One has just been sent out as a biblical dove, has found nothing green, and slips back
into the darkness of the ark -- Kafka

Saturday, December 16, 2017

Borges "Clip"

The anthology is an admixture of prose and poetry. Not every piece rises to the same level (always the case), but every piece speaks (yells) of Borges.

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The argument set forth in the preceding paragraphs, rather encumbered and interrupted by examples, may seem intricate. I will find a more direct method. Let us consider a life in whose course repetitions abound: my life, for instance. I never pass in front of the Recoleta cemetery without remembering that my father, my grandparents, and great-grandparents are buried there, just as I shall be; then I remember having remembered the same thing innumerable times before; I can not walk through the outlying neighborhoods of the city in the silence of the night without thinking that nighttime is pleasing precisely because it does away with useless details, like memory; I can not lament the loss of a love or a friendship without meditating on how one only loses what one really never h ad; each time I cross one of the streets in South Buenos Aires, I think of you, Helen; every time the wind brings me the odor of eucalyptus, I think of Adrogué in my childhood; each time I recollect Fragment 91 of Heraclitus, You never go down to the same stream twice, I admire his dialectical skill, for the facility with which we accept the first meaning ("The stream is another") clandestinely imposes upon us the second meaning ("I am another") and grants us the illusion of having invented it; every time I hear a Germanophile running down Yiddish, I reflect that Yiddish is, after all, a German dialect, only slightly tainted by the language of the Holy Ghost. These tautologies (and others which I keep back) are my entire life. Naturally,

Big Chair


A gift from Italy (I read). Used to be the biggest -- in LA, US, or world? I was exiting the city (wanted to get a feel for where the Bradbury is) -- going south on Broadway. Passed some scary stuff: trash, graffiti, tent villages. Then this came into view.

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2nd Street: Morning: Balloons

Taken (I believe) the day after the Xmas parade.

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Sunday, December 10, 2017

Reading, Etc.


Finished with Sebald (and Sebald is finished with me) for now. The ending of Vertigo has something in common with Borges' "Matthew 25:30" (I'm rereading JLB via an Anthology I found on Kindle -- and he himself supposedly stirred the mix):

MATTHEW 25:30 And cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth. The first bridge on Constitución. At my feet the shunting trains trace iron labyrinths. Steam hisses up and up into the night which becomes, at a stroke, the Night of the Last Judgment. From the unseen horizon, and from the very center of my being, an infinite voice pronounced these things— things, not words. This is my feeble translation, time-bound, of what was a single limitless Word: “Stars, bread, libraries of East and West, playing cards, chessboards, galleries, skylights, cellars, a human body to walk with on the earth, fingernails, growing at nighttime and in death, shadows for forgetting, mirrors which endlessly multiply, falls in mu sic, gentlest of all time's shapes, borders of Brazil, Uruguay, horses and mornings, a bronze weight, a copy of Grettir Saga, algebra and fire, the charge at Junin in your blood, days more crowded than Balzac, scent of the honeysuckle, love, and the imminence of love, and intolerable remembering, dreams like buried treasure, generous luck, and memory itself, where a glance can make men dizzy— all this was given to you and, with it, the ancient nourishment of heroes— treachery, defeat, humiliation. In vain have oceans been squandered on you, in vain the sun, wonderfully seen through Whitman's eyes. You have used up the years and they have used up you, and still, and still, you have not written the poem.

—Translated by ALASTAIR REID

Friday, December 8, 2017

Saturday, December 2, 2017

Belmont Shore CA Xmas Parade 2017


 
 
 
 

 
 
 

 
 
 
 

 
 
 

 
 
 

 
 
 
 



Boardwalk: Silhouettes








Clip: Sebald: Vertigo



Perhaps prompted by the pitiful pictures in the Krummenbach chapel, my mind turned to Tiepolo once again, and the belief I had held for a long time that, when he travelled with his sons Lorenzo and Domenico from Venice across the Brenner in the autumn of 1750, he decided at Zirl that, contrary to the advice he had been given to leave the Tyrol via Seefeld, he instead made his way westward via Telfs, following the salt wagons across the Gaicht Pass, through the Tannheim valley, over the Oberjoch and through the Iller valley into the lowlands. And I beheld Tiepolo, who must have been approaching sixty by that time and already suffered badly from gout, lying in the cold of the winter months at the top of the scaffolding half a metre below the ceiling of the grand stairway in the palace at Würzburg, his face splattered with lime and distemper, applying the colours with a steady hand, despite the pain in his right arm, onto the wet plaster of the immense, miraculous painting he was creating little by little. With imaginings such as these, and thinking about the Krummenbach painter who had, perhaps in the very same winter, toiled just as hard to represent the fourteen small Stations of the Cross as Tiepolo with his magnificent fresco, I walked on, the time being now about three o’clock, through the fields below the Sorgschrofen and the Sorgalpe, till I struck the road shortly before reaching the Pfeiffermühle. From there it was another hour to W. The last of the daylight was fading by the time I got to the Enge Plätt. To my left was the river, to the right the dripping rock faces through which the road had been blasted at the turn of the century. Above, in front and presently behind me th ere was nothing but the unstirring black pine forests.

Thursday, November 30, 2017

Day in Hollywood

Had to be in the area for a PD. Anyway, got there early, stopped at a Bucks, and looked around a little bit. Hollywood Pres is close to the freeway and a good campground for a few. Stories they could tell.

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Sunday, November 26, 2017

Pisanello (c. 1395 - c. 1455)


Pisanello (c. 1395 – c. 1455), known professionally as Antonio di Puccio Pisano or Antonio di Puccio da Cereto, also erroneously called Vittore Pisano by Giorgio Vasari, was one of the most distinguished painters of the early Italian Renaissance and Quattrocento. He was acclaimed by poets such as Guarino da Verona and praised by humanists of his time, who compared him to such illustrious names as Cimabue, Phidias and Praxiteles.
Pisanello is known for his resplendent frescoes in large murals, elegant portraits, small easel pictures, and many brilliant drawings. He is the most important commemorative portrait medallist in the first half of the 15th century, and he can claim to have originated this important genre.[1]
He was employed by the Doge of Venice, the Pope in the Vatican and the courts of Verona, Ferrara, Mantua, Milan, Rimini, and by the King of Naples. He stood in high esteem in the Gonzaga and Este families.
Pisanello had many of his works wrongly ascribed to other artists such as Piero della Francesca, Albrecht Dürer and Leonardo da Vinci, to name a few. While most of his paintings have perished, a good many of his drawings and medals have survived.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 

Clips: Sebald: Vertigo



Austerlitz, Emigrants, Rings of Saturn -- now I'm in Vertigo.  Will probably let Mr. Sebald rest after I've finished with Vertigo. Good stuff. Great. Could read him every 5 years or so and it would be like discovering him anew. Writing = Palimpsest. Maybe I'll return to his nonfiction (his work cries for a rubric of its own!) in a bit.

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Later that evening I returned to the bar on the Riva and fell into conversation with a Venetian by the name of Malachio, who had studied astrophysics at Cambridge and, as shortly transpired, saw everything from a great distance, not only the stars. Towards midnight we took his boat, which was moored outside, up the dragon’s tail of the Grand Canal, past the Ferrovia and the Tronchetto, and out onto the open water, from where one has a view of the lights of the Mestre refineries stretching for miles along the coast. Malachio turned off the engine. The boat rose and fell with the waves, and it seemed to me that a long time passed. Before us lay the fading lustre of our world, at which we never tire of looking, as thou gh it were a celestial city. The miracle of life born of carbon, I heard Malachio say, going up in flames. The engine started up once more, the bow of the boat lifted in the water, and we entered the Canale delta Giudecca in a wide arc. Without a word, my guide pointed out the Inceneritore Comunale on the nameless island westward of the Giudecca. A deathly silent concrete shell beneath a white pall of smoke. I asked whether the burning went on throughout the night, and Malachio replied: Sí, di continuo. Brucia continuamente. The fires never go out. The Stucky flour mill entered our line of vision, built in the nineteenth century from millions of bricks, its blind windows staring across from the Giudecca to the Stazione Marittima. The structure is so enormous that the Doge’s Palace would fit into it many times over, which leaves one wondering if it was really only grain that was milled in there. As we were passing by the façade, looming above us in the dark, the moon came out from behind the clouds and struck a gleam from the golden mosaic under the left gable, which shows the female figure of a reaper holding a sheaf of wheat, a most disconcerting image in this landscape of water and stone. Malachio told me that he had been giving a great deal of thought to the resurrection, and was pondering what the Book of Ezekiel could mean by saying that our bones and flesh would be carried into the domain of the prophet. He had no answers, but believed the questions were quite sufficient for him.

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Waking up in Venice is unlike waking up in any other place. The day begins quietly. Only a stray shout here and there may break the calm, or the sound of a shutter being raised, or the wing-beat of the pigeons. How often, I thought to myself, had I lain thus in a hotel room, in Vienna or Frankfurt or Brussels, with my hands clasped under my head, listening not to the stillness, as in Venice, but to the roar of the traffic, with a mounting sense of panic. That, then, I thought on such occasions, is the new ocean. Ceaselessly, in great surges, the waves roll in over the length and breadth of our cities, rising higher and higher, breaking in a kind of frenzy when the roar reaches its peak and then discharging across the stones and the asphalt even as the next onrush is being released from where it was held by the traffic lights. For some time now I have been convinced that it is out of this din that the life is being born which will come after us and will spell our gradual destruction, just as we have been gradually destroying what was there long before us. Thus it was that the silence which hung over the city of Venice that All Saints’ morning seemed wholly unreal, as if it were about to be shattered, while I lay submerged in the white air that drifted in at my half-open window.
 


Walking: 11.26.17



 
 

 
 
 



Friday, November 24, 2017

Xmas Tree Lighting @ Colorado Lagoon



 
A little too rough and tumble for Charlie. He's not used to sharing the bridge or path. Still, it was something to do. Only our second time.
 
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Sunrise: Saddleback: Walking








 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 



St Sebaldus


St. Sebaldus of Nuremberg[1] (Sinibald, Sebald) is venerated as the patron saint of Nuremberg, traditional administrative centre of Franconia, and the guarantor of its independence.[2] According to legend Sebaldus was a hermit and a missionary.


Legend


Almost all details of the life of Sebaldus are uncertain, beyond his presence in the woodland of Poppenreuth, west of Nuremberg[3]which was explained by his being a hermit. However various legends about his life have been recorded.

 

One of the earliest legends (ca 1280) claims Sebaldus was a contemporary of Henry III (died 1056) and was of Franconian origin. After a pilgrimage in Italy, he became a preacher at Nuremberg.[4] Another text claims that he was a Frankish nobleman who met Willibaldand Winibald in Italy (thus dating his life to the 8th century) and later became a missionary in the Sebalder Reichswald that is associated with his name.[4] Other legends claim he was either the son of the king of Denmark or a student in Paris who married a French princess, but then abandoned her on their wedding night to go on a pilgrimage to Rome. In these versions of the legend the Pope gave Sebaldus the mission of evangelising in the forests of Nuremberg, which gives his ancient presence there a papal authority.

 
 



Monument of St Sebaldus (Nuremberg)
 
 
 

Thursday, November 23, 2017

Algal Pangaea @ Colorado Lagoon

Had to cut my walk short in order to go to Polly's pies. My contribution. The algal Pangaea was something of a revelation (highlighted by the morning sun). Revelation #2 was the cloud of small birds practicing synchronized flying. Amazing!

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Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Clip: Sebald: "The Rings of Saturn"


The denial of time, so the tract on Orbius Tertius tells us, is one of the key tenets of the philosophical schools of Tlön. According to this principle, the future exists only in the shape of our present apprehensions and hopes, and the past merely as memory. In a different view, the world and everything now living in it was created only moments ago, together with its complete but illusory pre-history. A third school of thought variously describes our earth as a cul-de-sac in the great city of God, a dark cave crowded with incomprehensible images, or a hazy aura surrounding a better sun. The advocates of a fourth philosophy maintain that time has run its course and that this life is no more than the fading reflection of an event beyond recall. We simply do not know how many of its possible mutations the world may already have gone through, or how much time, always assuming that it exists, remains. All that is certain is that night lasts far longer than day, if one compares an individual life, life as a whole, or time itself with the system which, in each case, is above it. The night of time, wrote Thomas Browne in his treatise of 1658, The Garden of Cyrus, far surpasseth the day and who knows when was the Aequinox? – Thoughts of this kind were in my head too as I walked on along the disused railway line a little way beyond the bridge across the Blyth, and then dropped from the higher ground to the level of the marsh that extends southward from Walberswick as far as Dunwich, which now consists of a few houses only. The region is so empty and deserted that, if one were abandoned there, one could scarcely say whether one was on the North Sea coast or perhaps by the Caspian Sea or the Gul f of Lian-rung. With the rippling reeds to my right and the grey beach to my left, I pressed on toward Dunwich, which seemed so far in the distance as to be quite beyond my reach.

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

The King

Telephone pole by day, pontoon bridge by night.

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Monday, November 20, 2017

Demolition: Seaport: PCH & 2nd

Waiting for the dentist to open.

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Sunrise over Lowe's (Long Beach, CA)

Bucked near there (off of Bellflower) so I could get some painting equipment as soon as they opened. Touch up job.

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