We stand on the practice field in formation.
After pleading four times to be excused, Gordon O'Hara sneers a response.
When the rains come, O'Hara bugles retreat, pleading, "don't run!"
Unlike first, second and fourth chairs, carrying hand-me-down public school symphony horns or tarnished brass marching horns, third chair cradles personal silver.
Third chair runs.
The bell of a crushed silver french horn resembles crumpled tin foil.
A NY Times rememberance of a music teacher in a hardpressed Ohio town who witnesses a student in more affluent days celebrate graduation by smashing a violin (a spare) precedes the story of a gifted prodigy who chooses Sonic short money over studying music.
Has there always been a 'monetize' tab on the blog template?
Christopher Clark's review of High Society in the Third Reich reveals, "a customized policy of tax rebates for the performing arts; artists themselves were left in no doubt that these were individual settlements through which each beneficiary entered into a relationship with the holders of power."
Immediately saying yes after receiving one quote of three to build a fence.
Mitch, may he rest in peace, advised, "you stand where you sit."
After the election, and ahead, Coleman announces if he were Franken he would not waste taxpayers monies pursuing a re-count.
Coleman begins day, waiting, in ritual Orthodox prayer.
Hypocrisy folds.
Landon Thomas writes current English industrial strikes over factory bankruptcies bring back the good old days, "like we are all together now, fighting for a cause."
Nostalgic, even, I suppose, unless you're the one waiting for a train.
Toni's Paul D recalls "then came the miracle. He heard a whiteman call him to help unload two trunks from a coach cab. Afterward the whiteman gave him a coin. He saw a greencrocer selling vegetables. He pointed to a bunch of turnips. The grocer handed them to him, took his one coin and gave him several more. Stunned, he backed away. Looking around, he saw that nobody seemed interested in the 'mistake' or him, so he walked along, happily chewing turnips."
Years ago at the track in Wembley a teller turned down a five pound bet directing the scruffy lad before her to the two pound window.
A fortune to be made left on the table.
For the anxious, the-not-paid, to monetize risks compromising a luxury of options long taken for granted.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
The Usual Circumspects
Don't you hate it when you can't place a face?
Watching Law & Order, last Monday, the guru looked so familiar there was no rest until the mystery was solved.
Turns out he's Greg German, Fish, from Ally McBeal.
Our featured philosopher of the month, I. Murdoch, says "the thought is not the words (if any) but the words occuring in a certain way with, as it were, a certain force and color."
Problem is, once we place Fish in the certain way of a repetitive sitcom, he's taken on the color of Fish, forever.
On the other hand, locating something in a repetitive context can allow for useful distance on a painful subject.
Just as we enquired last week if Logan is entitled to the legacy of 60's music, minus its values, is the Spotsyltuckian entitled to teach on slavery, as a tour guide, within the repetitive context of a Southern plantation tour?
Kal-El wasn't one of the 100,000 imprisoned Kandorians, yet, thus far, on New Krypton, he's progessing beyond his undercover surveillance assignment to incorporate value-laden teaching moments. When Aunt Alura yearns nostalgically for a reunion of scientic and artistic guilds, Kal refers to Mandelbrot-Julie sets; how art's aesthetic appeal, tethered to complex structures of nature, manufactures the elegant details upon which to ponder.
Alura and Kal are forming an identification of shared language.
For Spotsy, the traditional Gospel/Spirituals in the Lift Every Voice and Sing hymnal, as sung in the repetitive context of Sunday church, forge a shared language, all the more, once learned the hymns incorporate Underground Railroad code.
Maya says "she who does not know where she has come from cannot possibly guide a path to where she has to go," though Quincy warns "it can bring tremendous peace or open all wounds."
When the question is put to Shirley, she says 'you ought to know better than that - each and every tour group must walk the same tour, for not to do that, is to slight those there to witness, whether or not, the process stirs discomfort in the narrator.'
Up till now, it's a Western legacy which has most influenced Spotsyl thought: per Tolkien (our other prominent thinker of the month), for example, "the Light of Valinor is the light of art undivorced from reason, that sees both scientific (or philosophically) and imaginatively, and says that they are good."
The West is making room in Spotsyltucky for the shared languages of Diaz and Morrison.
Perhaps, ultimately, in the literary universe, the Oxfordian John Ruskin claims (even if we would wish otherwise), "art can not be divorced from social realities."
Can hope be found, as reported in Vanity Fair, that the 'dirty secret of conservative talk radio is listeners average age 67?' The Speaker of the Iowa (Iowa!) House confirms the statistic succintly, when, after a surprising victory there on marriage equality, he says, 'the battle is lost. His children simply do not care about what fuels aging, vanishing, prejudices.'
In the ebulient age of Obama, where fascists continue to obscenely cite abolitionists to justify a fast waning majority dominance, isn't open discussion of slavery, despite the unease of the guide, a good way (in Lloyd Garrisonian/Edward Carpenterian fashion) to promote progressive values, which once displayed, carry the dual possibility of not only honoring the victims of one historical experience of oppression but by planting seeds to do away with all oppressions which still plague our common humanity?
Watching Law & Order, last Monday, the guru looked so familiar there was no rest until the mystery was solved.
Turns out he's Greg German, Fish, from Ally McBeal.
Our featured philosopher of the month, I. Murdoch, says "the thought is not the words (if any) but the words occuring in a certain way with, as it were, a certain force and color."
Problem is, once we place Fish in the certain way of a repetitive sitcom, he's taken on the color of Fish, forever.
On the other hand, locating something in a repetitive context can allow for useful distance on a painful subject.
Just as we enquired last week if Logan is entitled to the legacy of 60's music, minus its values, is the Spotsyltuckian entitled to teach on slavery, as a tour guide, within the repetitive context of a Southern plantation tour?
Kal-El wasn't one of the 100,000 imprisoned Kandorians, yet, thus far, on New Krypton, he's progessing beyond his undercover surveillance assignment to incorporate value-laden teaching moments. When Aunt Alura yearns nostalgically for a reunion of scientic and artistic guilds, Kal refers to Mandelbrot-Julie sets; how art's aesthetic appeal, tethered to complex structures of nature, manufactures the elegant details upon which to ponder.
Alura and Kal are forming an identification of shared language.
For Spotsy, the traditional Gospel/Spirituals in the Lift Every Voice and Sing hymnal, as sung in the repetitive context of Sunday church, forge a shared language, all the more, once learned the hymns incorporate Underground Railroad code.
Maya says "she who does not know where she has come from cannot possibly guide a path to where she has to go," though Quincy warns "it can bring tremendous peace or open all wounds."
When the question is put to Shirley, she says 'you ought to know better than that - each and every tour group must walk the same tour, for not to do that, is to slight those there to witness, whether or not, the process stirs discomfort in the narrator.'
Up till now, it's a Western legacy which has most influenced Spotsyl thought: per Tolkien (our other prominent thinker of the month), for example, "the Light of Valinor is the light of art undivorced from reason, that sees both scientific (or philosophically) and imaginatively, and says that they are good."
The West is making room in Spotsyltucky for the shared languages of Diaz and Morrison.
Perhaps, ultimately, in the literary universe, the Oxfordian John Ruskin claims (even if we would wish otherwise), "art can not be divorced from social realities."
Can hope be found, as reported in Vanity Fair, that the 'dirty secret of conservative talk radio is listeners average age 67?' The Speaker of the Iowa (Iowa!) House confirms the statistic succintly, when, after a surprising victory there on marriage equality, he says, 'the battle is lost. His children simply do not care about what fuels aging, vanishing, prejudices.'
In the ebulient age of Obama, where fascists continue to obscenely cite abolitionists to justify a fast waning majority dominance, isn't open discussion of slavery, despite the unease of the guide, a good way (in Lloyd Garrisonian/Edward Carpenterian fashion) to promote progressive values, which once displayed, carry the dual possibility of not only honoring the victims of one historical experience of oppression but by planting seeds to do away with all oppressions which still plague our common humanity?
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Letter to Logan
There was a moment thirty years ago when "I can tell by your clothes you're from the other side," fell apart.
Sure, Logan, it's cool your uncle is Jim Dandy, and you break bread with Ted Nugent, and all, but how does that, by itself, entitle you to the legacy?
We all should've known better (Mr. Young was right) when Skynard sang "we all did what we could do" for the Guvnor that they weren't talking no Southern abolitionism.
How did a generation's disassociation become so prevalent, it allows for your fellow collegian at the multi-cultural street festival last Saturday to stand behind a "God isn't White" sign and dually confess membership in a Anglican mission church?
"Honey, it's African, but it's still homophobic!"
Tolkein writes, "a small quantity of history depresses us with the sense of the ever-lasting weight of human inquity but as long as we cling to the Good, we can finally prevail."
--and so it is at the next booth -- buying the King/Obama calendar -- agreeing with the proprietoress, "now we're getting somewhere."
Protestors outside Fonda's new play in New York aren't getting anywhere: 'hey, we were right about the Immoral War. We aint apologizing no more. We mourn your dead and our own'.
Even so, Van Dyke Parks is right to question upon the demise of Buffalo Springfield drummer Dewey Martin, "considering the collectivism and socialist ideals that inspired the group, it baffles me that the discrepancy in fortunes of each of them aren't somehow an issue."
(Query: when Clive Davis signed Dylan/Joplin to Columbia, what side was he on, now we see he's 'evolved' to Idol impressario?)
Of the living Dead, David Cavanagh writes, on how they perform "a theory of geometric musical complexity applied so subtly as to obfuscate the abstract-concrete distinction; and our way of life," to which Rock Scully adds, "most of our history has to do with sociology not music."
(Phish/Metallica crack down on merchandisers/downloaders; the Dead sanction tapers.)
Although Jay Garrick admires Barry Allen (FL-1) as "the man who refused to blur the line between good and evil," we agree more with I. Murdoch, and this is really important, Logan, for purposes of this discussion, that "good art (more than technical virtuoso alone, mind you) may resist bad purposes more successfully."
Such absolutism costs deeply, as even Allen admits, when he "ran into the speed force and joined it, it was like shedding my identity. I completely lost any concept of who I was. My individuality vanished. My connection to Iris, my family, my friends."
I know, Logan, all too well, how hard it is to resist a colorful display of regional authority -- when Prankster chides Supes for his "overblown sense of righteousness," I must confess, seeing the abstraction of the uniform never fails to stirs deep realms of Kentian family values and nationalism--
--which only goes to show, warns Bryan Magee, "there is simply no way in which value judgments can not be structural to the writing."
Despite an encyclopedic knowledge of the relevant arcana, it's surprising you aren't familiar with Waits (although he arrived on the scene in the late 70's, strictly outside classic parameters) of whom Barney Hoskyns writes, he "turned himself into a work of art that blurred the distance between the private and professional selves," which is what we did, Logan, and are, by doing what we do in opposition to the likes of Wallace, racism and war.
Tolkein tells us, it's through myth that a world exists which is "essentially truer than the one we think we see around us everyday."
A truer world, my friend, propelled by, indivisible to, the music which births it.
Sure, Logan, it's cool your uncle is Jim Dandy, and you break bread with Ted Nugent, and all, but how does that, by itself, entitle you to the legacy?
We all should've known better (Mr. Young was right) when Skynard sang "we all did what we could do" for the Guvnor that they weren't talking no Southern abolitionism.
How did a generation's disassociation become so prevalent, it allows for your fellow collegian at the multi-cultural street festival last Saturday to stand behind a "God isn't White" sign and dually confess membership in a Anglican mission church?
"Honey, it's African, but it's still homophobic!"
Tolkein writes, "a small quantity of history depresses us with the sense of the ever-lasting weight of human inquity but as long as we cling to the Good, we can finally prevail."
--and so it is at the next booth -- buying the King/Obama calendar -- agreeing with the proprietoress, "now we're getting somewhere."
Protestors outside Fonda's new play in New York aren't getting anywhere: 'hey, we were right about the Immoral War. We aint apologizing no more. We mourn your dead and our own'.
Even so, Van Dyke Parks is right to question upon the demise of Buffalo Springfield drummer Dewey Martin, "considering the collectivism and socialist ideals that inspired the group, it baffles me that the discrepancy in fortunes of each of them aren't somehow an issue."
(Query: when Clive Davis signed Dylan/Joplin to Columbia, what side was he on, now we see he's 'evolved' to Idol impressario?)
Of the living Dead, David Cavanagh writes, on how they perform "a theory of geometric musical complexity applied so subtly as to obfuscate the abstract-concrete distinction; and our way of life," to which Rock Scully adds, "most of our history has to do with sociology not music."
(Phish/Metallica crack down on merchandisers/downloaders; the Dead sanction tapers.)
Although Jay Garrick admires Barry Allen (FL-1) as "the man who refused to blur the line between good and evil," we agree more with I. Murdoch, and this is really important, Logan, for purposes of this discussion, that "good art (more than technical virtuoso alone, mind you) may resist bad purposes more successfully."
Such absolutism costs deeply, as even Allen admits, when he "ran into the speed force and joined it, it was like shedding my identity. I completely lost any concept of who I was. My individuality vanished. My connection to Iris, my family, my friends."
I know, Logan, all too well, how hard it is to resist a colorful display of regional authority -- when Prankster chides Supes for his "overblown sense of righteousness," I must confess, seeing the abstraction of the uniform never fails to stirs deep realms of Kentian family values and nationalism--
--which only goes to show, warns Bryan Magee, "there is simply no way in which value judgments can not be structural to the writing."
Despite an encyclopedic knowledge of the relevant arcana, it's surprising you aren't familiar with Waits (although he arrived on the scene in the late 70's, strictly outside classic parameters) of whom Barney Hoskyns writes, he "turned himself into a work of art that blurred the distance between the private and professional selves," which is what we did, Logan, and are, by doing what we do in opposition to the likes of Wallace, racism and war.
Tolkein tells us, it's through myth that a world exists which is "essentially truer than the one we think we see around us everyday."
A truer world, my friend, propelled by, indivisible to, the music which births it.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Becalmed
Luthor isn't wrong about everything.
When Supes appoints Mon-el, guardian, alongside a second official Guardian (subtle much?), while he flies off undercover to New Krypton, Jimmy, elegantly, eloquently, on humanity's behalf, postulates Luthor's premise: "maybe it's time I manned up."
Mon-el further fosters Jimmy's co-dependence furnishing a signal watch attuned to a new frequency.
On the other hand, Luthor would cheer -- letters of protest to the editor long abandoned -- now that the citizenry are manning up, arming in a frenzy, fearing a 'perfect storm,' of 1) economic collapse; 2) civil unrest (racism); 3) gun law restrictions --
--investing a landscape lit by ignoble fear custom made by/for them.
Defenders, once hailed, are now Prosecutors (fortunately Sam Waterson is no E.G Marshall and will never be).
Per Wordsworth:
Ah me, that all
the terrors, all the early miseries,
regrets, vexations, lassitudes, that all
the thought and feelings which have been
infused
Into my mind, should ever have made up
the calm existence that is mine when I
am worthy of myself.
Ah, yes, a worthy calm existence (perfect stanza's) as formulated in:
a library;
a book;
a page;
a panel--
--are sorely missing in the new County library resembling a chain bookstore.
The absence of aisles, repetitive tall stacks, square gardens, obliterates the solitudinous shadow required to examine life.
Bolano asks, then, 'is calm the opposite of madness,' and answers, absolutely not.
Yet when Bolano loses the thread of even a flimsy McGuffin, i.e., the search for an obscure writer, he is abandoned, just as he dismisses ethics, duty, honesty, curiosity, love, bravery and art, all in the same breath.
I. Murdoch contends, "a deep motive for making art of any sort is the desire to defeat the formlessness of the world and cheer oneself up by constructing forms out of what might otherwise seem a mass of senseless rubble."
Embracing spiritual warfare, for example, constructs forms of heroic drama, yet its cheerless, aggressive, nature, menances far too arrogantly to achieve the synthesis of a Trinitarian Justice League that will inevitably be subsumed by an ordered Anglo-American landscape.
Something like the Psalms, meant to be sung ascending the measured steps of Solomon's Temple, balances an untamed grace panelled in manageable red-letter captions.
When Supes appoints Mon-el, guardian, alongside a second official Guardian (subtle much?), while he flies off undercover to New Krypton, Jimmy, elegantly, eloquently, on humanity's behalf, postulates Luthor's premise: "maybe it's time I manned up."
Mon-el further fosters Jimmy's co-dependence furnishing a signal watch attuned to a new frequency.
On the other hand, Luthor would cheer -- letters of protest to the editor long abandoned -- now that the citizenry are manning up, arming in a frenzy, fearing a 'perfect storm,' of 1) economic collapse; 2) civil unrest (racism); 3) gun law restrictions --
--investing a landscape lit by ignoble fear custom made by/for them.
Defenders, once hailed, are now Prosecutors (fortunately Sam Waterson is no E.G Marshall and will never be).
Per Wordsworth:
Ah me, that all
the terrors, all the early miseries,
regrets, vexations, lassitudes, that all
the thought and feelings which have been
infused
Into my mind, should ever have made up
the calm existence that is mine when I
am worthy of myself.
Ah, yes, a worthy calm existence (perfect stanza's) as formulated in:
a library;
a book;
a page;
a panel--
--are sorely missing in the new County library resembling a chain bookstore.
The absence of aisles, repetitive tall stacks, square gardens, obliterates the solitudinous shadow required to examine life.
Bolano asks, then, 'is calm the opposite of madness,' and answers, absolutely not.
Yet when Bolano loses the thread of even a flimsy McGuffin, i.e., the search for an obscure writer, he is abandoned, just as he dismisses ethics, duty, honesty, curiosity, love, bravery and art, all in the same breath.
I. Murdoch contends, "a deep motive for making art of any sort is the desire to defeat the formlessness of the world and cheer oneself up by constructing forms out of what might otherwise seem a mass of senseless rubble."
Embracing spiritual warfare, for example, constructs forms of heroic drama, yet its cheerless, aggressive, nature, menances far too arrogantly to achieve the synthesis of a Trinitarian Justice League that will inevitably be subsumed by an ordered Anglo-American landscape.
Something like the Psalms, meant to be sung ascending the measured steps of Solomon's Temple, balances an untamed grace panelled in manageable red-letter captions.
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