org/2015/11/01/452890656/the-familiar-vol-2-is-better-stronger-weirder">review</a> on NPR, volume 2 gets much better). My favorite though was a book for which I'm uncertain of either the intended audience or genre. I'm not sure if it's for young adults or grown ups, if its science or art, or even how somebody convinced someone to spend the money on the really great 3D cover. If it's a graphic novel (one of the categories Penguin Random House gives it), it's unlike any I've ever seen. The book is called, <i><a href="http://laurenredniss.com/thunder-lightning/preview/">Thunder & Lighting: Weather Past, Present, Future</a></i> by previous National Book Award finalist Lauren Redniss. Redniss travelled the world to research the book, often sketching on location. It's beautifully made using two different etching methods, then hand-colored with some pages with little or no text and some that are almost text only (Redness created the font specifically for this book). Some of the content is biographic (I especially enjoyed the section on Diana Nyad), some science of weather, some ecology, even politics come into their own section. This book roams through them all with a curiosity and intelligence that I felt recharged my own.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 23px;">*That Twitter account is "Evghenia--First person on Mars." </span>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618374775195836767noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2248811636042463091.post-80712887209671265872015-10-20T03:08:00.001-07:002015-10-20T14:06:50.554-07:00Lisbon Sunrise<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghk_m9d-823iE60iBQbOB8DvofzMjuksv5JEJYNPGJV-hVq3SlX05QnolOeUbxrT1hXJ5ht9SMa2K9iHQMTu2NlhDInNTHlN4MW8TcOwwtCQNU3rtFOzCyy98Evx71u7aQF7gicoY0dAVD/s1600/search.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghk_m9d-823iE60iBQbOB8DvofzMjuksv5JEJYNPGJV-hVq3SlX05QnolOeUbxrT1hXJ5ht9SMa2K9iHQMTu2NlhDInNTHlN4MW8TcOwwtCQNU3rtFOzCyy98Evx71u7aQF7gicoY0dAVD/s200/search.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The so-called "25th of April Bridge"<br />
Photo credit: Vitor Oliveira</td></tr>
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We are staying at the same hotel as we did the last time we visited Lisbon. This has its own subtle pleasures. First there is the "Do you remember" game in which you not only try to provide the most detailed recollection from the back seat of the cab on the way there, but attempt to spur your partner on to remember things which you cannot. If they can remember the right detail, it will pull the memory out and sometimes begin a little cascade of things in you that you thought you had forgotten. For some reason, this feels very good—the mental equivalent of a particularly satisfying stretch, the kind where you make sounds.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT0XP0d2cGpkg-jiAuSVG3Ht_wX-XG-ZBV6myTYkWXOXkJ8EZFe_2Mj2SkU_hXv2TxZwNbEIpZ5Hq9iaWMSKOSI1qZSQ6hGHBtyfqnJvEeGcgPuXJvX3Z94tguuRWBjwqWh50z6aHePbup/s1600/235px-CristoreiPortugal-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT0XP0d2cGpkg-jiAuSVG3Ht_wX-XG-ZBV6myTYkWXOXkJ8EZFe_2Mj2SkU_hXv2TxZwNbEIpZ5Hq9iaWMSKOSI1qZSQ6hGHBtyfqnJvEeGcgPuXJvX3Z94tguuRWBjwqWh50z6aHePbup/s200/235px-CristoreiPortugal-1.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christ the King statue. Photo credit:<br />
Magnusha</td></tr>
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As part of this game, we sit to eat breakfast in the dark looking out over a view that right now only lives in memory before it becomes slowly available to our eyes. From here, we know we will be able to see the waterfront and architectural doubles of Rio de Janeiro and the San Fransisco Oakland Bay Bridge as soon as the sun comes up. The game intensifies as the light begins to come up, and we race to see who can remember more before reality trumps memory. What was the name of the firm that built both bridges? (The American Bridge Company) Where, exactly, is the large statue situated? (Both of us point out into the dark) What did the young Portuguese woman look like who told us all about these things last time? And so on. It's a good way to start a day.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618374775195836767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2248811636042463091.post-91254088334800674582015-09-23T07:46:00.001-07:002015-09-23T07:49:30.801-07:00<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">A friend recently introduced me to the joys sci-fi writer China Mieville who has a new collection of short stories out titled <i style="background-color: transparent;">Three Moments of an Explosion. </i><span style="background-color: transparent;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: transparent;">It is not the book, which I have to get, but Rhys Williams' <a href="https://lareviewofbooks.org/review/wake-up-and-smell-the-weird">review</a> in The LA Review of books that brought me to the blog in agitation. It </span>raises what I think are some pretty profound questions, not the least of which come up at the end:</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: crimson_400, Garamond, Palatino, 'Palatino Linotype', 'Hoefler Text', 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 22.4px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">More is possible, these stories suggest, more is already out there — but only if we acknowledge that what we have, and what we are, is neither necessary nor proper.</span></span></blockquote>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB08cfRC2Ei9BWejdTVbV2PXEw-yEMmPQ5Y0xufctlmY2G55Mj8WiVd4tSpkCMrt4EeZU9IEx0Cnnr43sZCiPwzaZ_8I3MNjIxju12K2pXS6mAoiGzpw1ntmDPKH0AVrAsoPowdoF0RIs6/s1600/imgres.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-size: 12.8px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB08cfRC2Ei9BWejdTVbV2PXEw-yEMmPQ5Y0xufctlmY2G55Mj8WiVd4tSpkCMrt4EeZU9IEx0Cnnr43sZCiPwzaZ_8I3MNjIxju12K2pXS6mAoiGzpw1ntmDPKH0AVrAsoPowdoF0RIs6/s200/imgres.jpg" width="200" /></a>I<span style="font-size: large;">t is in this utter, evangelical conviction, that I hear the echo of Jonathan Edwards crying out in the second Great Awakening to the sons and daughters of the Puritan emigrants: "You are sinners in the hands of an angry God; " and "This world is but a shadow of a better, truer world that is heaven."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The jeremiac call that I see in so many reviews shouldn't be troubling (at least they work hard at the actual work of a review to provide critical thinking and don't simply provide summary and end with a cursory apologetic on the subjective nature of opinion.) We need clarion calls to re-evaluate the current state of affairs. We need those calls to point to aid and succor, whether it be found in arts, technology, or some hopeful combination thereof. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Of course, it is not only reviews that make this claim of another, truer, world:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><em>"Only art penetrates … the seeming realities of this world,"</em> Saul Bellow asserted in his <a href="http://brainpickings.us2.list-manage1.com/track/click?u=13eb080d8a315477042e0d5b1&id=72037f0167&e=5a7b18cb0b" style="color: #990000; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Nobel Prize acceptance speech</a>. <em>"There is another reality, the genuine one, which we lose sight of. This other reality is always sending us hints, which without art, we can’t receive.”</em> Pablo Neruda</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQAVcnlNowwYLbjrKDIT09ZYClPBMyRANRq_zve6Vbbl8o7P09H8TY1NysLHSlMkIcTkRmH60Ubt61bPtwTW6csgSe7DpReVzW77aPVrVNZMoJ2o17dNS6qK1DSuuVHZnLfGGOrgFRvBAq/s1600/search.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQAVcnlNowwYLbjrKDIT09ZYClPBMyRANRq_zve6Vbbl8o7P09H8TY1NysLHSlMkIcTkRmH60Ubt61bPtwTW6csgSe7DpReVzW77aPVrVNZMoJ2o17dNS6qK1DSuuVHZnLfGGOrgFRvBAq/s200/search.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of Emily Dickinson's so called Envelop Poems</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">(Lifted from this week's <a href="http://www.brainpickings.org/2015/09/09/virginia-woolf-cotton-wool-moments-of-being/?mc_cid=f044b3eacc&mc_eid=5a7b18cb0b">Brain Pickings</a> ) </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It is not this questing for a truer world that niggles or even the claim that art is the truest path there. Anything/anyone that doubts and prods the self's self-satisfaction in the world is a delight. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0wnkwJ3yfiwNAWnD44lHVJX117jHc0u5_hvN1M0u0939-eRq00j8O2S6uwzGYLQYT0MaxjE6kx8AqWmXmfSsCvbAziF7TObDcvYL4ReS4U1Ip7dLVaCFiJUdKr7UEz0OHX1rrLG1mBgw5/s1600/imgres.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0wnkwJ3yfiwNAWnD44lHVJX117jHc0u5_hvN1M0u0939-eRq00j8O2S6uwzGYLQYT0MaxjE6kx8AqWmXmfSsCvbAziF7TObDcvYL4ReS4U1Ip7dLVaCFiJUdKr7UEz0OHX1rrLG1mBgw5/s200/imgres.jpg" width="158" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">William Blake, Red Dragon. Brooklyn Museum of Art</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Rather, it begins with Williams' assertion that our nature is sinful and flawed, "neither necessary nor proper" and needs to be replaced with a better nature in order to bring about a better world that raises the hair on the back of my neck. One might manage to shrug off the puritanical ideology easily enough; however, Williams makes a fervid argument that this conviction is a radical response to the status quo: It is not Mieville's writing <i>per se</i> that makes it so potent for this reviewer; it is rather that the writing can be pinned unwriggling to the template of William's revolutionary necessity. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: crimson_400, Garamond, Palatino, 'Palatino Linotype', 'Hoefler Text', 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 22.4px; text-align: justify;">Against a false sense of ontological security (a trust in the rightness of our identities, ways of life, and understandings of the world) he draws on and cultivates a style of ontological </span><em style="border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: crimson_400_it, serif; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: 22.4px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: justify;">insecurity</em><span style="color: #444444; font-family: crimson_400, Garamond, Palatino, 'Palatino Linotype', 'Hoefler Text', 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 22.4px; text-align: justify;"> that is a defining effect of the Weird tradition</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">To insist that the unstable is a knowable good—a transformational good that will save not just the reader but civilization as a whole—is is the first step to commodifying the arduous work of resistance. The gratuitous sensationalizing of that work like we see in this review provides the next step. Still, all of this might be understood to be the very real joy of a besotted reader. Unfortunately, it does not end there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The shift in the final paragraph to an assertion that only Mieville understands the current need for resistance to the old order leads Williams to an outrageously condescending stance toward readers:</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: crimson_400, Garamond, Palatino, 'Palatino Linotype', 'Hoefler Text', 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 22.4px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yet I also think it is aiming to do something more: It is attempting to be a literature adequate to our times, and it is attempting to create readers who are adequate as well.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF7veqKQHVRlDB0fHFM-40MiG1Ah7rxF5PJ1f3HevLHs82FU_76hI0gkSldnOkikxsJQG_2zZ-QJaEaLqMa0-l9DiuE5z4u4Tm_Kxw8ZctGClAjpyzb2xoCMagShHLB1oqUdWKNXxu6OVG/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF7veqKQHVRlDB0fHFM-40MiG1Ah7rxF5PJ1f3HevLHs82FU_76hI0gkSldnOkikxsJQG_2zZ-QJaEaLqMa0-l9DiuE5z4u4Tm_Kxw8ZctGClAjpyzb2xoCMagShHLB1oqUdWKNXxu6OVG/s320/images.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: 'Noto Serif', serif; font-size: 19px; line-height: 31.9998px; text-align: start;">Nebuchadnezzer from Andy White's <a href="http://andywhiteblog.com/2015/07/05/feet-of-clay/">Blog</a></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Though as Williams goes on to articulate just what that, apparently hypothetical, reader would look like, he twins himself to Mievilles' supposed agenda of creating the ideal reader. In the end, it is Williams himself, purportedly speaking on behalf of Mieville, who is attempting to re-create the reader in his own image—the ideal reader adequate for the age.</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618374775195836767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2248811636042463091.post-41632397202134716612015-06-03T18:53:00.001-07:002015-06-03T18:53:57.683-07:00Cloud journal<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpDbcL3vXR3nV3D87fII9Jg0Zuez3Comd-aTgL-BdAExZPVmfqspTy9KVs9riy45NuJDKhPSH_cx9VdL8wenm01P5z-x4tLpD5X4o9XVEHbjRELbYkpdd_xIXvC1FsQMvwfBUATJIUZORt/s1600/IMG_0611.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpDbcL3vXR3nV3D87fII9Jg0Zuez3Comd-aTgL-BdAExZPVmfqspTy9KVs9riy45NuJDKhPSH_cx9VdL8wenm01P5z-x4tLpD5X4o9XVEHbjRELbYkpdd_xIXvC1FsQMvwfBUATJIUZORt/s320/IMG_0611.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Koko Head in Oahu</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Part of a double rainbow--normal evening event here</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7rRSEJXbwcj07pUNv4Q5JdBTvKIq4v8kRfznQ_kzyMt88iuchua6JBK3veu3qR8F25kGrbdbPGdMoZBuEOhNPPnBHpqRPBs3Vs1mHPYMMfFQ8P3e-cn4SiBc2hzznU2w3KJwooHqHg8Cx/s1600/IMG_3876.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7rRSEJXbwcj07pUNv4Q5JdBTvKIq4v8kRfznQ_kzyMt88iuchua6JBK3veu3qR8F25kGrbdbPGdMoZBuEOhNPPnBHpqRPBs3Vs1mHPYMMfFQ8P3e-cn4SiBc2hzznU2w3KJwooHqHg8Cx/s320/IMG_3876.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ocean clouds off Waikiki</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfI5-_vjajNZ7bhxhQ18GvwPgKd7vdGeQ-L-2C3DkUORPX7vED8Lo_suWuiXK05dEsoUWRLbsmCuC7uyVHdj4lS5YGMiIsbZJVytagjS9PdnMFN0biaY3vI8SDn_5m18WlFcTqM5DODYlL/s1600/IMG_0672.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfI5-_vjajNZ7bhxhQ18GvwPgKd7vdGeQ-L-2C3DkUORPX7vED8Lo_suWuiXK05dEsoUWRLbsmCuC7uyVHdj4lS5YGMiIsbZJVytagjS9PdnMFN0biaY3vI8SDn_5m18WlFcTqM5DODYlL/s320/IMG_0672.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nearly cloudless Seoul sky</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkPbhT9wBM8-dZyt9hFrf1Z3Mw4qNQpag2_DDmJR23RPDKtmuDBXDMx8z3bsrZBmraEIDZ5FwAHtCQLvZlfL7syT2ohF1LpLz30QdQcSywYxB5RfKbW1UnqwK1DjiBiVwPsAmgXWJKxqgE/s1600/IMG_3900.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkPbhT9wBM8-dZyt9hFrf1Z3Mw4qNQpag2_DDmJR23RPDKtmuDBXDMx8z3bsrZBmraEIDZ5FwAHtCQLvZlfL7syT2ohF1LpLz30QdQcSywYxB5RfKbW1UnqwK1DjiBiVwPsAmgXWJKxqgE/s320/IMG_3900.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where are the clouds for Seoul?</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijn-ptf4bGdatuIWBqzYR3u4fcU7XynfnSlnkuMjU7zZqXPxOqOniXiUTlkvC5bM9qiWCxE1BWOwPvwQhqVrBpzKqjBNwd9882H3xhWqiRdZYcnEsbKka27Hw8jekYGgLQCc9EqmDzHlGK/s1600/IMG_3901.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijn-ptf4bGdatuIWBqzYR3u4fcU7XynfnSlnkuMjU7zZqXPxOqOniXiUTlkvC5bM9qiWCxE1BWOwPvwQhqVrBpzKqjBNwd9882H3xhWqiRdZYcnEsbKka27Hw8jekYGgLQCc9EqmDzHlGK/s320/IMG_3901.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seoul</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieefA-QBNLrsFfulS3NH9VPvWJGoNVvtV0UIombtFpcEvB9tKFo-8bsguGeJIuFW_16gnRY7IoSzKbZ3f6rAVef77tD_Fo62yCwOyjfFqkoWn__zlA4CFgJpiJ6NYZxG4sSos4BYFEfPq_/s1600/IMG_3907.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieefA-QBNLrsFfulS3NH9VPvWJGoNVvtV0UIombtFpcEvB9tKFo-8bsguGeJIuFW_16gnRY7IoSzKbZ3f6rAVef77tD_Fo62yCwOyjfFqkoWn__zlA4CFgJpiJ6NYZxG4sSos4BYFEfPq_/s320/IMG_3907.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even with its many mountains, these were the only clouds we ever saw.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqZ_FPcZlL6d-ohe7Vm3q0JTdNKlSmWLBpkBayot8Ug1pDQOh7E-iW_dqYh5mRgRShjoKmYxPVBIvV8cFiDm92YPIFZ5I27bRsEn30XX0P_ExhEct4a7_P2EHAASvNiAMEQdAI-iaiZmkW/s1600/IMG_3935.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqZ_FPcZlL6d-ohe7Vm3q0JTdNKlSmWLBpkBayot8Ug1pDQOh7E-iW_dqYh5mRgRShjoKmYxPVBIvV8cFiDm92YPIFZ5I27bRsEn30XX0P_ExhEct4a7_P2EHAASvNiAMEQdAI-iaiZmkW/s320/IMG_3935.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back home</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT6vjBghNH-9Laq_KWFpsauWhIAvlT81kqRnHVap5N9qIK5VMiMV7kj9GoINmmekRxTDGL4ohnqQx2CMhiV-boxHJt3EHA8NzzAgKAT1-u3eayp66bWEC-euTK7QRDFkitV9H1qSoNi_2N/s1600/IMG_3936.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT6vjBghNH-9Laq_KWFpsauWhIAvlT81kqRnHVap5N9qIK5VMiMV7kj9GoINmmekRxTDGL4ohnqQx2CMhiV-boxHJt3EHA8NzzAgKAT1-u3eayp66bWEC-euTK7QRDFkitV9H1qSoNi_2N/s320/IMG_3936.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Backyard</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZEpu78PNOE66B-kfV4-QWIlIbuaB5YPNlBYBjcRyXZCCe_VK1GOdhPrXu4-McbrpElW3wlirCnaZf_vuhRd3d7d2qmJeYuTTeQJvHTEbgSKsuvb6uOo5CuHwkvSTksqZzmuH7JRJcTntF/s1600/IMG_4013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZEpu78PNOE66B-kfV4-QWIlIbuaB5YPNlBYBjcRyXZCCe_VK1GOdhPrXu4-McbrpElW3wlirCnaZf_vuhRd3d7d2qmJeYuTTeQJvHTEbgSKsuvb6uOo5CuHwkvSTksqZzmuH7JRJcTntF/s320/IMG_4013.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hawaiian mountain in clouds</td></tr>
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From the rainbow inducing clouds of Oahu to the strangely cloud-free sky above Seoul and back again. With a brief stop home, my internal clock is deeply disturbed. Heard a travel writer on NPR refer to this not as jet lag, but "place lag," which was lovely. Especially so as he liked the effect and said the disorientation added to the magic of travel--its undeniable insistence that you are somewhere strange to you. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618374775195836767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2248811636042463091.post-26809060783449773312015-05-19T15:17:00.001-07:002015-05-19T15:52:27.697-07:00Cloud journal<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoxPBmFS3XRf0yGZQsfms-9munpiyetbqqeWqQLnIYIMVrdZ8lgu8Hjf8k79TBvuky48SiNFo-SwmjpNPqFX3HMsppM24nE43-qMnUZxGK6e7YCt4dLUwqnMSXDrJuK-DXSi-0wpYb6XQu/s1600/IMG_3807.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoxPBmFS3XRf0yGZQsfms-9munpiyetbqqeWqQLnIYIMVrdZ8lgu8Hjf8k79TBvuky48SiNFo-SwmjpNPqFX3HMsppM24nE43-qMnUZxGK6e7YCt4dLUwqnMSXDrJuK-DXSi-0wpYb6XQu/s320/IMG_3807.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Backyard</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipyPP76AMnX0FOVGz0VgPDZpolJ5_Lw8McOgzbQ0ft97Rjyv3jUvWyh_H3Mk0s2157wdD29AQAfyCGK318FXLzn-tPJFnDuJQxecAb8MdFzqvSSGT-mNzeVzM46mkoKIXZbQn-V2FIRfba/s1600/IMG_3795.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipyPP76AMnX0FOVGz0VgPDZpolJ5_Lw8McOgzbQ0ft97Rjyv3jUvWyh_H3Mk0s2157wdD29AQAfyCGK318FXLzn-tPJFnDuJQxecAb8MdFzqvSSGT-mNzeVzM46mkoKIXZbQn-V2FIRfba/s320/IMG_3795.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Backyard</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQZZtEtaf4Uw95MzF_jMWvCyRfttrXfiGty36WPvXL6iUduzEFYIujnowZ_mcE_0uw3zkDphUdnTsU4AJIfZXd1KkgKPr3xTfFbhCYpyYnBYHrQYIs1NXanypSjQetG300eRgLdY6TU3j/s1600/IMG_3800.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQZZtEtaf4Uw95MzF_jMWvCyRfttrXfiGty36WPvXL6iUduzEFYIujnowZ_mcE_0uw3zkDphUdnTsU4AJIfZXd1KkgKPr3xTfFbhCYpyYnBYHrQYIs1NXanypSjQetG300eRgLdY6TU3j/s320/IMG_3800.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Backyard</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDz0h07aK4okJqo0I3Rg1IFP3jQnVwHDlrnG4OeWHPFIW1InTZHV1X9YuZ-hsDMixCG2QZRamY-KYa8VFgMhFI7OzGNpXK3lw2pdaJQgoQ2aIYHdvJXq9vzCN1szVt0mGXMtPvZzXcuU1T/s1600/IMG_3798.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDz0h07aK4okJqo0I3Rg1IFP3jQnVwHDlrnG4OeWHPFIW1InTZHV1X9YuZ-hsDMixCG2QZRamY-KYa8VFgMhFI7OzGNpXK3lw2pdaJQgoQ2aIYHdvJXq9vzCN1szVt0mGXMtPvZzXcuU1T/s320/IMG_3798.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Driving to the airport saw this shark with flag cloud</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBIYJ1txWAMnWcN02w1Xr2HzrD5XVv_qWUv12PdKb5zh0Z-a6fbbl-hqs9zCT7QU4O2pUBP118cdon1Z98hgYTipFB52dFEsTzZfl2p8jL3XBtwcB0w7GCAUOroHaIGuwxkB4tAEERiD1c/s1600/IMG_3802.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBIYJ1txWAMnWcN02w1Xr2HzrD5XVv_qWUv12PdKb5zh0Z-a6fbbl-hqs9zCT7QU4O2pUBP118cdon1Z98hgYTipFB52dFEsTzZfl2p8jL3XBtwcB0w7GCAUOroHaIGuwxkB4tAEERiD1c/s320/IMG_3802.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mountain drawn cumulus behind Honolulu</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhviPPbbIy5RD8Hs0YeP6l0d1d0RIerMaxsr-bhXPdNqwzRDsEGjjK0dEmYuvD2KXJfA_ijxNTbaH3CjP8_pA7JYIAiR-ZClZQEMr7rEoaWI63c7vuCqbHt_XpydFg0jviIeogzKCCjXb1P/s1600/2015-05-19+10.01.13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhviPPbbIy5RD8Hs0YeP6l0d1d0RIerMaxsr-bhXPdNqwzRDsEGjjK0dEmYuvD2KXJfA_ijxNTbaH3CjP8_pA7JYIAiR-ZClZQEMr7rEoaWI63c7vuCqbHt_XpydFg0jviIeogzKCCjXb1P/s320/2015-05-19+10.01.13.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Firework clouds over the Pacific</td></tr>
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As this peripatetic life goes, so goes the cloud journal. One remarkable thing I've noticed in Honolulu is that there are two distinct cloud environments here. One exists for the mountains and one for the Pacific Ocean. The mountains draw darker stratus and pile up the cumulus, while the ocean sketches with cirrus.</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618374775195836767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2248811636042463091.post-74138151777192165152015-05-12T12:36:00.000-07:002015-05-19T15:18:34.207-07:00Cloud journal<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqSXJzQRsn7VjAUfL3bukGjtJGsQl0OYtuy_j7Ja9mlsaayJ-jxorLsrqH8bHROaoJ9PEVcki-_YSSt_KEqRhV-eSUc6JV6zULkLOJKb6215BvDxy0k5fk98yaYNBn-PZ-LspQRooU_YTU/s1600/2015-05-05+13.43.30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqSXJzQRsn7VjAUfL3bukGjtJGsQl0OYtuy_j7Ja9mlsaayJ-jxorLsrqH8bHROaoJ9PEVcki-_YSSt_KEqRhV-eSUc6JV6zULkLOJKb6215BvDxy0k5fk98yaYNBn-PZ-LspQRooU_YTU/s320/2015-05-05+13.43.30.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Madrid airport</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHRbYjBg3YBr4pJXC_zQG2CTOzocd_gxUslvRSDEJ5fZXMH_VrOe9v4exXwIT453VF6TLZj4ZPCchHFycP180uBNEGMpCIRix9FyBQDDMgyL9TJsNMHwafod2QmWwbgzqllEptkkcc_E_k/s1600/2015-05-07+13.02.31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHRbYjBg3YBr4pJXC_zQG2CTOzocd_gxUslvRSDEJ5fZXMH_VrOe9v4exXwIT453VF6TLZj4ZPCchHFycP180uBNEGMpCIRix9FyBQDDMgyL9TJsNMHwafod2QmWwbgzqllEptkkcc_E_k/s320/2015-05-07+13.02.31.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Edge of Madrid with view of foothills</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCGjt3HDbZJFdujALZlUaOa3mn0kxXLgCxGZT8COMUE7qJsaSoickncEFh_USHP-4NupIHgpCGowM1puhQ0axZs6L0XS7K2P8NFPDLEfLIpiiYqFJHnu8ZHUHQo-99w8XLUQpPS1xKuT5-/s1600/2015-05-08+09.35.44.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCGjt3HDbZJFdujALZlUaOa3mn0kxXLgCxGZT8COMUE7qJsaSoickncEFh_USHP-4NupIHgpCGowM1puhQ0axZs6L0XS7K2P8NFPDLEfLIpiiYqFJHnu8ZHUHQo-99w8XLUQpPS1xKuT5-/s320/2015-05-08+09.35.44.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Edge of Madrid</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVfaRRtjCFgn-tHAtiktWbNusvZFkewwOnsEJrI-e9AwbLE-6UVypeScJyXYGz0a1YkDQXzkV0VbLW4kpi3usCpQ-K29zBENDkLDzb-C5k36wmDrNst46aOGCXi1tdk27cExm2qlbvVY30/s1600/2015-05-09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVfaRRtjCFgn-tHAtiktWbNusvZFkewwOnsEJrI-e9AwbLE-6UVypeScJyXYGz0a1YkDQXzkV0VbLW4kpi3usCpQ-K29zBENDkLDzb-C5k36wmDrNst46aOGCXi1tdk27cExm2qlbvVY30/s320/2015-05-09.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hiking in the foothills to the sound of a cuckoo bird</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjssciVc-WypCPmCXrV2dZnjsYWxA_SeFqekABKebZ6D9pOX2CGQdy_t9vM-YqPQhQMsIALGKJJ39cgNe29SteSSgreSk62Dpx6bS5Uj04kJAXMydrK3WAGT6r7JZ6tB62ATmQRh5jeBOqE/s1600/2015-05-10+16.34.21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjssciVc-WypCPmCXrV2dZnjsYWxA_SeFqekABKebZ6D9pOX2CGQdy_t9vM-YqPQhQMsIALGKJJ39cgNe29SteSSgreSk62Dpx6bS5Uj04kJAXMydrK3WAGT6r7JZ6tB62ATmQRh5jeBOqE/s320/2015-05-10+16.34.21.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back home in the backyard</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg35U1VUspLIqJi89usl-UrdnBATBAxRalfeei4Lzdgezx0o6ihAaZAY7dpasDBXwRAX2RJSEenJDJ4K6ABmT0UcZ-ElJXioTSEfx4zeA4fuK_YohGZfCjUt66VBDI_nM0D0471xhrcp3Jq/s1600/2015-05-11+15.15.32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg35U1VUspLIqJi89usl-UrdnBATBAxRalfeei4Lzdgezx0o6ihAaZAY7dpasDBXwRAX2RJSEenJDJ4K6ABmT0UcZ-ElJXioTSEfx4zeA4fuK_YohGZfCjUt66VBDI_nM0D0471xhrcp3Jq/s320/2015-05-11+15.15.32.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Backyard</td></tr>
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"Normal" journaling too often leaves me at a loss. The impulse to mark something daily, however, remains. This is especially true right now when I'm traveling so much, so far, and in such a short space of time (Japan, New England, Spain, Hawaii, Korea--all in a two month period. There's just too much new to process right now.). I found I wanted a daily marker that I didn't have to interpret or read into. Rather than turn my attention to myself, I've started a daily cloud journal as a way to pay attention to where I am, and the sky's state of being in that place at that time. This is the first week starting with the airport in Madrid and ending in the backyard at home. I'm no photographer. Most of these are shot with my phone. The idea is just to have a moment each day when I pay attention to the sky.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618374775195836767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2248811636042463091.post-64010153619194998472014-03-27T07:20:00.003-07:002014-03-28T11:16:37.021-07:00Sophisticated Dracula<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-QWHfMGEniaLrtO_ekPWGDoz2x0zk0EOI2E1HoNMrWQ93tg3tepqnmH37V3qY3lWRVvlnJxAxOkLVodbn-LToFCmNEpBgBngPSxpkJ8IBXH1iqZ-bqkiKBOPf7zIpqikvMZli1cqm5Dy/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-QWHfMGEniaLrtO_ekPWGDoz2x0zk0EOI2E1HoNMrWQ93tg3tepqnmH37V3qY3lWRVvlnJxAxOkLVodbn-LToFCmNEpBgBngPSxpkJ8IBXH1iqZ-bqkiKBOPf7zIpqikvMZli1cqm5Dy/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. George and the Dragon in the Romanian Art Museum</td></tr>
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It's a little slippery here in Bucharest. Things are close to the same. It looks like a familiar Western European city with beautiful old buildings and then you drive past block after block of communist era apartments with wild dogs lurking in the alley.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ9fZgcldTSOLl-Zo6HxIqz00aTxxfuNxxqqLqwyahOfvm5vP_F0wAL-blkQfkwPv7XgUrKUnJN7d506OPpE6RaFDFah45n85JpFUKo4Q1cOOQn86DGV5LDshgGFGOkZNpjQClvMXdPQgw/s1600/IMG_2497.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ9fZgcldTSOLl-Zo6HxIqz00aTxxfuNxxqqLqwyahOfvm5vP_F0wAL-blkQfkwPv7XgUrKUnJN7d506OPpE6RaFDFah45n85JpFUKo4Q1cOOQn86DGV5LDshgGFGOkZNpjQClvMXdPQgw/s1600/IMG_2497.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibx9dg9LvFkzrgeNwcykQolYu7cvPLacPSC98gkR_sRdmG0z1iAuoEUIgbbx-34oW1_-bARQXCpebk4HnDKA62hbBNe0fj0MZtL9iVZpe4ezDWdHOc3oKs4UdkIeMpJZNqm705A9m0Xi7b/s1600/images-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibx9dg9LvFkzrgeNwcykQolYu7cvPLacPSC98gkR_sRdmG0z1iAuoEUIgbbx-34oW1_-bARQXCpebk4HnDKA62hbBNe0fj0MZtL9iVZpe4ezDWdHOc3oKs4UdkIeMpJZNqm705A9m0Xi7b/s1600/images-1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Manastirea Stavropoleos</td></tr>
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Or a church that only has one room and is shaped like this picture and has a tiny courtyard full of stoneware in need of repair. Similar but <i>different:</i> The bent white-haired lady was there kissing icons, but there were so many that this took awhile. And all the candles were in special brass boxes <i>outside</i>.<br />
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That's what it was like in the city's art museum today. Imposing former palace houses the collection. That seemed familiar. The whole first floor is gallery after bright purple-walled gallery of medieval art. More gold gilt and large sad eyes grace those purple walls than I have ever seen amassed elsewhere. And it's all Romanian—Muldavian, Transylvanian, etc. <br />
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Which is where the sophisticated Dracula comes in. Vlad the Impaler, though quite the sponsor of churches in his time, does not make an appearance. His brethren, however, made some very interesting depictions of Christ. The nearest contemporary example I can think of is that in Transylvanian iconography, Christ looks like a haggard vegan hippie with bags (think <i>luggage</i>) under his eyes.<br />
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While that's not the sophisticated part, Transylvania, it turns out, was a melting pot of the time. Protestant Saxons brought in as artisans to do the church's silver work mingled with Calvinist Hungarians who settled in the region, and Orthodox Romanians. Over the course of a couple of hundred years they made work that slips from the human to the immortal before your very eyes. If you'd like to look at it, here's a link: <a href="http://www.brukenthalmuseum.ro/europeana_en/etajI/02.htm">Transylvanian Art at the Bucharest Museum</a>.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618374775195836767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2248811636042463091.post-8382578704439050942014-03-26T03:09:00.001-07:002014-03-26T03:09:18.920-07:00Bucharest—Romanian Museum of the Peasant<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9I3h-CZB9Mt3zdVRB_edoAdzC5-fOfKZQZTrQQ0O1jOuPy5vW116eSCPCeApWhGA32w66Z2wqyLZ8Qh4_TzbLFSh6di8nDt5PAcue8CAJZCE1Y7kkBc9gtJGh7jmY0-ylDlXvunB3wx8t/s1600/IMG_2476.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9I3h-CZB9Mt3zdVRB_edoAdzC5-fOfKZQZTrQQ0O1jOuPy5vW116eSCPCeApWhGA32w66Z2wqyLZ8Qh4_TzbLFSh6di8nDt5PAcue8CAJZCE1Y7kkBc9gtJGh7jmY0-ylDlXvunB3wx8t/s1600/IMG_2476.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Icon</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOCZA8vJt09l7MPrF0DU2kIxUi8LW9aeZBmDyWuEV1NoJN-JSAAtwUByC9dFzw4-xhHvPv63ew-InIEi0YrLQJ-pA4IyOUKQCVL1_-TEWMteLxvtodm5ThSiiOf-rEKmr1pCvqtnxW1wNZ/s1600/IMG_2480.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOCZA8vJt09l7MPrF0DU2kIxUi8LW9aeZBmDyWuEV1NoJN-JSAAtwUByC9dFzw4-xhHvPv63ew-InIEi0YrLQJ-pA4IyOUKQCVL1_-TEWMteLxvtodm5ThSiiOf-rEKmr1pCvqtnxW1wNZ/s1600/IMG_2480.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doorways were often treated as gateways</td></tr>
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Staying in Bucharest for a few days. First venture into the city alone was to the Peasant Museum. I don't know much about Romania and have found it difficult to find much real information, so I thought I'd begin here with her heart. The peasant seems to hold a revered place here as touchstone for identity and imagination, something I began to appreciate in the museum but on my return to the hotel was brought home by a member of the hotel staff. She was deeply offended by my use of the word "eccentric" to describe the museum's curation even though it was surrounded by "wonderful," "charming," "most unique museum I've visited." The closest American equivalent I can think of is if a traveller were to tell a Texan that cowboys were ridiculous.<br />
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The curation of the galleries was intelligent; sensitive; and, I mean this in the very best sense of the word, <i>weird</i>. I was reminding of a sensibility you run into in some Russian and Polish film makers' work. Here the intellectual and the emotional met in place Americans just don't go very often in general and almost never in museums.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRom8DS3KoLdse_FsqdRVsgOIApj7YhQzSmo7IJTx4NV7zEhue3pck2FvY4JTLKQUjk9KT-sCWpO9FSrYsnohlwulVnJ-yxlV4erTPjgb-ZsGMS-aJUrm8nOfbZjjCU6BGc1shS079KrGf/s1600/IMG_2481.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRom8DS3KoLdse_FsqdRVsgOIApj7YhQzSmo7IJTx4NV7zEhue3pck2FvY4JTLKQUjk9KT-sCWpO9FSrYsnohlwulVnJ-yxlV4erTPjgb-ZsGMS-aJUrm8nOfbZjjCU6BGc1shS079KrGf/s1600/IMG_2481.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hand drawn signage for work included in a gallery</td></tr>
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Let me give you a couple of examples. In the information placed in the galleries, I ran across lines like "The museum is a road of initiation..." and for an intact peasant house in one of the rooms, "Part of the attic has been put on display, revealing a space not only for storage, but also a place of mystery, which arouses curiosity and fear of the unknown. It is a gesture of trust and confession..." In one gallery of wrought iron and wooden artifacts, we were encouraged to not concern ourselves with the intended use of these items, but rather to walk through the room as though through a garden.<br />
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Much of the work display was highly engaging and designed to be walked around; or through; or, with catwalks for some of the large structures, above. There was a wonderful exception, however, in a small grouping of mannequins in peasant clothing (apologies for blurriness of photo)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2dg5OZo8g8kqgWFOaRjEfhaQHANZHYf2aqHjc62eYEuuHYu0qYAbxlTPsiaDNw1wh8TZUfBQiCJ4b7XOktmlnkXp4Bs3SEL5ZXGjjhhfSbNMjD5BDYPStqve8QNeYALsYgmMZsRJ_1lsM/s1600/IMG_2487.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2dg5OZo8g8kqgWFOaRjEfhaQHANZHYf2aqHjc62eYEuuHYu0qYAbxlTPsiaDNw1wh8TZUfBQiCJ4b7XOktmlnkXp4Bs3SEL5ZXGjjhhfSbNMjD5BDYPStqve8QNeYALsYgmMZsRJ_1lsM/s1600/IMG_2487.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
who seemed more interested in enjoying the view out the window than being the object of any of our fetishizing gazes.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10618374775195836767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2248811636042463091.post-81760905106179135582014-03-10T18:09:00.000-07:002014-03-10T18:09:27.316-07:00Toe in the river<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Realized I felt impoverished, as if I'm not even in the stream — just on the banks watching. But of course I am, I just have trouble seeing it. For if there is a real world and I can know a part of it, then I must know my part. This is what I must not lose for it will be all I have to offer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I find, however, that I often prefer to look at you, discover your world rather than offer mine. Henri Bergson, Tielhard de Chardin — my un-knowers and still returning to Donald Davidson for conversation and relief. I do not think, however, I can do this alone. I prefer to know a larger world than I can hold — one that lives and we discover.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So I'll begin mid-stream with Emily Dickinson. The remarkable process of changing how we read continues with <i>The Gorgeous Nothings</i>, ed. Werner & Bervin and <i>Emily Dickinson Unbound: Paper, Process, Poetics</i> by Alexandra Socarides . For one year Susan Howe came to teach at us at Denver (now a very long time ago) and taught first a writing workshop, then a Melville seminar, and then gave a presentation on Dickinson from which I still remember images ("The Sea said 'Come' to the Brook"). Since then the material nature and/or history of whatever I'm reading offers its own world of intelligence. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Here are some loose notes on American print culture leading up to and during Dickinson's time as a way to keep thinking about a poet famous for choosing not to print. These are taken from <i>The Printed Book in America</i> by Joseph Blumenthal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Summer of 1638: Reverend Jose Glover brings a printing press to the new academy that would become Harvard. Workmanship with press was poor — not many people trained in the craft as a result of severe restrictions on printing in England (note to self: left over from Milton?). As Governor Winthrop records, they first print a freeman's oath and an almanac though no copy of either survives. In 1640, the first book is printed — <i>The Whole Booke of Psalms Faithfully Translated into English Metre</i>. T</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">ranslators? John Cotton and Richard Mather.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Permission to establish press comes in 1674.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Not until 1704 does Boston successfully publish a newspaper.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Caslon type, famous for use in Declaration of Independence, </span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">is the first major typeface import</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">1809 sees first American type issued.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoutGiaXoAeK_VU-5r6XFXBzPy3g_F0aUyUIpvTxGrxwKYQPYah1aVAbgQkpSjK_ZNf46M3V-KZuOQG21Orx7OI4hPoPbE8eLsI6zA-2duGC9OvqTAL-SVsXckoDN7_reXnfJrK8Q-OKLY/s1600/ImagingService.png" height="57" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adobe Caslon</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In 1787, 80 or 90 paper making mills operating. In 1810, there are 195.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">13th century European methods where each sheet is individually formed by dipping a wire mold into a vat of pulp paper. While not well made, it was sturdy due to cotton and linen rag content.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">18th century library: 3,000 volume Cotton Mather library in Boston.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">19th century:</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> House of Harper is largest printer in New York. Integrated new steam presses built by Daniel Treadwell of Boston. In 1853 could produce 600-900 hand-fed sheets per hour. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ground floor — 28 steam driven bed and platen presses.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">2nd floor — printed sheets dried and presses</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Next 3 floors — folding, gathering, sewing</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Top floor — most light — composing type by hand</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Like other publishers of the time Harper books were larger editions at low prices for a growing market of readers. Typefaces were debased copies of Bodoni and Didot. Books themselves were not considered art, and there was no attempt to make fine books.</span><br />
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