Rosemarie Trockel Sculpture

Commercial Art for Wednesday

Verses

PAGE

This is the place; there, where the torch doth burn.

First Watchman

The ground is bloody; search about the churchyard:
Go, some of you, whoe'er you find attach.
Pitiful sight! here lies the county slain,
And Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead,
Who here hath lain these two days buried.
Go, tell the prince: run to the Capulets:
Raise up the Montagues: some others search:
We see the ground whereon these woes do lie;
But the true ground of all these piteous woes
We cannot without circumstance descry.

Re-enter some of the Watch, with BALTHASAR

Second Watchman

Here's Romeo's man; we found him in the churchyard.

First Watchman

Hold him in safety, till the prince come hither.

Re-enter others of the Watch, with FRIAR LAURENCE

Third Watchman

Here is a friar, that trembles, sighs and weeps:
We took this mattock and this spade from him,
As he was coming from this churchyard side.

First Watchman

A great suspicion: stay the friar too.

Enter the PRINCE and Attendants

PRINCE

What misadventure is so early up,
That calls our person from our morning's rest?

Enter CAPULET, LADY CAPULET, and others

CAPULET

What should it be, that they so shriek abroad?

LADY CAPULET

The people in the street cry Romeo,
Some Juliet, and some Paris; and all run,
With open outcry toward our monument.

PRINCE

What fear is this which startles in our ears?

First Watchman

Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain;
And Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before,
Warm and new kill'd.

PRINCE

Search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes.

First Watchman

Here is a friar, and slaughter'd Romeo's man;
With instruments upon them, fit to open
These dead men's tombs.

CAPULET

O heavens! O wife, look how our daughter bleeds!
This dagger hath mista'en--for, lo, his house
Is empty on the back of Montague,--
And it mis-sheathed in my daughter's bosom!

LADY CAPULET

O me! this sight of death is as a bell,
That warns my old age to a sepulchre.

Enter MONTAGUE and others

PRINCE

Come, Montague; for thou art early up,
To see thy son and heir more early down.

MONTAGUE

Alas, my liege, my wife is dead to-night;
Grief of my son's exile hath stopp'd her breath:
What further woe conspires against mine age?

PRINCE

Look, and thou shalt see.

MONTAGUE

O thou untaught! what manners is in this?
To press before thy father to a grave?

PRINCE

Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while,
Till we can clear these ambiguities,
And know their spring, their head, their
true descent;
And then will I be general of your woes,
And lead you even to death: meantime forbear,
And let mischance be slave to patience.
Bring forth the parties of suspicion.

FRIAR LAURENCE

I am the greatest, able to do least,
Yet most suspected, as the time and place
Doth make against me of this direful murder;
And here I stand, both to impeach and purge
Myself condemned and myself excused.

PRINCE

Then say at once what thou dost know in this.

FRIAR LAURENCE

I will be brief, for my short date of breath
Is not so long as is a tedious tale.
Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet;
And she, there dead, that Romeo's faithful wife:
I married them; and their stol'n marriage-day
Was Tybalt's dooms-day, whose untimely death
Banish'd the new-made bridegroom from the city,
For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pined.
You, to remove that siege of grief from her,
Betroth'd and would have married her perforce
To County Paris: then comes she to me,
And, with wild looks, bid me devise some mean
To rid her from this second marriage,
Or in my cell there would she kill herself.
Then gave I her, so tutor'd by my art,
A sleeping potion; which so took effect
As I intended, for it wrought on her
The form of death: meantime I writ to Romeo,
That he should hither come as this dire night,
To help to take her from her borrow'd grave,
Being the time the potion's force should cease.
But he which bore my letter, Friar John,
Was stay'd by accident, and yesternight
Return'd my letter back. Then all alone
At the prefixed hour of her waking,
Came I to take her from her kindred's vault;
Meaning to keep her closely at my cell,
Till I conveniently could send to Romeo:
But when I came, some minute ere the time
Of her awaking, here untimely lay
The noble Paris and true Romeo dead.
She wakes; and I entreated her come forth,
And bear this work of heaven with patience:
But then a noise did scare me from the tomb;
And she, too desperate, would not go with me,
But, as it seems, did violence on herself.
All this I know; and to the marriage
Her nurse is privy: and, if aught in this
Miscarried by my fault, let my old life
Be sacrificed, some hour before his time,
Unto the rigour of severest law.

PRINCE

We still have known thee for a holy man.
Where's Romeo's man? what can he say in this?

BALTHASAR

I brought my master news of Juliet's death;
And then in post he came from Mantua
To this same place, to this same monument.
This letter he early bid me give his father,
And threatened me with death, going in the vault,
I departed not and left him there.

PRINCE

Give me the letter; I will look on it.
Where is the county's page, that raised the watch?
Sirrah, what made your master in this place?

PAGE

He came with flowers to strew his lady's grave;
And bid me stand aloof, and so I did:
Anon comes one with light to ope the tomb;
And by and by my master drew on him;
And then I ran away to call the watch.

PRINCE

This letter doth make good the friar's words,
Their course of love, the tidings of her death:
And here he writes that he did buy a poison
Of a poor 'pothecary, and therewithal
Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.
Where be these enemies? Capulet! Montague!
See, what a scourge is laid upon your hate,
That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love.
And I for winking at your discords too
Have lost a brace of kinsmen: all are punish'd.

CAPULET

O brother Montague, give me thy hand:
This is my daughter's jointure, for no more
Can I demand.

MONTAGUE

But I can give thee more:
For I will raise her statue in pure gold;
That while Verona by that name is known,
There shall no figure at such rate be set
As that of true and faithful Juliet.

CAPULET

As rich shall Romeo's by his lady's lie;
Poor sacrifices of our enmity!

PRINCE

A glooming peace this morning with it brings;
The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;
Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished:
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

Exeunt

Love In This Club

Sadly, last night was the final episode of Logo's run of the BBC's Beautiful People. Although BBC is already filming season 2, I'm actually quite sad to see it go, even for a little while. Beautiful People was stunning and refreshing from the start--crazy enough to place one gay tween as the hero, with an even more gay tween sidekick! The show is set in the late 1990's (leaving obvious references to such gay squires as Posh Spice, Princess Diana, and the thousand and one boy/girl groups invading both our countries). Just find me a gay twentysomething that doesn't relate to this show in some way. Dare I say it, Logo, you actually appealed to a demographic!

The season finale left a few unanswered questions (mainly, Simon's mom really doesn't think he's gay?), but overall it gave that warm and fuzzy happy feeling I've lacked since Gilmore Girls went off the air. Here's to more wacky, overly supportive family comedy this fall(?).

And my favorite scene from this year (with a little unintentional nod to MJ just 'cuz):

Ugly Hearts

I don't quite have the energy to tackle THIS RACIST PIECE OF SHIT THAT MICHELLE MALKIN JUST POSTED (THE CONFOUNDING SECOND HIT ON A GOOGLE NEWS SEARCH OF TODAY'S MICHAEL JACKSON MEMORIAL SERVICE), but I thought it should be noted. Ultimately, it's pretty futile to argue with (or become incensed by) these sorts of flimsy extremist carpetbaggers, but it's just so hard not to boil over the low muck that's raked by Conservative (ha) pundits down our way.
Oooooooooooof. Boooooooooof. Bile.

The Homegoing

Maya Angelou and (H.R.H.) Q.L. and Pillow each noted, "We had him."--a wise, steady reminder of mortal blessings, the very sort we've all fallen out of touch with lately. The notion that an individual's existence/work/joy in work/(sorrows in life) were a gift to us, to the whole is...thrilling, affirming, happy.

And I was moved by Berry, who could recall a Michael unfamous, undiscovered, small and beautiful and full of promise.

I was moved by Al, with his unmistakable strut and acrobatic, ultra-poetic plainspeech: "It's not about mess. It's about his love message!....Your Daddy weren't strange!"

I was moved by Stevie, Motown's original boy-wonder, a person who knew Michael well, but never saw him, who was able to be a friend to him, a fan of him without ever viewing his self-mutilation, his all-too apparent self-doubt, self-confusion--anguish.

I was moved that Magic Johnson looked so healthy, and that Kobe knew not to speak.

I was moved by the Kings' words about work and purpose.

I was moved by Representative Sheila Jackson Lee's words about all of the Gary, Indiana Jacksons' "American story"-iedness, and by her insistence that "through wars" Michael had been our ambassador of good will, of what is fine about Americans--art.

I was moved by Germaine's delivery of Charlie Chaplin's ultra-American tune from Modern Life (how fitting!).

And of course, I was moved by Michael's daughter Paris, Aunt Janet (who looked exactly the way I want to look at any funeral I go to from now on) at her back, a child sharing this terrifying personal loss with the masses, a child surely aware of so many dark rumors, speculation that her father harmed her and her brothers, claiming aloud that he was good and that he loved them, from the start and unconditionally.

Altogether, it was a beautiful homegoing. In remembering Michael Jackson, we are remembering to live, to work, and to love. And we thank him.

Verses

"We Had Him"

Written by Maya Angelou

Read by Queen Latifah

Beloveds -

Now we know that we know nothing

Now that our bright and shining star

Can slip away from our fingertips

Like a puff of subtle wind, without notice

Our dear love can escape our doting embrace

Sing our songs among the stars

and walk our dances across the face of the moon

In the instant we learn that Michael is gone

We know nothing

No clocks can tell our time

and no oceans can rush our tides

With the abrupt absence of our treasure

Though we are many, each of us is achingly alone

Piercingly alone

Only when we confess our confusion

Can we remember that he was a gift to us

and we did have him

He came to us from the creator

Trailing creativity in abundance

Despite the anguish of life

He was sheathed in mother love, in family love

and survived

and did more than that

He thrived

With passion and compassion, humor and style

We had him

Whether we knew who he was

Or did not know

He was ours

and we were his

We had him

Beautiful

Delighting our eyes

He tipped his hat, slant over his brow

and took a pose on his toes for all of us

and we laughed and stomped our feet for him

We were enchanted with his passion

Because he held nothing

He gave us all he had been given

Today, in Toyko

Beneath the Eiffel Tower

In Ghana's Black Star Square

In Birmingham, Alabama and Birmingham, England

We are missing Michael Jackson

But we do know we had him

and we are the world

Ditto

Folk Art for Tuesday

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

Strange days. That's what *these* have been.

It began before Michael died (maybe with that combusted airplane out of Brasilia or that impromptu monsoon season, our June-length bout of SUPER-coastalness). But the weirds have only mushroomed since MJ's passing, since each of the celebrity "passages" of last week, since Billy Mays weathered a sticky landing at Tampa International Airport only—some 20 hours later—to be felled by an embolism at home.

I (and a few others) have been gripped by a general anxiety, starting at the lurch of a train or the pop of a firecracker, inadvertantly calling upon Jesus. Or really, envisioning Jesus (a thing I never do) as a masked avenger, as death chasing Billy Mays, as a headless horseman.

Petrova said last night: "Shit's finally catching up with people." And that settles it.

...Now I'll can the alarmism for another week--promeso.

View of a Room

Al Capone's restored cell at Eastern State Penitentiary, Philadelphia, PA (ca. 1929).

View of a Room

A restored original cell at Eastern State Penitentiary, Philadelphia, PA (ca. 1830).

The Best Thing Going (For Monday)

The revelation of Jackie and RFK's post-'63 affair--both lovely and terrible.

I'm OK. You're OK.

I was so worked up about this not being embeddable, I'm just linking it. So there. From The Legend of Billie Jean, the worst movie ever made, and--according to Pat--also the most asked-about film Linda Blair has encountered through her bizarre sci-fi/Comic-con career...

Slap Chop

Fourt

Adams and Liberty 
 
Written for, and sung at the fourth Anniversary of the Massachusetts Charitable Fire Society, 1798. 
 
Ye sons of Columbia, who bravely have fought, 
For those rights, which unstained from your Sires had descended, 
May you long taste the blessings your valour has brought, 
And your sons reap the soil which their fathers defended. 
'Mid the regin of mild Peace, 
May your nation increase, 
With the glory of Rome, and the wisdom of Greece; 
And ne'er shall the sons of Colmbia be slaves, 
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves. 
 
In a clime, whose rich vales feed the marts of the world, 
Whose shores are unshaken by Europe's commotion, 
The trident of Commerce should never be hurled, 
To incense the legitimate powers of the ocean. 
But should pirates invade, 
Though in thunder arrayed, 
Let your cannon declare the free charter of trade. 
For ne'er shall the sons, &c. 
 
The fame of our arms, of our laws the mild sway, 
Had justly ennobled our nation in story, 
'Till the dark clouds of faction obscured our young day, 
And enveloped the sun of American glory. 
But let traitors be told, 
Who their country have sold, 
And bartered their God for his image in gold, 
That ne'er will the sons, &c. 
 
While France her huge limbs bathes recumbent in blood, 
And Society's base threats with wide dissolution; 
May Peace like the dove, who returned from the flood, 
Find an ark of abode in our mild constitution 
But though Peace is our aim, 
Yet the boon we disclaim, 
If bought by our Sov'reignty, Justice or Fame. 
For ne'er shall the sons, &c. 
 
'Tis the fire of the flint, each American warms; 
Let Rome's haughty victors beware of collision, 
Let them bring all the vassals of Europe in arms, 
We're a world by ourselves, and disdain a division. 
While with patriot pride, 
To our laws we're allied, 
No foe can subdue us, no faction divide. 
For ne'er shall the sons, &c. 
 
Our mountains are crowned with imperial oak; 
Whose roots, like our liberties, ages have nourished; 
But lone e'er our nation submits to the yoke, 
Not a tree shall be left on the field where it flourished. 
Should invasion impend, 
Every grove would descend, 
From the hill-tops, they shaded, our shores to defend. 
For ne'er shall the sons, &c. 
 
Let our patriots destroy Anarch's pestilent worm; 
Lest our Liberty's growth should be checked by corrosion; 
Then let clouds thicken round us; we heed not the storm; 
Our realm fears no shock, but the earth's own explosion. 
Foes assail us in vain, 
Though their fleets bridge the main, 
For our altars and laws with our lives we'll maintain. 
For ne'er shall the sons, &c. 
 
Should the Tempest of War overshadow our land, 
Its bolts could ne'er rend Freedom's temple asunder; 
For, unmoved, at its portal, would Washington stand, 
And repulse, with his Breast, the assaults of the thunder! 
His sword, from the sleep 
Of its scabbard would leap, 
And conduct, with its point, ev'ry flash to the deep! 
For ne'er shall the sons, &c. 
 
Let Fame to the world sound America's voice; 
No intrigues can her sons from their government sever; 
Her pride is her Adams; Her laws are his choice, 
And shall flourish, till Liberty slumbers for ever. 
Then unite heart and hand, 
Like Leonidas' band, 
And swear to the God of the ocean and land; 
That ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves, 
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves. 
 
Words: Robert Treat Paine (1773-1811) 
Music: To Anacreon in Heaven 

Best Thing Going (For Thursday)

This here.

I'm Ready!

Fellowship

Folk Art for Tuesday

Happy Birthday Allegra Versace

After Saturday, the monsoons sort of subsided here, but not before stranding us in summer, or something very like it. Deaths and more deaths in Hollywood and Iran and an upswing in school's-out-for-ever gunplay in the 'hood and a mad, loose-at-the-pins sensation that is breezy or tense, depending on location and day of the week, and a persistent smell of garbage and Bernard Madoff's prison sentence and bad sleep and then funny dreams and also the beach and the future--

The Best Thing Going (For Monday)

This here.

Toy Soldiers

Mama and Papa Able eloped in 1968, but were not blessed with we two daughters until the early/middle eighties. If birth date determines inclusion in a particular generation, then neither of us could really be called Gen-X-ers. But since, despite our youth, we had Boomer-hippie parents and shopped at Contempo Casuals and dug all that bummy heroin music, I always felt we deserved a bit of an honorary place among them. All we missed was the 70s tykehood, which--really--is no small thing. Would Janeane Garofalo (or her Reality Bites iteration), all ironic barrettes and lunchbox purses, be possible without this video I've included below? No. So, nevermind.

Strange Fruit (Love Y'all)

My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin
My face like a mannequin

--Miss Britney Jean Spears on herself (and Michael and Lindsay and...)

Good Mojo For The Week

I actually really enjoy Little Boots and everything she's been doing lately, and I felt a strong impulse to mention her at this moment.

Yes and No (High and Low)

In Lighter News/Folk Art For The Weekend

Thanks To Jerry Holt of the Star Tribune in Minneapolis for this gem:
William Gratz (left) and Claire Boucher sat on their houseboat at the Minneapolis impound lot on Thursday afternoon. The young college students built their houseboat/raft with hope of sailing down the Mississippi river to New Orleans.

If It's Gonna Rain, Let It Rain

Elizabeth's Statement:
"My heart ... my mind ... are broken. I loved Michael with all my soul and I can't imagine life without him. We had so much in common and we had such loving fun together. I was packing up my clothes to go to London for his opening when I heard the news. I still can't believe it. I don't want to believe it. It can't be so. He will live in my heart forever but it's not enough. My life feels so empty. I don't think anyone knew how much we loved each other. The purest most giving love I've ever known. Oh God! I'm going to miss him. I can't yet imagine life without him. But I guess with God's help ... I'll learn. I keep looking at the photo he gave me of himself, which says, 'To my true love Elizabeth, I love you forever.' And, I will love HIM forever."
so that, and...

All right, we should be just about cried out now. For the record, the above played at the bar I work at around 6 and everybody just froze. Servers, bartenders, customers. We just kinda froze and listened. It was a weird kind of sobering.