March 27, 2017
March 22, 2017
It’s likely/ It could be
That when Leonard Bernstein,
At his piano bench…
It was very late when he,
In a creative trance,
Had opened an envelope
From a Mr. Stephen Sondheim,
And started to work on
A musical phrasing for
“There’s a place for us”,
He eyedropped a gold teardrop
Into a test tube, & heaven reacted,
& now can make me ache
20,000 late nights after
Happy birthday, Mr.Stephen Sondheim
March 10, 2017
Since the day before Donald Trump’s inauguration, filmmaker Ethan Coen (brother to Joel) has been a writing politically-tinged poems as a blogger for the Huffington Post, penning articles such as “Be Fair!“, “Wasn’t Wanted,” and my personal favorite, “Oh Where Did Your Balls Go, Paul Ryan?” (His bio reads, “Ethan Coen is a totally overrated filmmaker. Sad!”)…
March 3, 2017
I need to knock on a locksmith’s door.
It’s trying on my entrance in
It has me hammering for him,
The man outside, stands right in a stance
On his home mat.
My security windows live up to their damn claim.
Cats perched there can watch me.
I Calmly curse in the rain,
Calm for keys that Mercy sees
Cures to unlatch me.
March 1, 2017
|—||Albert Einstein, The World As I See It|
February 25, 2017
The Danes have hygge, the sense of coziness that helps propel them to to the top of all those happiness rankings. The Swedes have, um, Ikea. But in the ranking of trendy Scandinavian exports, Finland’s coming in hot: Introducing kalsarikannit, a Finnish term that roughly translates to “drinking home alone in your underwear, with no intention of going out.”
As my colleague Melissa Dahl has written for Science of Us, there’s a certain satisfaction that comes with putting a name to the highly specific emotion you’re experiencing — like ilinx, French for “the strange excitement of wanton destruction,” or torschlusspanik, a German term for the panicky sensation of time running out. With kalsarikannit, the Finns have given us a similar gift: You’re not just being too lazy to make plans. This is your plan. You’re doing something, and that thing has a name, and that name is kalsarikannit-ing.
Or something like that, anyway. “Is it a noun? A verb? Does one kalsarikannit, or does one take a kalsarikannit?” a Chicago Tribune writer wondered. It’s not totally clear, but according to its description on Finland’s list of country-specific emoji, the concept may best be understood less as an activity and more as a state of mind. (Other emoji, in case you were wondering, include a sauna, “the original Santa,” and, weirdly, a headbanger, the last of which is helpfully captioned with this fun fact: “There are more heavy metal bands in Finland per capita than anywhere else.”)
The beauty of the whole thing, though, is that when you’re drunk in your underpants, it’s just so hard to be bothered about whether or not you’re using it right. As the Tribune put it: “Who cares, frankly — turns out my house has been a temple to kalsarikannit this entire time.” That’s the kalsarikannit spirit.
– Cari Romm
January 17, 2017
The precise role of the artist, then, is to illuminate that darkness, blaze roads through that vast forest, so that we will not, in all our doing, lose sight of its purpose, which is, after all, to make the world a more human dwelling place.”
JAMES BALDWIN The Creative Process
December 27, 2016
“After his boyhood years of study at the temple school, steadying the scroffs and holding down the parchments beneath the pointing fingers of the priest, Jesus had learned to match up some of these Aramaic shapes to sounds–the little candelabra of the letter sha, the lightening strike of enn, the falling plough sign of the kaoh. He liked the places on these parchments where scribes were changed. The one who’d stitched his way across the page with wary, threadlike marks passed on his verses to the playful and untidy one who led his muddy sparrows leave their tracks in undulating lines. Then came the scribe whose writing always toppled backwards, as if the meanings to the words were riding faster than the shapes which soon would fall on to their spines.
“This was a happy ignorance for jesus, only knowing a dozen words amongst so many thousands. He would not want to read as easily as scholars, he told himself, for that would only help to split the meaning from the sound, to divorce the music from the shape. If he could read like his priest could, by simply dragging the forefinger underneath the script and speaking every word he touched as if these were not verses but an endless rote of errands to be run, then the scriptures might become little more than strings of tiny tasks, a list. There’d be no mystery. But in his ignorance, he could both listen to the words of the reader and marvel, too, at the unspoken narrative of shapes, or concentrate not only on the script but also on the spaces in between. God was in the spaces, he was sure. God went to the very edges of the page.”
Author Jim Crace, from “Quarantine”