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Showing posts from August, 2015

Rock Happy

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No kin, so far as I know, to Rock Hudson or Kid Rock. I think a couple kids supplied the mud eyes yesterday (very good day for a swim) and brought Rock to life. Anyway, he congratulated me on "making the rounds" early and beating the heat. * 

Sunrise LA (8.28.15)

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I guess this would be my second on-the-way-to-school pic: sunrise in the side mirror of my Element. Forgot about it till now. * 

"The English Mail-Coach" by Thomas De Quincey

The English Mail-Coach is an essay by the English author Thomas De Quincey . A "three-part masterpiece" and "one of his most magnificent works," [ 1 ] it first appeared in 1849 in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine , in the October (Part I) and December (Parts II and III) issues. The essay is divided into three sections: Part I, "The Glory of Motion," is devoted to a lavish description of the mail coach system then in use in England, and the sensations of riding on the outside upper seats of the coaches (in the author's often opium -tinged perceptions). With many digressions (on subjects ranging from Chaucer's poetry to a comparison of the River Thames with the Mississippi ), De Quincey discusses the "grandeur and power" of the mail-coach ride; prior to the invention of the railroad, the mail coach represented the ultimate in transportation, in speed and force and controlled energy. Perhaps the most memorable and frequently-cite

From De Quincey

Still enjoying the entanglement of De Quincey's Mail Coach . Waiting for two new books to come in: Coetzee's The Good Story (pre-ordered via Kindle, coming out in late September) and a used copy of  Heidegger's Hut by Adam Sharr (I came close to seeing the hut a few years ago, but didn't; this will have to do for now). *      The situation here contemplated exposes a dreadful ulcer, lurking far down in the depths of human nature. It is not that men generally are summoned to face such awful trials. But potentially, and in shadowy outline, such a trial is moving subterraneously in perhaps all men's natures -- muttering under ground in one world, to be realized perhaps in some other. Upon the secret mirror of our dreams such a trial is darkly projected at intervals, perhaps, to every one of us. That dream, so familiar to childhood, of meeting a lion, and, from languishing prostration in hope and vital energy, that constant sequel of lying down before him, publish

The New Blue

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The inversion therapy (I think) will help you make the connection: orange and blue. * 

The Orange Men

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Maybe a mix of a Blue Man and an Easter Island head (a more distant perspective might help)? Anyway, only semi-interesting pic I've taken thus far on the way to school (2015 - 2016 has begun). * 

Heart @ The Hollywood Bowl

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I'm a Bowl fan more than a Heart fan, but still it was a good gig and it's nice to see two old girls (sisters to boot) still kickin' it. *                                                                                     

The Mail Coach

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    [From Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mail_coach#/media/File:Mailcoach.jpg ] 

Mr. Palmer and the English Mail Coach

Mail Coach In Great Britain , the mail coach or post coach was a horse-drawn carriage that carried mail deliveries, from 1784. In Ireland, the first mail coach began service from Dublin in 1789. The coach was drawn by four horses and had seating for four passengers inside. Further passengers were later allowed to sit outside with the driver. The mail was held in a box to the rear, where a Royal Mail post office guard stood. The mail coach was faster than the stage coach as it only stopped for delivery of mail and generally not for the comfort of the passengers. They were slowly phased out during the 1840s and 1850s, their role being replaced by trains as the railway network expanded. History in Britain The postal delivery service in Britain had existed in the same form for about 150 years - from its introduction in 1635, mounted carriers had ridden between "posts" where the postmaster would remove the letters for the local area before handing the remaining l

Reading De Quincey

Finished the somewhat rambling but usually interesting (not unlike Borges, De Quincey is seemingly encyclopedic) essay on Joan of Arc (see below), started "The English Mail-Coach; Or The Glory of Motion" (I've read this before -- many moons have passed -- but I'm sure I'll find it exciting and new). * From the end of De Quincey's essay on Joan of Arc: Bishop of Beauvais! thy victim died in fire upon a scaffold -- thou upon a down bed. But for the departing minutes of life, both are oftentimes alike. At the farewell crisis, when the gates of death are opening, and flesh is resting from its struggles, oftentimes the tortured and the torturer have the same truce from carnal torment; both sink together into sleep; together both, sometimes, kindle into dreams. When the mortal mists were gathering fast upon you two, Bishop and Shepherd girl -- when the pavilions of life were closing up their shadowy curtains about you -- let us try, through the gigantic gloom

Walking (8.22.15)

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Réunion

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Even if it was just a random hit, Réunion deserves some attention. * Réunion [ discuss spelling ] ( French : La Réunion , IPA:  [la ʁeynjɔ̃]  ( listen ) ; previously Île Bourbon ) is a French island located in the Indian Ocean . It is situated east of Madagascar and about 175 kilometres (109 mi) southwest of Mauritius , the nearest island. As of 2014, its population numbered 844,994 inhabitants. [ 1 ] Administratively, Réunion is one of the overseas departments of France. Like the other four overseas departments, it is also one of the 27 regions of France , with the modified status of overseas regions , and an integral part of the Republic with the same status as those situated on the European mainland . Réunion is an outermost region of the European Union and, as an overseas department of France, a part of the Eurozone . [From Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R%C3%A9union ]

Thomas De Quincey: Miscellaneous Essays

Having read some of his "biggies" years ago, I decided to start here (besides, it was free on Kindle). If I get on a De Quincey "roll," perhaps I'll read more. Enjoyed the first essay re MacBeth (see quote below); eventually got a bit tired of Murder-as-Art in the next two; have started one on Joan of Arc. * From the end of "On the Knocking at the Gate, in MacBeth":      O, mighty poet! Thy works are not as those of other men, simply and merely great works of art; but are also like the phenomena of nature, like the sun and the sea, the stars and the flowers, -- like frost and snow, rain and dew, hail-storm and thunder, which are to be studied with entire submission of our own faculties, and in the perfect faith that in them there can be no too much or too little, nothing useless or inert -- but that, the further we press in our discoveries, the more we shall see proofs of design and self-supporting arrangement where the careless eye had seen not

Virginia Woolf on De Quincey

She is at least part of why I am dipping into De Quincey again. In which of her works did she say, Read Quincey. That I no longer remember. * Woolf on De Quincey: Clearly, therefore, De Quincey as an autobiographer labours under great defects. He is diffuse and redundant; he is aloof and dreamy and in bondage to the old pruderies and conventions. At the same time he was capable of being transfixed by the mysterious solemnity of certain emotions; of realising how one moment may transcend in value fifty years. He was able to devote to their analysis a skill which the professed analysts of the human heart–the Scotts, the Jane Austens, the Byrons — did not then possess. We find him writing passages which, in their self-consciousness, are scarcely to be matched in the fiction of the nineteenth century: And, recollecting it, I am struck with the truth, that far more of our deepest thoughts and feelings pass to us through perplexed combinations of concrete objects, pass to us as invo

Thomas De Quincey (1785 - 1859)

Thomas Penson De Quincey ( / ˈ t ɒ m ə s d ə ˈ k w ɪ n s i / ; [ 1 ] 15 August 1785 – 8 December 1859) was an English essayist, best known for his Confessions of an English Opium-Eater (1821). [ 2 ] [ 3 ] Many scholars suggest that in publishing this work De Quincey inaugurated the tradition of addiction literature in the West. Medical Issues: A number of medical practitioners have speculated on the physical ailments that inspired and underlay De Quincey's resort to opium, and searched the corpus of his autobiographical works for evidence. One possibility is "a mild … case of infantile paralysis" that he may have contracted from Wordsworth's children. [ 28 ] De Quincey certainly had intestinal problems, and problems with his vision – which could have been related: "uncorrected myopic astigmatism … manifests itself as digestive problems in men." [ 29 ] De Quincey also suffered neuralgic facial pain, "trigeminal neuralgia"  – "attack

Fuseli's "The Nightmare"

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    [From Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Nightmare ] 

Henry Fuseli (1741 - 1825)

Henry Fuseli (German: Johann Heinrich Füssli ) (7 February 1741 – 17 April 1825) was a Swiss painter , draughtsman and writer on art who spent much of his life in Britain . Many of his works, such as The Nightmare deal with supernatural subject-matter. He painted works for John Boydell's Shakespeare Gallery , and created his own "Milton Gallery". He held the posts of Professor of Painting and Keeper at the Royal Academy. His style had a considerable influence on many younger British artists, including William Blake . What Fuseli supposedly said re Wollstonecraft: In 1788 Fuseli married Sophia Rawlins (originally one of his models), and he soon after became an associate of the Royal Academy . [ 1 ] The early feminist Mary Wollstonecraft , whose portrait he had painted, planned a trip with him to Paris, and pursued him determinedly, but after Sophia's intervention the Fuselis' door was closed to her forever. Fuseli later said "I hate clever women. The

Seal Beach: Main Street and Pier

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Bolsa Chica turned into more of a chat than a walk (Mary Wollstonecraft and Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley -- and a little bit of Pretty Boy Percy), so I stopped in Seal Beach on the way home. Two short walks = not so bad. Hadn't been on Main Street in some time (Is the Bay Theater closed? When does Paradis open?), and I wanted to walk to the end of the pier and back before the heat flared. I walked until I came to the fence that said No More. I knew Ruby's was boarded up, but it's a shame that nothing has replaced her yet (she looked so sad, as if she wanted to fall off the end of the pier). Anyway, a little more walking and a few pics to prove I was there. *                                   

Joseph Brodsky's "Törnfallet"

Thought of this poem this morning while reading Mary Wollstonecraft. Not sure why, I guess because she's in Scandinavia (Norway, Sweden, Denmark) and constantly waxing romantic re the landscape. (I've seen a bit of Denmark and Norway, so I can imagine it.) Not much for end-rhyming myself (I question Brodsky's insistence), but still a pretty picture of a poem. *** Törnfallet There is a meadow in Sweden where I lie smitten, eyes stained with clouds' white ins and outs. And about that meadow roams my widow plaiting a clover wreath for her lover. I took her in marriage in a granite parish. The snow lent her whiteness, a pine was a witness. She'd swim in the oval lake whose opal mirror, framed by bracken, felt happy, broken. And at night the stubborn sun of her auburn hair shone from my pillow at post and pillar. Now in the distance I hear her descant. She sings "Blue Swallow," but I can't follow. The evening shadow rob

Bolsa Chica: Circus Maximus for Birds

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Not all birds of course. Some prefer wading, diving, dipping, etc. These birds are small, gather early on the mudflats (low tide), fly in low clouds across the mud and mirror as though coming from Escher's brush. * 

More Bolsa Chica (8.14.15)

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Tapestry (Carole King Spider)

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Bolsa Chica again. An end of summer fetish. *       

Mary Must Be Forgiven Her Uber-Optimism

Mary Wollstonecraft can wax poetic re what she sees and feels. Given that, plus two centuries of "advancement," we can forgive her uber-optimism. * Excerpt from her letters:      The increasing population of the earth must necessarily tend to its improvement, as the means of existence are multiplied by invention.      You have probably made similar reflections in America, where the face of the country, I suppose, resembles the wilds of Norway. I am delighted with the romantic views I daily contemplate, animated by the purest air; and I am interested by the simplicity of manners which reigns around me. Still nothing so soon wearies out the feelings as unmarked simplicity. I am therefore half convinced that I could not live very comfortably exiled from the countries where mankind are so much further advanced in knowledge, imperfect as it is, and unsatisfactory to the thinking mind. Even now I begin to long to hear what you are doing in England and France. My thoughts f

Heron @ Breakfast (8.13.15)

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They're out of the palms but still around. This one was breakfasting with such stealth that I almost missed him. * 

Extra-talented Bunny (Bolsa Chica)

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He can climb on benches and knows how to find fresh water. Introducing the amazing extra-talented Bunny of Bolsa Chica. *         

Saddleback @ Sunrise (8.13.15)

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Crazy dream in which I was student and teacher. Something like that. Seemed good when I woke at about 4 to empty the bladder. Couldn't sleep so I headed to Starbucks in Sunset Beach. Walked in Bolsa Chica. Hadn't been for awhile. * 

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

Following Borges' polvo el polvo , this post might lead you to form the wrong conclusion: RLS is down today. Not true, I'm feeling quite well thank you. A bit hotter than my ideal, but I've dabbled with a poem and am reading Wollstonecraft from Norway. Apparently, she's entered a little church where some old human remains are on view. She is disgusted by the sight. It leads her into a bit of poetic rambling on death in general. * Life, what art thou? Where goes this breath? -- this I , so much alive? In what element will it mix, giving or receiving fresh energy? What will break the enchantment of animation? For worlds I would not see a form I loved -- embalmed in my heart -- thus sacrilegiously handled? Pugh! my stomach turns. Is this all the distinction of the rich in the grave? They had better quietly allow the scythe of equality to mow them down with the common mass, than struggle to become a monument of the instability of human greatness.      The teeth, nai

The Suicide (Jorge Luis Borges)

I put randomness aside and turned to Borges' poems. I found a blue textbook receipt (blank on the inked side, filled with silliness on the other) signaling "The Suicide." I remember liking the phrase "dust of dust" (probably not unique in itself), especially the Spanish version: polvo el polvo . I must've walked around with that in my head for weeks. I've got miles to go today, so I'll only give the English translation (by Alastair Reid). The Suicide Not a single star will be left in the night. The night will not be left. I will die and, with me, the weight of the intolerable universe. I shall erase the pyramids, the medallions, the continents and faces. I shall erase the accumulated past. I shall make dust of history, dust of dust. Now I am looking on the final sunset. I am hearing the last bird. I bequeath nothingness to no one.

Mary Wollstonecraft (1759 - 1797)

Mary Wollstonecraft ( / ˈ w ʊ l s t ən . k r ɑː f t / ; 27 April 1759 – 10 September 1797) was an English writer, philosopher, and advocate of women's rights . During her brief career, she wrote novels, treatises, a travel narrative , a history of the French Revolution , a conduct book , and a children's book. Wollstonecraft is best known for A Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792), in which she argues that women are not naturally inferior to men, but appear to be only because they lack education. She suggests that both men and women should be treated as rational beings and imagines a social order founded on reason. Until the late 20th century, Wollstonecraft's life, which encompassed several unconventional personal relationships, received more attention than her writing. After two ill-fated affairs, with Henry Fuseli and Gilbert Imlay (by whom she had a daughter, Fanny Imlay ), Wollstonecraft married the philosopher William Godwin , one of the forefathers of the

Letters on Sweden, Norway, and Denmark (Mary Wollstonecraft)

I had heard of Mary Shelley ( Frankenstein, The Last Man ) but not her mother: Mary Wollstonecraft. The spur of a friend (she's reading the mother/daughter bio) led me to these letters (free via Kindle). A good romantic read (even if interrupting a reread of Dante's Comedy ) before heading back to school (already tasting it this week). Anyway, this is a good bit alluded to in the introduction: a remembrance of a childhood friend, Fanny Blood, who had died young of consumption:      When a warm heart has received strong impressions, they are not to be effaced. Emotions become sentiments, and the imagination renders even transient sensations permanent by fondly retracing them. I cannot, without a thrill of delight, recollect views I have seen, which are not to be forgotten, nor looks I have felt in every nerve, which I shall never more meet. The grave has closed over a dear friend, the friend of my youth. Still she is present in me, and I hear her soft voice warbling as I st

More Randomness & Borges

I grabbed up the Non-Fictions again and looked for the first Hogarthian squiggle. This one also added an exclamation mark. Maybe if I keep this up, I'll get around to rereading the whole. This one's from a piece titled "The Creation and P. H. Gosse": I wonder if he knew the ancient sentence that is quoted at the beginning of Rafael Cansinos Assens' Talmudic anthology: "It was only the first night, but a number of centuries had already preceded it."

Downtown Side of the Pier (8.11.15)

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Summer's over. This is how I'll survive the school year. Flipside of yesterday: Everything said take my pic. *