"The real trick to life is not to be in the know, but to be in the mystery."
-Fred Alan Wolf

23 October 2016

Tavener, "The Lamb"

The Tenebrae Choir performs ...


I have often wondered whether especially those days when we are forced to remain idle are not precisely the days spent in the most profound activity. Whether our actions themselves, even if they do not take place until later, are nothing more than the last reverberations of a vast movement that occurs within us during idle days.

In any case, it is very important to be idle with confidence, with devotion, possibly even with joy. The days when even our hands do not stir are so exceptionally quiet that it is hardly possible to raise them without hearing a whole lot.

Rainer Maria Rilke


Do not be proud of the fact that your grandmother was shocked at something which your are accustomed to seeing or hearing without being shocked. It may be that your grandmother was an extremely lively and vital animal and that you are a paralytic.

G.K. Chesterton



Peter Hutton is a school principal with a radical solution, no school bell, no school levels, staff selection and curriculum is even decided by students. Result? No bullying, collaboration, innovation in school dynamics.


Grateful Dead, "Bertha"


Bob Weir, "Only a River"

Oh Shenandoah, I long to see you
Hey, hey, hey, you rolling river
Oh Shenandoah, I long to see you
Hey, hey, hey
Only a river gonna make things right




"There's Only One Way to Rock"


Schubert, Piano Trio No 1 in B flat Major, op.99, D. 896

The Beaux Arts Trio performs ...


When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender dreams — this may be madness. Too much sanity may be madness — and maddest of all: to see life as it is, and not as it should be!

Miguel Cervantes, from Don Quixote 

Lindsey Buckingham, "Never Going Back Again"



As I look out at all of you gathered here, I want to say that I don't see a room full of Parisians in top hats and diamonds and silk dresses. I don't see bankers and housewives and store clerks. No. I address you all tonight as you truly are: wizards, mermaids, travelers, adventurers, and magicians. You are the true dreamers.

Brian Selznick, from The Invention of Hugo Cabret

Vivaldi Concertos.

Il Giardino Armonico performs Vivaldi pieces for strings under the direction of Giovanni Antonini, Enrico Onofri, principal violinist, featuring Luca Pianca, Lute ...

22 October 2016

'Tis Autumn.


October 22th 1895, Accident de la Gare de l’Ouest

At 4pm exactly, being five minute late, the train n°56 from Granville arrived in the Montparnasse train station in Paris at a speed surpassing 40km/h - 25mph, in part due to the pilot and mechanic trying to make up lost time and also maybe from a faulty air brake, causing panic in the station.

The locomotive pulverized the three wooden buffers -ejecting the pilot from the cabin, ran through the 30m long platform’s end, going through a newspaper kiosk before piercing the 60cm thick stone wall and the ledge behind it and falling ten meters below on a tramway stop of the place de Rennes.

A newspaper seller was crushed by falling masonry and parts of the engine, and was the only casualty of the accident - by a stroke of luck the tramway was about to leave when the horses, scared by the locomotive’s commotion, ran away farther down the place with the passengers safe inside.

Seine’s police prefect Louis Lépine mobilized a hundred policemen and twenty more on horses to manage the accident’s scene, with the direct aftermath seeing considerable attention from both the press and regular folks flocking the train station to take a peek at the fantastic sight, going so far as to buy tickets to nearby destinations for a few Francs to get access to the platform where the train stayed for two days for the police investigation.

The locomotive was removed after two failed attempt with a 250t winch, and was found to have suffered little damage - unlike the train station.





"Good Times, Bad Times/Ramble On"


Wyeth, N.C., Scotsman Lumberjack, 1908

21 October 2016

REO Speedwagon, "157 Riverside Avenue"

Happy Friday!



Drew Sharp, R.I.P.

Drew Sharp, the Detroit Free Press' best sports columnist, has passed.


The Smiths, "Accept Yourself"

If you can ...


Bach, The Art of Fugue, BWV 1080

Glenn Gould performs the Contrapunctus I ...

'Tis Autumn.


You see, I want a lot.
Maybe I want it all:
the darkness of each endless fall,
the shimmering light of each assent.

So many are alive who don’t seem to care.
Casual, easy, they move in the world
as though untouched.

But you take pleasure in the faces
of those who know they thirst.
You cherish those
who grip you for survival.

You are not dead yet, it’s not too late
to open your depths by plunging into them
and drink in the life
that reveals itself quietly there.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Happy birthday, Diz.

Dizzy Gillespie was born on this day in 1917.

"Oop Bop Sh' Bam"

Happy birthday, Coleridge.

Northcote, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1804

Samuel Taylor Coleridge was born on this day in 1772.


Since all that beat about in Nature's range, 
Or veer or vanish; why should'st thou remain 
The only constant in a world of change, 
O yearning Thought! that liv'st but in the brain? 
Call to the Hours, that in the distance play, 
The faery people of the future day— 
Fond Thought! not one of all that shining swarm 
Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath, 
Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm, 
Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death! 
Yet still thou haunt'st me; and though well I see, 
She is not thou, and only thou are she, 
Still, still as though some dear embodied Good, 
Some living Love before my eyes there stood 
With answering look a ready ear to lend, 
I mourn to thee and say—'Ah! loveliest friend! 
That this the meed of all my toils might be, 
To have a home, an English home, and thee!' 
Vain repetition! Home and Thou are one. 
The peacefull'st cot, the moon shall shine upon, 
Lulled by the thrush and wakened by the lark, 
Without thee were but a becalméd bark, 
Whose Helmsman on an ocean waste and wide 
Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside. 

And art thou nothing? Such thou art, as when 
The woodman winding westward up the glen 
At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maze 
The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist'ning haze, 
Sees full before him, gliding without tread, 
An image with a glory round its head; 
The enamoured rustic worships its fair hues,
Nor knows he makes the shadow, he pursues!

Samuel Taylor Coleridge


20 October 2016


Bear Medicine.


Jethro Tull, "No Lullabye"

The sun has set ...

Happy birthday, Rimbaud.

Arthur Rimbaud was born on this day in 1854.

A taste of ashes flies through the air; -- an odor of sweating wood on the hearth, -- dew-ret flowers, -- devastation along the promenades, -- the mist of the canals over the fields -- why not incense and toys already?

I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.

The upland pond smokes continuously. What witch will rise against the white west sky? What violet frondescence fall?

While public funds evaporate in feasts of fraternity, a bell of rosy fire rings in the clouds.

Reviving a pleasant taste of India ink, a black powder rains on my vigil. I lower the jets of the chandelier, I throw myself on my bed, and turning my face towards the darkness, I see you, my daughters! My queens!

Arthur Rimbaud

Led Zeppelin, "Over the Hills and Far Away"


Hemingway is gone.

Abbey is gone.

Harrison is gone.

Peacock is now my living spirit-animal ...

He emerges from the wild with stories, and then he writes them down.

His intent is to have the experience—to get the hands dirty in the raw wild, to smell wood smoke and earth in the clothes, to feel the warmth of the sun and the cold of the wind on the face, and to hear the warning growl of a grizzly bear into whose territory he has ventured.

He struggles to protect that experience because that experience helped him survive the savagery of war, and his reputation as a writer and a staunch activist for all things wild, particularly grizzlies, sits on him incidentally, he says.

Doug Peacock has spent most of his adult life giving voice to wilderness in America and across the globe, and he will be at the weeklong Northern Arizona Book Festival on Fri, Oct. 14, to tell some stories he’s come across along the way—including some about his friend, literary icon Jim Harrison.

“I have limited social skills,” Peacock says. “But when the work of the world needs to be done, and when I see something needs doing, I’ll do it.”



Rockwell, Boy with Model Airplane, 1929

Life begins less by reaching upward, than by turning upon itself. But what a marvelously insidious, subtle image of life a coiling vital principle would be! And how many dreams the leftward oriented shell, or one that did not conform to the rotation of its species, would inspire!

Gaston Bachelard


Is inspiration contagious? Do inspired works of art inspire the audience? There is a long tradition in the humanities that suggests it does. Plato once argued that inspiration is transmitted to the audience through the Muse. Remarkably, however, this has only just been tested scientifically.

In a recent study, Todd Thrash and colleagues conducted the first ever test of "inspiration contagion," using poetry as the vehicle. They looked at specific qualities of a text and the qualities of the reader. It's a rich study, with 36,020 interactions between all of the variables! 

Here are the essential findings ...


"Not a bad way to treat a stranger."

Doug Peacock's tribute to his friend, Jim Harrison ...

*** Do not miss his comments on ceremony at 22:10.




See! the pale autumn dawn
Is faint, upon the lawn
That lies in powdered white
Of hoar-frost dight

And now from tree to tree
The ghostly mist we see
Hung like a silver pall
To hallow all.

It wreathes the burdened air
So strangely everywhere
That I could almost fear
This silence drear

Where no one song-bird sings
And dream that wizard things
Mighty for hate or love
Were close above.

White as the fog and fair
Drifting through the middle air
In magic dances dread
Over my head.

Yet these should know me too
Lover and bondman true,
One that has honoured well
The mystic spell

Of earth’s most solemn hours
Wherein the ancient powers
Of dryad, elf, or faun
Or leprechaun

Oft have their faces shown
To me that walked alone
Seashore or haunted fen
Or mountain glen

Wherefore I will not fear
To walk the woodlands sere
Into this autumn day
Far, far away.

C.S. Lewis

19 October 2016


That's a novelty ...


Zerge, Night, 1964


Time wants to show you a different country. It's the one
that your life conceals, the one waiting outside
when curtains are drawn, the one Grandmother hinted at
in her crochet design, the one almost found
over at the edge of the music, after the sermon.

It's the way life is, and you have it, a few years given.
You get killed now and then, violated
in various ways. (And sometimes it's turn about.)
You get tired of that. Long-suffering, you wait
and pray, and maybe good things come- maybe
the hurt slackens and you hardly feel it any more.
You have a breath without pain. It is called happiness.

It's a balance, the taking and passing along,
the composting of where you've been and how people
and weather treated you. It's a country where
you already are, bringing where you have been.
Time offers this gift in its millions of ways,
turning the world, moving the air, calling,
every morning, "Here, take it, it's yours."

William Stafford


Gallen-Kallela, Lake Keitele, 1905

I live my life in widening circles
that reach out across the world.
I may not complete this last one
but I give myself to it.

I circle around God, around the primordial tower.
I've been circling for thousands of years
and I still don't know: am I a falcon,
a storm, or a great song?

Rainer Maria Rilke

R.E.M., "Cuyahoga"

Let's put our heads together and start a new country up
Our father's father's father tried erased the parts he didn't like
Let's try to fill it in bank the quarry river swim
We knee skinned it you and me we knee skinned that river red

This is where we walked this is where we swam
Take a picture here take a souvenir

This land is the land of ours this river runs red over it
We knee skinned it you and me, we knee-skinned that river red
And we gathered up our friends, bank the quarry river, swim
We knee-skinned it you and me, underneath the river bed

This is where we walked, this is where we swam
Take a picture here, take a souvenir

Cuyahoga, gone

Let's put our heads together, start a new country up,
Underneath the river bed we burned the river down.
This is where they walked, swam, hunted, danced and sang,
Take a picture here, take a souvenir

Cuyahoga, gone

Rewrite the book and rule the pages, saving face, secured in faith
Bury, burn the waste behind you

This land is the land of ours, this river runs red over it
We are not your allies, we can not defend
This is where they walked, this is where they swam
Take a picture here, take a souvenir

Cuyahoga, gone


Books or no books, it is a fact, patent both to my dog and myself, that at daybreak I am the sole owner of all the acres I can walk over.  It is not boundaries that disappear, but also the thought of being bounded.  Expanses unknown to deed or map are known to every dawn, and solitude, supposed no longer to exist in my county, extends on every hand as far as the dew can touch.

Aldo Leopold

Thank You, Jess. It's happening.

The Waterboys, "The Man with the Wind at His Heels"