the little monster.
i do actually listen in church. this helps me focus.
i do actually listen in church. this helps me focus.
7 years ago
10.09.2009
le.petit.oiseau.
"Little bird, little bird, little bird, what do you hear?
What do you hear?
The clink of morning cheers
Orange juice concentrate
Crossword puzzles start to grade
One across
Four letter word, it's just not sitting"
(Imogen Heap, English singer and songwriter, b. 1977)
listen here
10.06.2009
les girafes sont oranges et brunes?
Here's an interesting site on which someone is attempting to collect one million created giraffes, simply to prove his friend Jørgen wrong, or something like that. It's fun to browse the artwork and see creativity from all over the world.
The girls that I nanny adored the entire concept, so they quickly created an entire herd of giraffes. It was a charming project to enjoy on a grey, rainy day. Too cute!
Julia, age 10---
Kate, age 6 (with a little help :)---
10.05.2009
saddest poem (?)
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."
The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.
What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.
That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.
As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.
The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.
I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.
Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.
Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.
Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.
Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."
The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.
What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.
That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.
As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.
The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.
I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.
Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.
Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.
Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.
Pablo Neruda
(Chilean poet, 1904-1973)
(Chilean poet, 1904-1973)
unexpected order.
Perhaps this is odd...
Today I was struck by the discovery of water droplets on the counter, arranged in a near-perfect pattern.
The water fell through the holes of an airbake pizza pan.Dotted swiss on the countertop, how quaint.
too much caffeine & swirly stuff.
On the back of a Starbuck's receipt.
If I kept all of my receipts from that place, I could likely wallpaper a room in just a short time. This must be a bad thing.
If I kept all of my receipts from that place, I could likely wallpaper a room in just a short time. This must be a bad thing.
the edge of nothing.
This is my dream,
It is my own dream,
I dreamt it.
I dreamt that my hair was kempt.
Then I dreamt that my true love unkempt it.
I love Ogden Nash.
(American humorist and poet, 1902-1971)
the secret is out...
Recently I memorized this poem by W.H. Auden. Originally I was going to post only the text, but the three paintings do add to the meaning... and I simply cannot compete with Tom O'Bedlam's voice. I hope my voice sounds like that when I'm old.
10.04.2009
whoa.
it's been about 3 months since i last posted.
so i contemplated deleting everything
and starting fresh.
life needs that sometimes.
however
life is also messy and disorganized. this blog is a small glimpse of my life, so i'm leaving everything. in following this messy//raw trend, i'll probably post more process work than finished pieces. i can't seem to finish much lately anyway.
to close -- a napkin sketch i recently rediscovered
(sketches by me, text added by J.)
so i contemplated deleting everything
and starting fresh.
life needs that sometimes.
however
life is also messy and disorganized. this blog is a small glimpse of my life, so i'm leaving everything. in following this messy//raw trend, i'll probably post more process work than finished pieces. i can't seem to finish much lately anyway.
to close -- a napkin sketch i recently rediscovered
(sketches by me, text added by J.)
6.22.2009
stay.really.
I am not yours, not lost in you, You love me, and I find you still Oh plunge me deep in love, put out Sara Teasdale, American Lyrical Poet (1884-1933)
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.
oh.myheart.
More Beethoven, if you'd like -- two sonatas I've enjoyed sightreading (maybe not quite at tempo...)
Sonata No. 27, Op. 90,
I. Mit Lebhaftigkeit und durchaus mit Empfindung und Ausdruck (With liveliness and with feeling and expression throughout)
Sonata No. 32, Op. 111,
I. Maestoso
sigh.
I am free of love as a bird flying south in the autumn, I am free of love, and I listen to music lightly,
Swift and intent, asking no joy from another,
Glad to forget all of the passion of April
Ere it was love-free.
But if he returned, if he should look at me deeply,
I should awake, I should awake and remember
I am my lover’s.
Sara Teasdale, American Lyrical Poet (1884-1933)
6.21.2009
suffering
Currently reading Walking on Water by Madeleine L'Engle. This section regarding suffering particularly spoke to me this week:
"We are tempted to try to avoid not only our own suffering but also that of our fellow human beings, the suffering of the world, which is part of our own suffering. ...The artist cannot hold back; it is impossible, because writing, or any other discipline of art, involves participation in suffering, in the ills and the occasional stabbing joys that come from being part of the human drama. We are hurt; we are lonely; and we turn to music or words, and as compensation beyond all price we are given glimpses of the world on the other side of time and space."
Suffering brings depth... affliction gives us a different perspective on life and provides a glimpse into another world, if we choose to allow it. I've been drawn to much of Beethoven's music lately. There is an artist who fully understood suffering -- Beethoven battled with painful inexplicable illness, alienation from normal relationships, a devastating loss of hearing... Yet all of that terrible suffering greatly deepened his compositions. One only needs to compare an early piano sonata (any from Opus 2, for example) with a late piano sonata (Opus 111) to hear the difference. His late piano sonatas are profound and other-worldly. The fifth movement from Beethoven's String Quartet 13 (in B-flat, Opus 130 - Cavatina: Adagio molto espressivo) is an intimate glimpse into Beethoven's personl suffering. Beethoven had been almost completely deaf for 10 years before he wrote Opus 130. He said of this particular movement: "When I think of the Cavatina, it still brings a tear to my eye." Almost 200 years later, Beethoven's composition still brings a tear to my eye - Beethoven addressed universal human suffering when he wrote Cavatina and thus provided a passage into another world.
So. All of this to challenge myself - to not hold back, to participate fully in my own and the world's suffering, to give generously of my art, musings, and heart, to care for other's pain before my own, to just live abundantly in suffering, joy, loneliness, love, heartache, pleasure, and pain.
"We are tempted to try to avoid not only our own suffering but also that of our fellow human beings, the suffering of the world, which is part of our own suffering. ...The artist cannot hold back; it is impossible, because writing, or any other discipline of art, involves participation in suffering, in the ills and the occasional stabbing joys that come from being part of the human drama. We are hurt; we are lonely; and we turn to music or words, and as compensation beyond all price we are given glimpses of the world on the other side of time and space."
Suffering brings depth... affliction gives us a different perspective on life and provides a glimpse into another world, if we choose to allow it. I've been drawn to much of Beethoven's music lately. There is an artist who fully understood suffering -- Beethoven battled with painful inexplicable illness, alienation from normal relationships, a devastating loss of hearing... Yet all of that terrible suffering greatly deepened his compositions. One only needs to compare an early piano sonata (any from Opus 2, for example) with a late piano sonata (Opus 111) to hear the difference. His late piano sonatas are profound and other-worldly. The fifth movement from Beethoven's String Quartet 13 (in B-flat, Opus 130 - Cavatina: Adagio molto espressivo) is an intimate glimpse into Beethoven's personl suffering. Beethoven had been almost completely deaf for 10 years before he wrote Opus 130. He said of this particular movement: "When I think of the Cavatina, it still brings a tear to my eye." Almost 200 years later, Beethoven's composition still brings a tear to my eye - Beethoven addressed universal human suffering when he wrote Cavatina and thus provided a passage into another world.
So. All of this to challenge myself - to not hold back, to participate fully in my own and the world's suffering, to give generously of my art, musings, and heart, to care for other's pain before my own, to just live abundantly in suffering, joy, loneliness, love, heartache, pleasure, and pain.
"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God. For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows. If we are distressed, it is for your comfort and salvation; if we are comforted, it is for your comfort, which produces in you patient endurance of the same sufferings we suffer. And our hope for you is firm, because we know that just as you share in our sufferings, so also you share in our comfort."
(2 Corinthians 1:3-7)
(2 Corinthians 1:3-7)
6.16.2009
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