Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Monday, December 30, 2013
And fell the unhappy King upon his knees,
And unto God at last he did complain,
Saying, "Lord God, what bitter things are these?
What hast thou done, that every man that sees
This wretched body, of my death is fain?
O Lord God, give me back myself again!
"E’en if therewith I needs must die straightway.
Indeed I know that since upon the earth
I first did go, I ever day by day
Have grown the worse, who was of little worth
E’en at the best time since my helpless birth.
And yet it pleased thee once to make me King,
Why hast thou made me now this wretched thing?
"Why am I hated so of every one?
Wilt thou not let me live my life again,
Forgetting all the deeds that I have done,
Forgetting my old name, and honours vain,
That I may cast away this lonely pain?
Yet if thou wilt not, help me in this strife,
That I may pass my little span of life,
"Not made a monster by unhappiness.
What shall I say? thou mad’st me weak of will,
Thou wrapped’st me in ease and carelessness,
And yet, as some folk say, thou lovest me still;
Look down, of folly I have had my fill,
And am but now as first thou madest me,
Weak, yielding clay to take impress of thee."
William Morris, The Earthly Paradise
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Friday, December 27, 2013
Thursday, December 26, 2013
It seems that when the priest Gazan of the Tenryu Temple heard the story of Sasuke's self-immolation, he praised him for the Zen spirit with which he changed his whole life in an instant, turning the ugly into the beautiful, and said that it was very nearly the act of a saint. I wonder how many of us would agree with him.
Junichiro Tanizaki, A Portrait of Shunkin translation by Howard Hibbett
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Every now and then on Christmas I re-post a link to a translation I made a life time or two ago of La Favola Di Natale, by Giovanni Guareschi. A Christmas myth of war, loss and reunion, written while the author was a prisoner of war in Germany. I started translating it in July of 2001 in the midst of personal turmoil, and put it online that October, as bombs began to fall on Afghanistan.
From my original introduction:
I hope this translation provides enjoyment, and something to think about. It is a reminder that the God of Peace and the god of War are continually reborn, and it always remains for us to choose which is ours.Pace agli uomini di buona volontà.
So here it is, unearthed from the fossil strata of my website:
My full introduction:
Sunday, December 22, 2013
I took advantage of the apocalypse heralding warm weather to get down to Teaneck Creek and permanently pin on the turkey's tail as well as tweaking the wolf. I may want to tweak some more. But for now the three animals are now officially, almost, more or less, done.
Saturday, December 21, 2013
They don't even just pretend...
David Bowie, I'm Afraid of Americans
The video for I’m Afraid of Americans always makes me think of the song less as a satire on America and more as a meditation on fear, paranoia and the other. Violence certainly begets violence, but (let no one tell you otherwise) violence is not an American monopoly. More commonly, crazy people make you crazy. Here I think there is a case to be made that America, with its rootless economic nomadism and its conviction that only the above average are worth anything has a special claim on crazy. Together, song and video reflect that danger in fear itself. What begins as a legitimate critique of obsession with empty pleasure and status ends as violent paranoid delusion. Reznor’s brilliant air machine gun (Wikipedia thinks it’s an assault rifle, but it’s clearly being fired full auto) is indeed just air. There’s a lot going on, but one message seems clear: the visionary or person of conscience risks loosing their own humanity as they begin to doubt that of others. The risk of this alienation is something of a preoccupation of mine. The topic makes me think of an older piece of mine:
|All My Useless Outrage, oak, 2009|
"It was very hard to look at the world with such eyes. When you examined it coldly in this way, the claws of your eyes turned back into your head and tore it to pieces..."
Andre Schwartz Bart, A Woman Named Solitude
My sculptures draw inspiration from a spectrum of European, African and Native American traditions of ritual woodcarving. Like these traditions, my work gives wooden body to spirits, and daemons, exploring hopes and horrors simultaneously personal and universal.
God may not like Ugly, but somehow he loves them. I don’t. When we look at the Ugly, in crude form, in coarse word, in cruel, selfish action, it forces us to react, sometimes with pity, more often with horror, disgust, violent rage; we tear ourselves apart in the process.
A fat man, a self-satisfied Ugly American, is a call to contemplate not only the damage the Ugly does, but also how we are damaged, made Ugly ourselves as we look at the Ugly with hatred and match its violence with our own.The epigraph is from a novel about a Caribbean slave revolt by Andre Schwartz-Bart (French resistance fighter, sole survivor of his family, better known for the Holocaust novel, Last of the Just). It describes the gaze of those watching the execution by torture of a fellow slave. The implication is that innocent or guilty, to look at the world with certain eyes is to lose part of our humanity. All My Useless Outrage explored this idea on both a general and personal level, visibly and invisibly. Wood carving is a time consuming art form, and it is easy to become precious about the product of one’s efforts. In tension with, or rebellion against that I have a fascination with defacing the painstaking work of days, or months. Nails, holes, burning. My initial concept sketches for this piece incorporated this idea in a very particular way. Refraining became as much a part of the work as that intended marring, a reminder to respect our humanity by respecting the spark within the seemingly inhuman...
Friday, December 20, 2013
Terry Windling used this on her always enjoyable blog today, and it struck me enough I think I'll nick it over my own idea for the day...
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.
Mark Strand, Lines for Winter (from Selected Poems)
Thursday, December 19, 2013
We stood together in an open field;
Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled,
Sporting at ease and courting full in view.
When loftier still a broadening darkness flew,
Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed;
Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield;
So farewell life and love and pleasures new.
Then, as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground,
Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops,
I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep:
But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops
Bent in a wind which bore to me a sound
Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep.
Christina Rossetti, On the Wing
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
So much of what we live goes on inside–
The diaries of grief, the tongue-tied aches
Of unacknowledged love are no less real
For having passed unsaid. What we conceal
Is always more than what we dare confide.
Think of the letters that we write our dead.
Dana Gioia, Unsaid, from Interrogations at Noon
Monday, December 16, 2013
'Cause there's no comfort in the waiting room
Just nervous pacers bracing for bad news
And then the nurse comes round and everyone will lift their heads
But I'm thinking of what Sarah said that "Love is watching someone die"
So who's going to watch you die?..
Death Cab for Cutie, What Sarah Said
Sunday, December 15, 2013
...Nay, let thy sharp sword bide
Within its sheath, the world is fair and wide,
Nor have we aught to do to thee for this;
Go then in peace, and live in woe or bliss
E'en as though may'st, but stay with us no more.
Because we fear the gods may plague us sore
For this thy deed, though they would have it so.
William Morris, The Earthly Paradise
Saturday, December 14, 2013
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Monday, December 9, 2013
Sometimes a combination of topics hits you just so. The nexus of art, writing, poverty and religion in Heather King's recent blog post in response to Dana Gioia's First Things article certainly did that. I've commented on it here before, but I certainly see a Catholic worldview in this tree stump vigil, the sense that if you stare long enough at the remains of a tragedy some concealed meaning will seep from the cracks in the universe and into your head. Here's hoping.
THOU art indeed just, Lord, if I contend
With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just.
Why do sinners’ ways prosper? and why must
Disappointment all I endeavour end?
Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend,
How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dost
Defeat, thwart me? Oh, the sots and thralls of lust
Do in spare hours more thrive than I that spend,
Sir, life upon thy cause. See, banks and brakes
Now leavèd how thick! lacèd they are again
With fretty chervil, look, and fresh wind shakes
Them; birds build—but not I build; no, but strain,
Time’s eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes.
Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain.
Gerard Manley Hopkins, Poems.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Below you can see a goodly amount of the smaller branches from the Cedar lane tree. They have now made their way to the yard of Country Wood Products in Westwood and are awaiting milling into slabs over the next couple days. Should be exciting to see the first finished boards...