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secretfragileskies

…fixed like a galaxy and memorized in her secret and fragile skies. Leonard Cohen

Thursday, January 19, 2017

YOU ARE INVOLVED....



The 1970 New York Artists’ Strike that Prefigured #J20


Posted by secretfragileskies at 11:17 AM

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"There is still a point where the present, the now, winds around itself, and nothing is tangled. the river is not where it begins or ends, but right in the middle point, anchored by what has happened and what is to arrive. You can close your eyes and there will be a light snow falling in New York..."

Let the Great World Spin, Colum McCann

august

august

an altered space

"Those walls of yours are shadows of walls, And your light disappeared forever. Not the world’s monument anymore, an oeuvre of your own Stands beneath the sun in an altered space. A Treatise on Poetry: IV Natura By Czeslaw Milosz 1911–2004 Czeslaw Milosz Translated By Robert Hass



“You carry away with you a reflection of me, a part of me. I dreamed you; I wished for your existence. You will always be a part of my life. If I love you, it must be because we shared, at some moment, the same imaginings, the same madness, the same stage.”

—

Anaïs Nin

(via elysskama)

“The world is airtight
yet held together
by what it does not house,
by the vanished. They are everywhere.”


Hans Magnus Enzensberger, from “The Vanished”
 here

Dead men make such convenient Heroes

http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lvowubpyW21qlkoroo1_500.jpg

Now that he is safely dead,
Let us Praise him.
Now that he is safely dead,
Let us Praise him.
Build monuments to his glory.
Sing Hosannas to his name.

Dead men make such convenient Heroes.
They cannot rise to challenge the images
We would fashion from their Lives.

(Hines 1987, 468).

image; Banksy

http://27.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lgvh2vvn2P1qcek63o1_500.jpg


"And let me ask you this: the dead,
where aren't they?"
- Franz Wright



“Wherever
his hand has lain there is
a tiny purple blemish. Each part
is a blossom under his touch
to which the fibres of her being
stem one by one, each to its end,
until the whole field is a
white desire, empty, a single stem,
a cluster, flower by flower,
a pious wish to whiteness gone over—
or nothing.”

—

Queen-Anne’s-Lace, William Carlos Williams (via sketchofthepast)


Then there was someone else I met,
whose face and voice I can’t forget,
and the memory of her
is like a jail I’m trapped inside,

or maybe she is something I just use
to hold my real life at a distance.

Happiness, Joe says, is a wild red flower
plucked from a river of lava
and held aloft on a tightrope
strung between two scrawny trees
above a canyon
in a manic-depressive windstorm.

Don’t drop it, Don’t drop it, Don’t drop it—,

And when you do, you will keep looking for it
everywhere, for years,
while right behind you,
the footprints you are leaving

will look like notes
of a crazy song.

from: “How It Adds Up” copyright © 2003 by Tony Hoagland.



Speech after long silence; it is right,

All other lovers being estranged or dead,

Unfriendly lamplight hid under its shade,

The curtains drawn upon unfriendly night,

That we descant and yet again descant

Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song:

Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young

We loved each other and were ignorant.


W.B. Yeats


http://images.oprah.com/omagazine/200808/images/200808_omag_vintage_typewriter_220x312.jpg




"I think if it's not magical, it's not going to happen, because all the other solutions I see around me-religious solutions, scientific solutions, intellectual solutions- you know, everything is too little too late and not good enough."
Woody Allen
:image

Mere forgetfulness cannot remove it
Nor wishing bring it back, as long as it remains
The white precipitate of its dream
In the climate of sighs flung across our world,
A cloth over a birdcage. But it is certain that
What is beautiful seems so only in relation to a specific
Life, experienced or not, channeled into some form
Steeped in the nostalgia of a collective past.

"Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror," John Ashbery

 

falling


Damiel;

It's great to live by the spirit, to testify day by day for eternity, only what's spiritual in people's minds. But sometimes I'm fed up with my spiritual existence. Instead of forever hovering above I'd like to feel a weight grow in me to end the infinity and to tie me to earth. I'd like, at each step, each gust of wind, to be able to say "Now." Now and now" and no longer "forever" and "for eternity." To sit at an empty place at a card table and be greeted, even by a nod. Every time we participated, it was a pretense. Wrestling with one, allowing a hip to be put out in pretense, catching a fish in pretense, in pretense sitting at tables, drinking and eating in pretense. Having lambs roasted and wine served in the tents out there in the desert, only in pretense. No, I don't have to beget a child or plant a tree but it would be rather nice coming home after a long day to feed the cat, like Philip Marlowe, to have a fever and blackended fingers from the newspaper, to be excited not only by the mind but, at last, by a meal, by the line of a neck by an ear. To lie! Through one's teeth. As you're walking, to feel your bones moving along. At last to guess, instead of always knowing. To be able to say "ah" and "oh" and "hey" instead of "yea" and "amen."


Catherine Hessling, La fille de l’eau, Jean Renoir, 1924.


"The weight of the world
Is love
Under the burden
Of solitude
Under the burden
Of dissatisfaction

The weight
The weight we carry
Is love.

Who can deny?
In dreams
It touches
The body,
In thought
Constructs
A miracle,
Its imagination
Anguishes
Till born
In human
Looks out of the heart
Burning with purity--
For the burden of life
Is love."

from Song, Allen Ginsberg