Vessel.

Ty­pog­ra­phy isn’t in­vis­i­ble. By em­brac­ing that fact rather than deny­ing it, we can cre­ate bet­ter typography.

Warde pro­poses that on the printed page, the text is like a fine wine, and ty­pog­ra­phy is the ves­sel that con­tains it. She ar­gues that the ideal ves­sel for wine is one that shows rather than hides the wine’s virtues—the tit­u­lar crys­tal gob­let. Ac­cord­ing to Warde, ideal ty­pog­ra­phy should like­wise be in­vis­i­ble, let­ting the in­trin­sic virtues of the text show through.

An ap­peal­ing metaphor, but to­tally in­apt. As I said in WHAT IS TYPOGRAPHY?, ty­pog­ra­phy is the vi­sual com­po­nent of the writ­ten word. But the con­verse is also true: with­out ty­pog­ra­phy, a text has no vi­sual char­ac­ter­is­tics. A gob­let can be in­vis­i­ble be­cause the wine is not. But text is al­ready in­vis­i­ble, so ty­pog­ra­phy can­not be. Rather than wine in a gob­let, a more apt par­al­lel might be he­lium in a bal­loon: the bal­loon gives shape and vis­i­bil­ity to some­thing that oth­er­wise can­not be seen.

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The Church, "Under the Milky Way"

Thank You, Jessica.

Hungry.

Rumi says that God exists between a human being and what he or she wants. So that when asking for what you really want, you have to live out your desire-body and live through it, and then the desire changes as you become more conscious of it. Rumi's work has brought a lot of happiness because he is so consciously and hilariously alive. His vibrancy is just so real, and it keeps reminding me of the experience, as a kid, of coming out of a movie feeling more hungry for my own life.

Coleman Barks

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Solemn.

Mark Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn was published on this day in 1885.

We catched fish and talked, and we took a swim now and then to keep off sleepiness. It was kind of solemn, drifting down the big, still river, laying on our backs looking up at the stars, and we didn't ever feel like talking loud, and it warn't often that we laughed—only a little kind of a low chuckle. We had mighty good weather as a general thing, and nothing ever happened to us at all—that night, nor the next, nor the next.

Mark Twain, from The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

Stacking.

Lake ice can perform some cool tricks under the right conditions, like ice boulders in Lake Michigan or "snowball waves" recently seen at Maine's Sebago Lake.

And thanks to photographer Dawn M. LaPointe, we have a captivating new glimpse of another strange frozen-lake phenomenon: "ice stacking." Filmed on Feb. 13 at Lake Superior in Duluth, Minnesota, LaPointe's video features brittle, glasslike sheets of ice that buckle and jostle as they push against the shoreline.

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Pal.

... pal.

Silence.

Depeche Mode, "Should Be Higher"

Sacred.

Work is not always required. There is such a thing as sacred idleness.

George MacDonald

Typography.

Snow.

Progress.

Tim O'Brien, "Hold to a Dream"

Preparing.

If you’ve ever watched any chef-related TV show, you know what a high-pressure environment an active kitchen is. Preparing a restaurant meal is all about maximum quality production in the minimal amount of time. Everything must work in order, and one mistake could derail the entire kitchen crew’s flow. So, how do chefs ensure they’re working as efficiently as possible? It all starts before they ever start cooking, with the practice known as mise-en-place.

A French term that translates to “putting in place,” mise-en-place is all about meticulously preparing your workspace and streamlining your workflow so that you can cook quickly and efficiently. It means checking your recipe, carefully measuring ingredients, laying out your tools, and any other preparation needed to make life easier once the dining rush comes.

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Robert Earl Keen, "Amarillo Highway"

Happy Friday!

J. Geils Band, "Raise Your Hand"

Happy Friday!

Happy!

Happy Friday!

Sting, "When the Last Ship Sails"

Hat.

Identity.

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,

Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,

Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)

Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,

Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,

Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,

The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

                                       Answer.

That you are here—that life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

Walt Whitman

Happy birthday, Edison.

Thomas Edison was born on this day in 1847.

The most necessary task of civilization is to teach people how to think. It should be the primary purpose of our public schools. The mind of a child is naturally active, it develops through exercise. Give a child plenty of exercise, for body and brain. The trouble with our way of educating is that it does not give elasticity to the mind. It casts the brain into a mold. It insists that the child must accept. It does not encourage original thought or reasoning, and it lays more stress on memory than observation.

Thomas Edison

The Wizard of Menlo Park

Typography.

Up.

After a cup of tea it says to the brain, "Now, rise, and show your strength. Be eloquent, and deep, and tender; see, with a clear eye, into Nature and into life; spread your white wings of quivering thought, and soar, a god-like spirit, over the whirling world beneath you, up through long lanes of flaming stars to the gates of eternity!

Jerome K. Jerome

Burn.

A thousand Dreams within me softly burn.

Arthur Rimbaud

Greatest.

The greatest sports movie ever made ... Miracle.

Legs feed the wolf ...



Again ...



Think that'll get 'em goin'?



Great moments are born from great opportunity ...

Criticism.

Bernini, Damned Soul, 1619

Criticism is something we can avoid easily by saying nothing, doing nothing, and being nothing.

Aristotle

All.

If I did not believe in life, if I were to lose faith in the woman I love, if I were to lose faith in the order of things, even if I were to become convinced, on the contrary, that everything is a disorderly, damned, and perhaps devilish chaos, if I were struck even by all the horrors of human disillusionment -- still I would want to live, and as long as I have bent to this cup, I will not tear myself from it until I've drunk it all!

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

God-like.

He’s practicing what I’ve long thought of as “Jim Yoga,” focusing his attention alternately skyward (mountains, birds, clouds) and at ground level (dogs, trout, plants). It’s a ritualistic way of moving through the world that’s revivified him, of seeing through eyes other than his own — and those of us who’ve read his books have been revivified as well.

“If you spend a fair amount of time studying the world of ravens,” he’s said elsewhere, “it is logical, indeed, to accept the fact that reality is an aggregate of the perceptions of all creatures, not just ourselves.”

Save for the squeaking oarlocks and the water lapping at the hull, the boat is wonderfully quiet. Flicker calls, warbler note cascades, wind, around us the scent of budding cottonwoods on which we base our faith. Then Jim says, “Come on, trout! You don’t want to see little Jimmy throw a tantrum, do you? You know, Davey, I once caught a 3-pound brown on this left bank coming up. Right … ” he pauses and waits for his Little Olive to slap against the bank, “here!”

And before he can strip the line, a chunky brown trout cartwheels out of its element for the fly, latches on to the hook, and Jim lets out a whoop. We are all three more than a little dumbfounded. David and I exchange glances of substantial bafflement as I slip the net under the fish.

“Mystery,” poet James Galvin wrote, “moves in God-like ways.”

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Why.

Tohaku, Pine Trees, 1580

this ink painting of wind blowing through pines
who hears it?

clouds very high look
not one word helped them get up there

alone with the icy moon no passion
these trees this mountain nothing else

nobody understands why we do what we do
this cup of sake does

passion's red thread is infinite
like the earth always under me

Ikkyu

Door.

Today.

1981.

A couple of favorites ...

Won.

Fight ever on: this earthly stuff
If used God’s way will be enough.
Face to the firing line o friend
Fight out life’s battle to the end.

One soldier, when the fight was red,
Threw down his broken sword and fled.
Another snatched it, won the day,
With what his comrade flung away.

Edwin  Markham

Read.

Read, read, read, read, read, read, read, read, read, read, read, read, read ...

Werner Herzog

Wandering.

Sotter, Moonlight, Bucks County, 1951

The pale moon shining from a pallid sky
Lit half the street, and over half she laid
Her folded mantle; through the dark-browed shade
White windows glittered, each a watchful eye.
The dim wet pavement lit irregularly
With shimmering streaks of gaslight, faint and frayed,
Shone luminous green where sheets of glass displayed
Long breadths of faded blinds mechanically.

the night was very still; above, below,
No sound, no breath, no change in anything;
Only, across the squares of damp lit street,
Shooting a mocking double from his feet,
With vague uncertain steps went to and fro
A solitary shadow wandering.

Arthur Symons

Longing.

Love Dogs

One night a man was crying,
“Allah, Allah!”
His lips grew sweet with the praising,
until a cynic said,
“So! I have heard you
calling out, but have you ever
gotten any response?”
The man had no answer for that.
He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep.
He dreamed he saw Khidr, the guide of souls,
in a thick, green foliage,
“Why did you stop praising?”
“Because I’ve never heard anything back.”
“This longing you express
is the return message.”
The grief you cry out from
draws you toward union.
Your pure sadness that wants help
is the secret cup.
Listen to the moan of a dog for its master.
That whining is the connection.
There are love dogs no one knows the names of.
Give your life to be one of them.

Rumi

Coleman Barks performs a poem by Rumi, "Love Dogs," musical accompaniment by Eugene Friesen and Arto Tuncboyaciyan.

Happy birthday, Verne.

Jules Verne was born on this day in 1828.

While there is life there is hope.  I beg to assert that as long as a man's heart beats, as long as a man's flesh quivers, I do not allow that a being gifted with thought and will can allow himself to despair.

Jules Verne

Calexico, "Across the Borderline"

With Gaby Moreno and Ray Wylie Hubbard ...

Power.

The sole end for which mankind are warranted, individually or collectively, in interfering with the liberty of action of any of their number is self-protection. The only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilized community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others. His own good, either physical or moral, is not sufficient warrant.

John Stuart Mill

Robert Earl Keen, "For Love"

Marty Muse, pedal steel ...

Happy birthday, Ruskin.

Ruskin, Interior of San Frediano Lucca, 1845

John Ruskin was born on this day in 1819.

I believe that the first test of a truly great man is his humility. I don't mean by humility, doubt of his power. But really great men have a curious feeling that the greatness is not of them, but through them. And they see something divine in every other man and are endlessly, foolishly, incredibly merciful.

John Ruskin

Cauld.

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,   

The drift is driving sairly;

Sae loud and shrill’s I hear the blast,   

I’m sure it’s winter fairly. 

Up in the morning’s no for me,   

Up in the morning early;

When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw,   

I’m sure its winter fairly. 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn,   

A’ day they fare but sparely;

And lang’s the night frae e’en to morn,   

I’m sure it’s winter fairly. 

Up in the morning’s no for me,   

Up in the morning early;

When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ snaw,
I’m sure its winter fairly.

Robert Burns

Rules.

Today.

1981.

Necessary.

... dictionary and atlas open on the rug,

the typewriter waiting for the key of the head,

a cello on the radio,

and, if necessary, the windows—

trees fifty, a hundred years old

out there,

heavy clouds on the way ...

Billy Collins, from "Morning"

The Cure, "A Forest"

Never.

Molsky's Mountain Drfiters, "Grandad's Favorite/Red Steer"

Iridescent.

You are aware of only one unrest;
Oh, never learn to know the other!
Two souls, alas, are dwelling in my breast,
And one is striving to forsake its brother.
Unto the world in grossly loving zest,
With clinging tendrils, one adheres;
The other rises forcibly in quest
Of rarefied ancestral spheres.
If there be spirits in the air
That hold their sway between the earth and sky,
Descend out of the golden vapors there
And sweep me into iridescent life.
Oh, came a magic cloak into my hands
To carry me to distant lands,
I should not trade it for the choicest gown,
Nor for the cloak and garments of the crown.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Unknowns.

Rivers.

More of North America’s land is covered by rivers than we thought, according to a new map. Scientists came up with a way to use satellite images to estimate the width of rivers and found that previous methods tended to underestimate how wide they are. The discovery could have implications for studies of flood risk.

A team led by hydrologists Tamlin Pavelsky and George Allen of the University of North Carolina developed an algorithm that brightens water on satellite images and makes everything else appear dark. They then used the algorithm to analyze 1,756 Landsat images of North America.

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