Thursday, September 21, 2017
The squirrels in the morning flew
from the fence top to the sunflowers,
ripe were the seeds, striped with white.
They gorged from the down-turned platters
slanted at maturity, chewing away
even the plate's pith matter.
Tail to nose ran their seasoned fur:
the black squirrels and the grey squirrels
started no war; each occupied
having fresh, fattening seeds
from a penitential sunflower.
Tuesday, September 19, 2017
Monday, September 18, 2017
I finally got around to reading Titus Andronicus, and finished it last night. Not that I was saying to myself these years, "You know, you really need to read Titus Andronicus".
Because whenever I would read about the play, the consensus was always 1. it's Shakespeare's least good play - flat as a board, and 2. it's so very violent and did we mention the violence?
The second point would only help to redound the first point. And then I would say to the consensus, "Surely it's not that violent, and because you are looking at it in light of Shakespeare's other plays, perhaps you people are rather exaggerating what is quantitatively only a few more corpses?"
Having now read the play, I take that back.
And certainly it is flat, but yet there are inspired passages that crackle out here and there with that cap gun smell you knew as a kid after you shot off the entire round in two seconds.
Sunday, September 17, 2017
Friday, September 15, 2017
Tuesday, September 12, 2017
If you want literal:
It's actually a very well written exchange between the two, precisely because it is comprised entirely of classic Latin sayings. The inferences run deep and sharp.
In fact, the colloquial translation, while generally excellent, doesn't really communicate the fast-paced piling on that is occurring - especially when Doc Holliday says "Requiescat in pace".
Ringo opens an idea of an insult, while Holliday closes each of Ringo's insults on themselves.
Very good writing.
Monday, September 11, 2017
|Beautiful russeting on left middle one.|
They are praised for being a very well-balanced apple in flavour. They are so well-balanced that one can easily overlook them and say what's the big deal. But the flavour is there.
You might think that someone saying they have mango notes is waxing a little too poetical, but it's true when you pay attention, and don't just eat them like a pig. There are indeed mango notes, among others. And to eat one that has been warming on the branch in the sun is apple heaven.
I find they are also well-balanced in texture. Hard to describe, as with flavour. Certainly crisp, but with more than just the same old same old crisp that one gets tired of; something slightly giving, but not soft...something bread-like, but not chewy; not mealy at all. Dense but sprightly; real good apple meat, but not a work-out for your jaw bone. Juicy and ever so slightly starchy.
Saturday, September 9, 2017
Being around five hours long there are many following acts along with the between the act knee plays to be found on youtube. Also, because of its length, the composer Philip Glass encouraged people in the audience to walk about if they wanted - say, to go to the bathroom or whatever. This aspect makes the opera have something of the spirit of ambient music: something that's there like a surrounding to which one is not supposed to give too intense a listening attention. Which is actually a different kind of attention - not inattentiveness.
This seems to me the future of music. I remember reading about the Era of Peace in which a kind of ambient music will permeate the very atmosphere, without speakers and electronics. And people will be able to compose it somehow and it will be sort of ongoing in the rhythm with people's day to day lives, but not at all in an enslaving way as though one wouldn't be able to "turn it off". Like a breaking free from the rigid constraints of written bars and so forth, it will be in union with the music of the spheres. Not papered away in a book until it gets performed. What's interesting is how this ambient-leaning way which encourages spontaneity, like jazz, brings music closer to what liturgical music does, whereas the classical notion of traditional forms gets stuffy and musty and falls into meaningless decadence.
High time to get rid of this stupid combo. High time too for either one of them alone. Chuck them along with "but yet" and "that which" et alia, and you might be on the narrow road that leads to life. Have fun and good luck.
Tuesday, August 29, 2017
Monday, August 28, 2017
Thursday, August 17, 2017
Take fresh figs and put them in the freezer.
When fully frozen, take four or so out and peel/shave off skin with knife. You can peel them before putting them in the freezer too. Doesn't matter which way. (I don't mind the skin when they're fresh, but somehow the skins when frozen bring a little bit of salty/savoury/vegetal flavour to this dessert, which isn't ideal. It's not huge; having the skins on won't ruin it, but it's there when you eat the skins.)
Cut them up and put them in a bowl.
Pour in half and half cream. Or full cream - doesn't matter.
Do not eat it right away. Anyway you can't, because when the cream goes in, all the frozen fig pieces freeze together as one mass. Let it sit. Then start stirring it around with your spoon, mashing up the fig pieces a little. How far you want to go in melding the cream and frozen figs is up to you. It becomes a wonderful soft ice cream/milkshake bubbly type of thing. Do not add sugar or honey. It doesn't need sweetening.
You could sell this in a restaurant.
Tuesday, August 15, 2017
Sunday, August 13, 2017
Monday, August 7, 2017
Sunday, August 6, 2017
In the first rain of ripe summer
droughted arms shall don more sky
with fragrance of their valentines,
the soon to sugar blush-wilt
confer the bakery air; a parchment
redolence, end-dangled, sun-like;
and September bless - dew meet dry -
lawn frittered, shower flown
katsuras, fleet and heart-shaped each:
first of leaves to cure their green.
Tuesday, August 1, 2017
Sunday, July 30, 2017
Insect mummies festoon right angles,
evincing perils brought to pass, the hidden
sublimity of spiders; dropping plumb bob
of riddling arachnids on your domicile
pane, making questions out of subtractions -
the mites, the flies, moths and mosquitoes:
would you smash one as I, or lob me out,
for having cleaned without notice these motes
infernally buzzing, that from your blood would eke
their multiples, or hole your clothes? Your cry
calling husband is only because milk bright
enamel starks me out like a feign while
my diligence is lost upon your insulated
sight; chancing upon me in the shower
everything about me appears to appear;
and so humoured even my skeleton is bared
on the outside, that once before I sloughed off
on your closet floor. Too affront for being threat,
I'm not your fright's true wooer in the tub.
Rather this is what everyone is scared of:
they are petrified of five minutes ago,
and all that it contains. Like the moon's half shadow.
What they need to wake up to, soon or late.
You were not frightened that one sable night
I rested on your sleeping cheek each of my
legible legs, near your smile line, and listened
to the enormous dream ghost from your lips. I was a clasp
on your face like a severed hand. Never harmed you.
Day shocks to see the way I drop down from
a thread, like an hourglass line of sand.