Excellent.

An excellent album ...

... to prioritize victory over rather than coexistence with the communist threat.

Seeming.

Vasari, The Mutilation of Uranus by Saturn, 1566

Observing Plato one day at a costly banquet taking olives, "How is it," he said,⁠ "that you the philosopher who sailed to Sicily for the sake of these dishes, now when they are before you do not enjoy them?" 

"Nay, by the gods, Diogenes," replied Plato, "there also for the most part I lived upon olives and such like.

"Why then," said Diogenes, "did you need to go to Syracuse? Was it that Attica at that time did not grow olives?" But Favorinus in his Miscellaneous History attributes this to Aristippus. 

Again, another time he was eating dried figs when he encountered Plato and offered him a share of them. When Plato took them and ate them, he said, "I said you might share them, not that you might eat them all up."

And one day when Plato had invited to his house friends coming from Dionysius, Diogenes trampled upon his carpets and said, "I trample upon Plato's vainglory." Plato's reply was, "How much pride you expose to view, Diogenes, by seeming not to be proud." 

Diogenes Laërtius, from Lives of the Eminent Philosophers

Remember Baron von Steuben's warning:

There is nothing more dangerous on the battlefield than the overconfidence of an untested warrior.

Masks.

All visible objects, man, are but as pasteboard masks. But in each event—in the living act, the undoubted deed—there, some unknown but still reasoning thing puts forth the mouldings of its features from behind the unreasoning mask. If man will strike, strike through the mask! How can the prisoner reach outside except by thrusting through the wall? To me, the white whale is that wall, shoved near to me. 

That inscrutable thing is chiefly what I hate; and be the white whale agent, or be the white whale principal, I will wreak that hate upon him. Who’s over me? Truth hath no confines.

Swerve me? The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run. Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under torrents’ beds, unerringly I rush! Naught’s an obstacle, naught’s an angle to the iron way!

Herman Melville, born on on this day in 1819, from Moby-Dick, or The Whale

Lucy Yeghiazaryan, "My Kind of Love"

Excellent.

An excellent album ...

"Next Spring"...

Happy Birthday, Joe Elliott

Joe Elliott was born on this day in 1959.

Montrose, "Make It Last/Reckless"

Released.

Jimmy Buffett released Barometer Soup on this day in 1995.

"The Night I Painted the Sky" ...

Astor Piazzolla, "Libertango"

Grace has a go ...

I love it when a cover is better than the original.

Now ... DEVIL, OUT!

Quiet.

Spenser, Month of August, 1579

SHEPHERD's CALENDAR: August

Harvest approaches with its bustling day

The wheat tans brown and barley bleaches grey

In yellow garb the oat land intervenes

And tawney glooms the valley thronged with beans

Silent the village grows, wood wandering dreams

Seem not so lovely as its quiet seems

Doors are shut up as on a winters day

And not a child about them lies at play

The dust that winnows neath the breezes feet

Is all that stirs about the silent street

Fancy might think that desert spreading fear

Had whisperd terrors into quiets ear

Or plundering armys past the place had come

And drove the lost inhabitants from home

The fields now claim them where a motley crew

Of old and young their daily tasks pursue

The barleys beard is grey and wheat is brown

And wakens toil betimes to leave the town

The reapers leave their beds before the sun

And gleaners follow when home toils are done

To pick the littered ear the reaper leaves

And glean in open fields among the sheaves

The ruddy child nursed in the lap of care

In toils rude ways to do its little share

Beside its mother poddles oer the land

Sun burnt and stooping with a weary hand

Picking its tiney glean of corn or wheat

While crackling stubbles wound its legs and feet

Full glad it often is to sit awhile

Upon a smooth green baulk to ease its toil

And feign would spend an idle hour to play

With insects strangers to the moiling day

Creeping about each rush and grassy stem

And often wishes it was one of them

In weariness of heart that it might lye

Hid in the grass from the days burning eye

That raises tender blisters on his skin

Thro holes or openings that have lost a pin

Free from the crackling stubs to toil and glean

And smiles to think how happy it had been

Whilst its expecting mother stops to tye

Her handful up and waiting his supply

Misses the resting younker from her side

And shouts of rods and morts of threats beside

Pointing to the grey willows while she tells

His fears shall fetch one if he still rebells

Picturing harsh truths in its unpracticed eye

How they who idle in the harvest lye

Shall well deserving in the winter pine

Or hunt the hedges with the birds and swine

In vain he wishes that the rushes height

Were tall as trees to hide him from her sight

Leaving his pleasant seat he sighs and rubs

His legs and shows scratchd wounds from piercing stubs

To make excuse for play but she disdains

His little wounds and smiles while he complains

And as he stoops adown in troubles sore

She sees his grief and bids him sob no more

As bye and bye on the next sabbath day

She'll give him well earned pence as well as play

When he may buy almost with out a stint

Sweet candied horehound cakes and pepper mint

Or streaking sticks of lusious lolipop

What ere he chuses from the tempting shop

Wi in whose diamond winder shining lye

Things of all sorts to tempt his eager eye

Rich sugar plumbs in phials shining bright

In every hue young fancys to delight

Coaches and ladys of gilt ginger bread

And downy plumbs and apples streaked with red

Such promises all sorrows soon displace

And smiles are instant kindled in his face

Scorning all troubles which he felt before

He picks the trailing ears and mourns no more

The fields are all alive with busy noise

Of labours sounds and insects humming joys

Some oer the glittering sickle sweating stoop

Startling full oft the partridge coveys up

Some oer the rustling scythe go bending on

And shockers follow where their toils have gone

First turning swaths to wither in the sun

Where mice from terrors dangers nimbly run

Leaving their tender young in fears alarm

Lapt up in nests of chimbled grasses warm

And oft themselves for safty search in vain

From the rude boy or churlish hearted swain

Who beat their stone chinkd forks about the groun(

And spread an instant murder all around

Tho oft the anxious maidens tender prayer

Urges the clown their little lives to spare

Who sighs while trailing the long rake along

At scenes so cruel and forgets her song

And stays wi love his murder aiming hand

Some ted the puffing winnow down the land

And others following roll them up in heaps

While cleanly as a barn door beesome sweeps

The hawling drag wi gathering weeds entwind

And singing rakers end the toils behind

When the sun stoops to meet the western sky

And noons hot hours have wanderd weary bye

They seek an awthorn bush or willow tree

Or stouk or shock where coolest shadows be

Where baskets heapd and unbroachd bottles lye

Which dogs in absence watchd with wary eye

To catch their breath awhile and share the boon

Which beavering time alows their toil at noon

All gathering sit on stubbs or sheaves the hour

Where scarlet poppys linger still in flower

Stript in his shirt the hot swain drops adown

And close beside him in her unpind gown

Next to her favoured swain the maiden steals

Blushing at kindness which her love reveals

Who makes a seat for her of things around

And drops beside her on the naked ground

Wearied wi brambles catching at her gown

And pulling nutts from branches pulld adown

By friendly swain the maid Wi heaving breast

Upon her lovers shoulder leans at rest

Then from its cool retreat the beer they bring

And hand the stout hooped bottle round the ring

Each swain soaks hard-the maiden ere she sips

Shrieks at the bold whasp settling on her lips

That seems determined only hers to greet

As if it fancied they were cherrys sweet

So dog forgoes his sleep awhile or play

Springing at frogs that rustling jump away

To watch each morsel that the boon bestows

And wait the bone or crumb the shepherd throws

For shepherds are no more of ease possest

But share the harvests labours with the rest

When day declines and labour meets repose

The bawling boy his evening journey goes

At toils unwearied call the first and last

He drives his horses to their nights repast

In dewey close or meadow to sojourn

And often ventures on his still return

Oer garden pales or orchard walls to hie

When sleeps safe key hath locked up dangers eye

All but the mastiff watching in the dark

Who snufts and knows him and forbears to bark

With fearful haste he climbs each loaded tree

And picks for prizes which the ripest be

Pears plumbs or filberts covered oer in leams

While the pale moon creeps high in peaceful dreams

And oer his harvest theft in jealous light

Fills empty shadows with the power to fright

And owlet screaming as it bounces nigh

That from some barn hole pops and hurries bye

Scard at the cat upon her nightly watch

For rats that come for dew upon the thatch

He hears the noise and trembling to escape

While every object grows a dismal shape

Drops from the tree in fancys swiftest dread

By ghosts pursued and scampers home to bed

Quick tumbling oer the mossy mouldering wall

And looses half his booty in the fall

Where soon as ere the morning opes its eyes

The restless hogs will happen on the prize

And crump adown the mellow and the green

And makes all seem as nothing ne'er had been

Amid the broils of harvests weary reign

How sweet the sabbath wakes its rest again

For each weary mind what rapture dwells

To hear once more its pleasant chiming bells

That from each steeple peeping here and there

Murmur a soothing lullaby to care

The shepherd journying on his morning rounds

Pauses awhile to hear their pleasing sounds

While the glad childern free from toils employ

Mimic the ding dong sounds and laugh for joy

The fields themselves seem happy to be free

Where insects chatter with unusual glee

While solitude the stubbs and grass among

Apears to muse and listen to the song

In quiet peace awakes the welcomed morn

Men tired and childern with their gleaning worn

Weary and stiff lye round their doors the day

To rest themselves with little heart for play

No more keck horns in homestead close resounds

As in their school boy days at hare and hounds

Nor running oer the street from wall to wall

With eager shouts at 'cuck and catch the ball'

In calm delight the sabbath wears along

Yet round the cross at noon a tempted throng

Of little younkers with their pence repair

To buy the downy plumb and lucious pear

That melt i' th mouth-which gardners never fail

For gains strong impulse to expose for sale

And on the circling cross steps in the sun

Sit when the parson has his sermon done

When grandams that against his rules rebell

Come wi their baskets heapd wi fruit to sell

That thither all the season did pursue

Wi mellow goosberrys of every hue

Green ruffs and raspberry reds and drops of gold

That makes mouths water often to behold

Sold out to clowns in totts oft deemd too small

Who grudging much the price eat husks and all

Nor leaves a fragment round to cheer the eye

Of searching swine that murmurs hungry bye

And currans red and white on cabbage leaves

While childerns fingers itches to be thieves

And black red cherrys shining to the sight

As rich as brandy held before the light

Now these are past he still as sunday comes

Sits on the cross wi baskets heapd wi plumbs

And Jenitens streakd apples suggar sweet

Others spice scented ripening wi the wheat

And pears that melt ith' mouth like honey which

He oft declares to make their spirits itch

They are so juicy ripe and better still

So rich they een might suck em thro a quill

Here at their leisure gather many a clown

To talk of grain and news about the town

And here the boy wi toils earnd penny comes

In hurrying speed to purchase pears or plumbs

And oer the basket hangs wi many a smile

Wi hat in hand to hold his prize the while

Not so the boys that begs for pence in vain

Of deaf eard dames that threat while they complain

Who talk of the good dinners they have eat

And wanting more as nothing but consiet

Vowing they ne'er shall throw good pence away

So bids them off and be content wi play

Reaching her rod that hangs the chimney oer

And scaring their rude whinings to the door

Who sob aloud and hang their hats adown

To hide their tears and sawn along the town

Venturing wi sullen step his basket nigh

And often dipping a desiring eye

Stone hearted dames thrifts errors to believe

Who make their little bellys yearn to thieve

But strong temptation must to fears resign

For close beside the stocks in terror shine

So choaking substitutes for loss of pelf

He keeps his hungry fingers to himself

And mopes and sits the sabbath hours away

Wi heart too weary and too sad for play

So Sunday's scenes and leisure passes bye

In rests soft peace and home tranquillity

Till Monday morning doth its cares pursue

And wakes the harvests busy toils anew

John Clare

Thirty-one days until The Oyster Months.

Provided.

Men die for a home, not for walls and tables.

Men die for a cathedral, not for stones.

Men die for a people, not for a mob.

Men die for love of Man—provided that Man is the keystone in the arch of their community.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, from Wind, Sand and Stars

Top-Gallant.

Delight is to him—a far, far upward, and inward delight—who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self. Delight is to him whose strong arms yet support him, when the ship of this base treacherous world has gone down beneath him. Delight is to him, who gives no quarter in the truth, and kills, burns, and destroys all sin though he pluck it out from under the robes of Senators and Judges. Delight,—top-gallant delight is to him, who acknowledges no law or lord, but the Lord his God, and is only a patriot to heaven.

Herman Melville, born on on this day in 1819, from Moby-Dick, or The Whale

Billy Joe Shaver, "You Ask Me To"

Myers, Cavatina

John Williams performs ...

Gut-Punch.

Doane Hall, Denison University, Granville, Ohio.  

Since 1895, it has sat proudly as the grand greeting to all ascending the wooded, winding entrance to the school.

Additions, called renovations, are being made.

Before ...

After (AI-generated mock-ups) ...

The gut-punch ...

Just guess what the renovations will house.

ANECDOTE of the JAR

I placed a jar in Tennessee,   

And round it was, upon a hill.   

It made the slovenly wilderness   

Surround that hill.

The wilderness rose up to it,

And sprawled around, no longer wild.   

The jar was round upon the ground   

And tall and of a port in air.

It took dominion everywhere.   

The jar was gray and bare.

It did not give of bird or bush,   

Like nothing else in Tennessee.

Wallace Stevens

Happy Birthday, Francis Scott Key

Wood, Francis Scott Key, 1825

O say can you see, by the dawn's early light,

What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming,

Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight

O'er the ramparts we watch'd were so gallantly streaming?

And the rocket's red glare, the bomb bursting in air,

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there,

O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep

Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,

What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,

As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?

Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,

In full glory reflected now shines in the stream,

'Tis the star-spangled banner - O long may it wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore,

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion

A home and a Country should leave us no more?

Their blood has wash'd out their foul footstep's pollution.

No refuge could save the hireling and slave

From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave,

And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

O thus be it ever when freemen shall stand

Between their lov'd home and the war's desolation!

Blest with vict'ry and peace may the heav'n rescued land

Praise the power that hath made and preserv'd us a nation!

Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,

And this be our motto - "In God is our trust,"

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Francis Scott Key, born on this day in 1779

Blest with vict'ry and peace may the heav'n rescued land

Praise the power that hath made and preserv'd us a nation!

Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,

And this be our motto - "In God is our trust"

Imagine.

The universe is real but you can't see it. You have to imagine it. Once you imagine it, you can be realistic about reproducing it. 

Alexander Calder

Baneful.

In all the changes to which you may be invited, remember that time and habit are at least as necessary to fix the true character of governments as of other human institutions; that experience is the surest standard by which to test the real tendency of the existing constitution of a country; that facility in changes, upon the credit of mere hypothesis and opinion, exposes to perpetual change, from the endless variety of hypothesis and opinion; and remember, especially, that for the efficient management of your common interests, in a country so extensive as ours, a government of as much vigor as is consistent with the perfect security of liberty is indispensable. Liberty itself will find in such a government, with powers properly distributed and adjusted, its surest guardian. It is, indeed, little else than a name, where the government is too feeble to withstand the enterprises of faction, to confine each member of the society within the limits prescribed by the laws, and to maintain all in the secure and tranquil enjoyment of the rights of person and property.

I have already intimated to you the danger of parties in the State, with particular reference to the founding of them on geographical discriminations. Let me now take a more comprehensive view, and warn you in the most solemn manner against the baneful effects of the spirit of party generally.

This spirit, unfortunately, is inseparable from our nature, having its root in the strongest passions of the human mind. It exists under different shapes in all governments, more or less stifled, controlled, or repressed; but, in those of the popular form, it is seen in its greatest rankness, and is truly their worst enemy.

The alternate domination of one faction over another, sharpened by the spirit of revenge, natural to party dissension, which in different ages and countries has perpetrated the most horrid enormities, is itself a frightful despotism. But this leads at length to a more formal and permanent despotism. The disorders and miseries which result gradually incline the minds of men to seek security and repose in the absolute power of an individual; and sooner or later the chief of some prevailing faction, more able or more fortunate than his competitors, turns this disposition to the purposes of his own elevation, on the ruins of public liberty.

George Washington, from his "Farewell Address" from 1796 

Happy Birthday, Herman Melville

Eaton, Herman Melville, 1870

Know ye now, Bulkington? Glimpses do ye seem to see of that mortally intolerable truth; that all deep, earnest thinking is but the intrepid effort of the soul to keep the open independence of her sea; while the wildest winds of heaven and earth conspire to cast her on the treacherous, slavish shore?

But as in landlessness alone resides the highest truth, shoreless, indefinite as God—so, better is it to perish in that howling infinite, than be ingloriously dashed upon the lee, even if that were safety! For worm-like, then, oh! who would craven crawl to land!

Herman Melville, born on on this day in 1819, from Moby-Dick, or The Whale

Excellent.

An excellent album ...

... to prioritize victory over rather than coexistence with the communist threat.

Dissection.

Sgt. Fuzz' dissection of "Killing Moon"...

Exploring sounds

The Super Unpleasant Companion

The hymn

Ravel, Daphnis et Chloé, Suite No. 2, M. 57b

This is "Daybreak," performed by the Orchestra of Paris, under the direction of Paavo Järvi ...

Good.

To an engineer, good enough means perfect. With an artist, there's no such thing as perfect.

Alexander Calder

The Jam, "Going Underground"

What you see is what you get

You've made your bed, you better lie in it

You choose your leaders and place your trust

As their lies wash you down and their promises rust ...

Just as terror, even in its pre-total, merely tyrannical form ruins all relationships between men, so the self-compulsion of ideological thinking ruins all relationships with reality. The preparation has succeeded when people have lost contact with their fellow men as well as the reality around them; for together with these contacts, men lose the capacity of both experience and thought. The ideal subject of totalitarian rule is not the convinced Nazi or the convinced Communist, but people for whom the distinction between fact and fiction, the reality of experience, and the distinction between true and false, the standards of thought, no longer exist.

Hannah Arendt, from Crises of the Republic: Lying in Politics, Civil Disobedience, On Violence, and Thoughts on Politics and Revolution

Himself.

It is easy to establish a society upon the foundation of rigid rules. It is easy to shape the kind of man who submits blindly and without protest to a master.  The real task is to succeed in setting man free by making him master of himself.

In place of affirming the rights of Man through individuals, we have begun to speak of the rights of the collectivity. This morality will explain clearly why the individual should sacrifice himself for the community. It will no longer explain, without verbal tricks, why a community should sacrifice itself for a single man.

 Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, from Flight to Arras

Curiosities.

Osbourne, Robert Louis Stevenson, 1885

Steve's pointing to Stevenson wisdom ...

Life is only a very dull and ill-directed theatre unless we have some interests in the piece; and to those who have neither art nor science, the world is a mere arrangement of colours, or a rough footway where they may very well break their shins.  It is in virtue of his own desires and curiosities that any man continues to exist with even patience, that he is charmed by the look of things and people, and that he wakens every morning with a renewed appetite for work and pleasure.

Refinement.

Maestro, indeed.  Wisdom every minute ...

Question, question, question. Taste, taste, taste. Think, think, think. That's what cooking is all about. Is that where you can take it? Because I'm a classicist. I'm not a fantasist. I believe in those great classic marriages. Basel and tomato, madeira and mushroom, red wine and shallots. Keep it simple. We live in a world of refinement, not invention. It's as simple as that. And never forget. If you want to stray and do bizarre and peculiar combinations, then good luck.

Think about why you do things.

Commendable.

Wren, Sheldonian Theatre, Oxford, 1668

In things to be seen at once, much variety makes confusion, another vice of beauty. In things that are not seen at once, and have no respect one to another, great variety is commendable, provided this variety transgress not the rules of optics and geometry. 

Christopher Wren

Mendelssohn, Piano Trio in D-Minor, Op. 11

The Aletheia Piano Trio performs the Finale ...

Conform.

A FOREST HYMN

The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned

To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,

And spread the roof above them,—-ere he framed

The lofty vault, to gather and roll back

The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,

Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down,

And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks

And supplication. For his simple heart

Might not resist the sacred influences,

Which, from the stilly twilight of the place,

And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven

Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound

Of the invisible breath that swayed at once

All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed

His spirit with the thought of boundless power

And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why

Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect

God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore

Only among the crowd, and under roofs,

That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least,

Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,

Offer one hymn—-thrice happy, if it find

Acceptance in His ear.

Father, thy hand

Hath reared these venerable columns, thou

Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down

Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose

All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun,

Budded, and shook their green leaves in the breeze,

And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow,

Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died

Among their branches, till, at last, they stood,

As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,

Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold

Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults,

These winding aisles, of human pomp and pride

Report not. No fantastic carvings show

The boast of our vain race to change the form

Of thy fair works. But thou art here—-thou fill'st

The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds

That run along the summit of these trees

In music; thou art in the cooler breath

That from the inmost darkness of the place

Comes, scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground,

The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee.

Here is continual worship;—-Nature, here,

In the tranquility that thou dost love,

Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around,

From perch to perch, the solitary bird

Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs,

Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots

Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale

Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left

Thyself without a witness, in these shades,

Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace

Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak—-

By whose immovable stem I stand and seem

Almost annihilated—-not a prince,

In all that proud old world beyond the deep,

E'er wore his crown as lofty as he

Wears the green coronal of leaves with which

Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root

Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare

Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower

With scented breath, and look so like a smile,

Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould,

An emanation of the indwelling Life,

A visible token of the upholding Love,

That are the soul of this wide universe.

My heart is awed within me when I think

Of the great miracle that still goes on,

In silence, round me—-the perpetual work

Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed

Forever. Written on thy works I read

The lesson of thy own eternity.

Lo! all grow old and die—-but see again,

How on the faltering footsteps of decay

Youth presses——ever gay and beautiful youth

In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees

Wave not less proudly that their ancestors

Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost

One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet,

After the flight of untold centuries,

The freshness of her far beginning lies

And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate

Of his arch enemy Death—-yea, seats himself

Upon the tyrant's throne—-the sepulchre,

And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe

Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth

From thine own bosom, and shall have no end.

There have been holy men who hid themselves

Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave

Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived

The generation born with them, nor seemed

Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks

Around them;—-and there have been holy men

Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus.

But let me often to these solitudes

Retire, and in thy presence reassure

My feeble virtue. Here its enemies,

The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink

And tremble and are still. Oh, God! when thou

Dost scare the world with falling thunderbolts, or fill,

With all the waters of the firmament,

The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods

And drowns the village; when, at thy call,

Uprises the great deep and throws himself

Upon the continent, and overwhelms

Its cities—-who forgets not, at the sight

Of these tremendous tokens of thy power,

His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by?

Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face

Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath

Of the mad unchained elements to teach

Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate,

In these calm shades, thy milder majesty,

And to the beautiful order of the works

Learn to conform the order of our lives.

William Cullen Bryant

Schumann, Waldszenen, Op. 82

Martin Helmchen performs the Vogel als Prophet ...

Opportunity.

The LANTERN and the WILDFLOWER 

If only I could give you

the gift of Adventure.

If only I could box her up

for you,

That big red bow on top,

glimmering.

But this cannot be.

Adventure is not

given or earned.

She is a breath that is prayed,

a force that is found,

found in the soul of everyone

and everything

But maybe, just maybe,

if I cannot box her up for you,

I can at least point you

in her direction.

Maybe, at least,

I can tell you where I saw her last,

what I prayed when I was alone,

waiting in a forest under the pine trees,

waiting for her to appear.

Maybe that will be

your Beginning.

You see, I didn’t learn for a long time.

For years, as soon as I began

searching,

hid behind fear,

all the while,

Adventure waiting for me

with a lantern and a wildflower.

All that time, I only wanted

pictures of her,

without knowing her presence,

her warmth,

her smell.

But when I met her,

I found myself.

When I prayed,

I found God.

If only I could teach you

not to be afraid.

If only I could tell you

that it’s okay if you don’t

have words left

to pray.

If only I could point you

towards that lantern

and that wildflower.

If only I could show you

the way to God.

But God cannot be given or earned.

No, God is found.

So, in that soul of yours,

there is the greatest opportunity.

You.

The world.

Breath and prayer embodied.

Everything sacred.

These things would never fit

into a box

with a big red bow on top,

glimmering.

Kaitlin Curtice

Schubert, Piano Quintet in A-Major, D. 667, "The Trout"

Members of the Vienna Philharmonic Chamber Orchestra perform the Variations movement ...

Conserving.

Conserving Alexander Calder's Red Lily Pads ...

Happy Birthday, Giorgio Vasari

Vasari, Self-Portrait, 1566

No one ever became excellent in any exercise whatsoever without beginning from his childhood to endure heat, cold, hunger, thirst, and other discomforts; wherefore those men are entirely deceived who think to be able, at their ease and with all the comforts of the world, to attain an honorable rank. It is not by sleeping but by waking and studying continually that progress is made.  It is greater vanity to pursue things more for their reputation than for what they really are, but these kinds of men can be found in any age, men who pay more attention to appearances than realities

Giorgio Vasari, born on this day in 1511, from Lives of the Artists

Dinnertime.

INTERVIEWER: I made the remark, and I don't think it's unfair to say, that in a sense, what Einstein gave to science, in the dimension of time, you've given to art, in the dimension of motion. 

CALDER: I don't know about that, but what would Einstein say? 

INTERVIEWER: Well, that's a very interesting point.  Well, now, how do you know when you're finished?

CALDER:  Uh, when it's dinnertime.

Enormity.

Chatham, July, 1987

Choose your heroes carefully, identifying those who were truly great and whose sensibilities you can relate to. Be contemptuous of notions like the one which holds that a drunk who routinely peed his pants while splashing paint all over the floor 50 years ago is an old master. Go back as far as you can in your discipline, remembering that very nearly 100 percent of everything produced in the arts in your time is pure shit. Never compare yourself to your contemporaries, but do mercilessly critique them, if only to yourself. Beware of all labels and -isms, tonalism, for example. There are no great paintings done in bright colors in the conventional sense of that term. As Camille Pissarro noted, “All painting is a matter of grays.” If you doubt this, study Goya, Rembrandt, da Vinci, and Titian, to mention only four. To see the exception, study Vermeer, and even he practices restraint to the point of pathos.

Be a seeker of truth and beauty. Never be impressed by the price of anything. There are a few rich people who are smart and nice, but generally speaking, associate with the wealthy at your own risk. Read as much good, classic literature and poetry as you can. You need to be fluent in the world of verbal ideas and concepts to enhance and balance the essentially nonverbal ones you use in your work. Most writers, by the way, do not really believe in the specificity of the nonverbal language. You must. Along with literature, read biographies and autobiographies and don’t stick just to the visual arts. Include them all.  This is to learn how others handled their journey, bearing in mind you can’t emulate someone else’s. Travel serves to inform us of the enormity of the world, and lets us see and experience things we might never have known existed. This helps us have a sense of humility, which I believe is very important.

Russell Chatham, from "Motive Is Everything: A Conversation With Artist, Writer, Publisher, Sportsman, Gourmet Chef & Restaurateur," an interview with John A. Murray

Happy Birthday, Geddy Lee

Geddy Lee was born on this day in 1953.

"Headlong Flight"...

Kelley & Holmes, Friend, 1888

Shared.

WELCOME JOY

There is joy

in all:

in the hair I brush each morning,

in the Cannon towel, newly washed,

that I rub my body with each morning,

in the chapel of eggs I cook

each morning,

in the outcry from the kettle

that heats my coffee

each morning,

in the spoon and the chair

that cry "hello there, Anne"

each morning,

in the godhead of the table

that I set my silver, plate, cup upon

each morning.

All this is God,

right here in my pea-green house

each morning

and I mean,

though often forget,

to give thanks,

to faint down by the kitchen table

in a prayer of rejoicing

as the holy birds at the kitchen window

peck into their marriage of seeds.

So while I think of it,

let me paint a thank-you on my palm

for this God, this laughter of the morning,

lest it go unspoken.

The Joy that isn't shared, I've heard,

dies young.

Anne Sexton

Excellent.

An excellent album ...

Excellent.

An excellent book ...

It seems to me this idea of going to school and then into business isn’t the natural way for a man to live, at least to my way of thinking. Don’t you see what most people are missing? Something which is fine and grand. Living like we do, I mean out in the open air. They’re getting farther and farther away from the natural life, nature and all that; they’re creating a world which is, oh, I don’t know, I can’t jaw properly, but you know what I mean.

B.B., from Brendon Chase

Brought.

Read anything I write for the pleasure of reading it. Whatever else you find will be the measure of what you brought to the reading.

Ernest Hemingway, from Conversations with Ernest Hemingway

Enhances.

There's always a secret ...

Every 15 minutes, the island releases an imperceptible spray of ash and dust that makes the soil rich in calcium, phosphorus, and potassium, which enhances the product.

Bliss.

I WANDERED LONELY as a CLOUD 

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth

Rebecca Dale and Tenebrae have a go ...

Enjoy.

Enjoy the day.

Nicest.

Belloc, Disclaimer, 1907

Learning.

Disney Imagineering designer Ray Kinman on the myth of talent ...

There was a period of my career where I really went through some serious burnout. I mean, world class burnout. It was only after I pulled out that I figured out what it was and that I started just trying to crank work out and it was about money. I was just trying to make money and I knew I could get away with not my best work and people couldn't tell.  

And so I started taking shortcuts and that kind of got to the point where I just got really depressed. I didn't like working and I don't know somehow I realized, oh! I stopped learning! I stopped pushing myself to that. That's what happened. So, I was able to regain momentum.

Everything I do, I'm trying to push it a little bit harder because it makes it interesting. It's fun.

Don't forget to get out and walk.