Mar 30, 2010
Verses
THE COMPLAINTS OF KHAKHEPERRE-SONB
British Museum 5645, a Writing Board
(Middle of the Eighth Dynasty, Middle Kingdom—)
British Museum 5645, a Writing Board
(Middle of the Eighth Dynasty, Middle Kingdom—)
(first three stanzas)
Had I unknown phrases,
Sayings that are strange,
Novel, untried words,
Free of repitition;
Not transmitted phrases,
Spoken by the ancestors!
I wring out my body of what it holds,
In releasing all my words;
Had I unknown phrases,
Sayings that are strange,
Novel, untried words,
Free of repitition;
Not transmitted phrases,
Spoken by the ancestors!
I wring out my body of what it holds,
In releasing all my words;
For what was said is repetition,
When what was said is said.
Ancestor's words are nothing to boast of,
They are found by those who come after.
Not speaks one who spoke,
There speaks one who will speak,
May another find what he will speak!
Not a teller of tales after they happen,
This has been done before;
Nor a teller of what might be said,
This is vain endeavor, it is lies,
And none will recall his name to others.
I say this in accord with what I have seen:
From the first generation to those who come after,
They imitate that which is past.
Would that I knew what others ignore,
Such as has not been repeated,
To say it and have my heart answer me,
To inform it of my distress,
Shift to it the load on my back,
The matters that afflict me,
Relate to it of what I suffer
And sigh "Ah" with relief!...
Mar 29, 2010
Verses
If someone asked me today, "Ricky, what are you afraid of?" I would answer "the blood that runs through the streets of countries at war...child slavery, terrorism...the cynicism of some people in positions of power, the misinterpretation of faith." But fear of my truth? Not at all! On the contrary, It fills me with strength and courage.
----Ricky Martin, @ rickymartin.com, hoy
!
Verses
"There's a Small Hotel"
Lorenz Hart
1940
There's a small hotel
With a wishing well
I wish that we were there together
There's a bridal suite
One room bright and neat
Complete for us to share together
Looking through the window
You can see that distant steeple
Not a sign of people -- who wants people?
When the steeple bell says,
"Good night, sleep well,"
We'll thank the small hotel together
And when the steeple bell says,
"Good night, sleep well,"
We'll thank the small hotel together
With a wishing well
I wish that we were there together
There's a bridal suite
One room bright and neat
Complete for us to share together
Looking through the window
You can see that distant steeple
Not a sign of people -- who wants people?
When the steeple bell says,
"Good night, sleep well,"
We'll thank the small hotel together
And when the steeple bell says,
"Good night, sleep well,"
We'll thank the small hotel together
Last week (even though Alexa Chung was on the cover and it cost $10.oo), I bought a British Vogue at Port Authority.
In high school, Brit Vogue was my favorite Vogue, because I didn't read French and because Diana Vreeland's autobiography and a lot of other books and a night at Aspinall's and a lunch at Fortnum & Mason of shepherd's pie and banana milkshake and a Grazia magazine and a tallboy of cider had convinced me that I was destined for London, for the Courtauld and a bespoked, coldfish husband or something. I've changed my mind. London is grey and far and trashy without the BIG and convenience store of home (what I mean is: trashy but not as good at being trashy as here and also without nice malls and Walmarts and a million other things like deserts and baseball [not cricket]). And fashion magazines will never thrill me and inform me, as they did when I felt like a nervous and hopeful pre-debutante of the World; I can no longer see "blue skies ahead" in an accessories feature.
But Brit Vogue's still charming and dippy with like five Kate Moss covers per annum and a lot of fine little things you can buy at Liberty and reporting on new Airbus airplanes.
There was no interview with Alexa Chung, just four pictures of her in denim alongside an article about denim and romance of/with/in America. There was a whole lot about loving America in general, which is like 'sure YESS!' and very sweet.
A funny feature called, "Going Out vs. Staying In" imaged and styled two groups of female friends: a set of wealthy daughters-of-soandso, one of whom runs a public relations firm another who owns a new, swank nightclurrrb (our age! what?) in black leather, the other crowd, a bit younger, piling into a house in the far suburbs Upriver, models and musicians in vintage babydoll dresses and socks. The thing didn't stink of class-problems; mostly 'cause the "posh" girls were sort of Sex and the City and naff, yawn, nightclurrrb? And the girls in this Victorian house out-of-town were adorable and hip and inhabiting authentically beautiful space, principal among them a brunette called Marina who lists her influences: "Britney Spears, gymnasts, cheerleaders, anything American!" The article said her band was called Marina and the Diamonds. I looked her up on the Youtube and found:
The first is on-concept (right?) but pretty awful. The second is a big mezcla of stuff that's already happened and happened (and recently). But it's good. I like her vocal, and the EP is called American Jewels, and I guess I'm flattered. I'll pass out the next time I hear a Euro talking about American politics, but please do go on and on about our GLAMOUR (it's major.....like, TRACE CYRUS, featured below [who obv recycles a lot of British ideas but ones that kind of started as American ideas anyway and in Franklin, Tennessee and Hollywood, Orlando, and Twitter...]).
In high school, Brit Vogue was my favorite Vogue, because I didn't read French and because Diana Vreeland's autobiography and a lot of other books and a night at Aspinall's and a lunch at Fortnum & Mason of shepherd's pie and banana milkshake and a Grazia magazine and a tallboy of cider had convinced me that I was destined for London, for the Courtauld and a bespoked, coldfish husband or something. I've changed my mind. London is grey and far and trashy without the BIG and convenience store of home (what I mean is: trashy but not as good at being trashy as here and also without nice malls and Walmarts and a million other things like deserts and baseball [not cricket]). And fashion magazines will never thrill me and inform me, as they did when I felt like a nervous and hopeful pre-debutante of the World; I can no longer see "blue skies ahead" in an accessories feature.
But Brit Vogue's still charming and dippy with like five Kate Moss covers per annum and a lot of fine little things you can buy at Liberty and reporting on new Airbus airplanes.
There was no interview with Alexa Chung, just four pictures of her in denim alongside an article about denim and romance of/with/in America. There was a whole lot about loving America in general, which is like 'sure YESS!' and very sweet.
A funny feature called, "Going Out vs. Staying In" imaged and styled two groups of female friends: a set of wealthy daughters-of-soandso, one of whom runs a public relations firm another who owns a new, swank nightclurrrb (our age! what?) in black leather, the other crowd, a bit younger, piling into a house in the far suburbs Upriver, models and musicians in vintage babydoll dresses and socks. The thing didn't stink of class-problems; mostly 'cause the "posh" girls were sort of Sex and the City and naff, yawn, nightclurrrb? And the girls in this Victorian house out-of-town were adorable and hip and inhabiting authentically beautiful space, principal among them a brunette called Marina who lists her influences: "Britney Spears, gymnasts, cheerleaders, anything American!" The article said her band was called Marina and the Diamonds. I looked her up on the Youtube and found:
The first is on-concept (right?) but pretty awful. The second is a big mezcla of stuff that's already happened and happened (and recently). But it's good. I like her vocal, and the EP is called American Jewels, and I guess I'm flattered. I'll pass out the next time I hear a Euro talking about American politics, but please do go on and on about our GLAMOUR (it's major.....like, TRACE CYRUS, featured below [who obv recycles a lot of British ideas but ones that kind of started as American ideas anyway and in Franklin, Tennessee and Hollywood, Orlando, and Twitter...]).
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 18, 2010
View of a Room
Atelier Elvira. August Endell. Munich, 1900.
************************
In 1901 [Endell] moved to Berlin, where ten years later he designed five shops for the Salamander Shoe Company, each with large, sensitively detailed windows. In them, as [Karl Ernst Osthaus'] account reveals, ordinary goods seemed almost to evolve into living forms: "the passerby is arrested before them: silk clothes rustle around him, and before him lips open up, which he will kiss while wearing these boots."
--Pamela Kort, "Ernst Ludwig Kirchner's Berlin Street Scene (1913-14)"
Mar 17, 2010
Verses
'Siul a Rún'
Siúl, siúl, siúl, a rún, Siúl go socair agus siúl go cúin, Siúl go dti an doras agus ailig liom. Is go dteighigh tú a bhoirnín, slán.
I would I were on yonder hill. T'is there I'd sit and cry my fill, and every tear would turn a mill. Is go dteighigh tú a bhoirnín, slán.
I'll sell my rack. I'll sell my reel. I'll sell my only spinning wheel. To buy for my love a sword of steel. Is go dteighigh tú a bhoirnín, slán.
I'll dye my petticoats. I'll dye them red, and around the world, I'll beg my bread. Until my parents shall wish me dead. Is go dteighigh tú a bhoirnín, slán.
I wish. I wish. I wish in vain. I wish I had my heart again. And vainly think I'd not complain. Is go dteighigh tú a bhoirnín, slán.
But now my love has gone to France, to try his fortunes to advance. If e'er he come back, t'is but a chance. Is go dteighigh tú a bhoirnín, slán.
---(a young women urges her boyfriend to desert the army...'walk away my love, walk quietly, get up and go away with me...')
'Níl Sé Ina Lá'
Níl sé ina lá, níl a grá. Níl sé ina lá is ní bheidh go maidin,
Níl sé ina lá is ní bheidh go fóill, solas ard atá sa ghealaigh.
Chuaigh mé isteach i dteach aréir, is d'iarr mé cairde ar mhnaoi an leanna.
is é dúirt sí liom "Ní bhfaighidh tú deor. Buail an bóthar is gabh abhaile."
Chuir mé féin mo lámh i mo phóca, is d'iarr m«briseadh scillinge uirthi.
Is é dúirt sí liom "Suigh síos ag bord, is bí ag ól anseo go maidin."
"éirigh i do shuí, a fhear an tí, cuir ort do bhrístí is do hata.
Go gcoinne tú ceol leis an duine cóir, a bheas ag ól anseo go maidin."
Nach mise feín an fear gan chéill, a d'fhag mo chíos in mo scornaigh?
D'fhág mé léan orm féin, is d'fhág mé séan ar dhaoine eile.
---(the Irish version of the 'Wild Rover' in which a man is tricked into spending all night in a pub while spending the rent money...)
Siúl, siúl, siúl, a rún, Siúl go socair agus siúl go cúin, Siúl go dti an doras agus ailig liom. Is go dteighigh tú a bhoirnín, slán.
I would I were on yonder hill. T'is there I'd sit and cry my fill, and every tear would turn a mill. Is go dteighigh tú a bhoirnín, slán.
I'll sell my rack. I'll sell my reel. I'll sell my only spinning wheel. To buy for my love a sword of steel. Is go dteighigh tú a bhoirnín, slán.
I'll dye my petticoats. I'll dye them red, and around the world, I'll beg my bread. Until my parents shall wish me dead. Is go dteighigh tú a bhoirnín, slán.
I wish. I wish. I wish in vain. I wish I had my heart again. And vainly think I'd not complain. Is go dteighigh tú a bhoirnín, slán.
But now my love has gone to France, to try his fortunes to advance. If e'er he come back, t'is but a chance. Is go dteighigh tú a bhoirnín, slán.
---(a young women urges her boyfriend to desert the army...'walk away my love, walk quietly, get up and go away with me...')
'Níl Sé Ina Lá'
Níl sé ina lá, níl a grá. Níl sé ina lá is ní bheidh go maidin,
Níl sé ina lá is ní bheidh go fóill, solas ard atá sa ghealaigh.
Chuaigh mé isteach i dteach aréir, is d'iarr mé cairde ar mhnaoi an leanna.
is é dúirt sí liom "Ní bhfaighidh tú deor. Buail an bóthar is gabh abhaile."
Chuir mé féin mo lámh i mo phóca, is d'iarr m«briseadh scillinge uirthi.
Is é dúirt sí liom "Suigh síos ag bord, is bí ag ól anseo go maidin."
"éirigh i do shuí, a fhear an tí, cuir ort do bhrístí is do hata.
Go gcoinne tú ceol leis an duine cóir, a bheas ag ól anseo go maidin."
Nach mise feín an fear gan chéill, a d'fhag mo chíos in mo scornaigh?
D'fhág mé léan orm féin, is d'fhág mé séan ar dhaoine eile.
---(the Irish version of the 'Wild Rover' in which a man is tricked into spending all night in a pub while spending the rent money...)
Love In This Club: Hole. Yes, Hole...
I know Courtney Love looks like a Mickey Rourke muppet in a wig. I know Frances Bean is counting down the days until she can poison her during their "Reconciliation Thanksgiving dinner," but I still cannot find a single thing wrong with this song. Just give it a listen, and tell me you don't want to find some Urban Decay nail polish and go crazy:
Mar 16, 2010
Mar 15, 2010
Mar 14, 2010
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