Alexandra
Is anything unclear?
is(being)
in fewer words
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Posted on 16th Jul at 4:27 PM

from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Book III, the myth of Actaeon

Posted on 16th Jul at 1:31 AM
listening to the early summer nordic sun-rise in your music

released 16 July 2014 

Evan Shay - Tenor Sax 
Sam Davis - Alto Sax & Clarinet 
Jake Wiens - Guitar 
Dominic Sbrega - Bass 
Guillaume Pilote - Drums 

Dominic Mekky - Sound Design 

Brian Chan & Philip Gosselin - Recording 
Brian Chan - Mixing & Mastering 

Recorded in Montreal, QC March 2014 

Posted on 9th Jul at 6:46 PM, with 1 note
Genesis 1-2:4, according to Frank Bidart (In The Western Night)
In the beginning, God made HEAVEN and EARTH.
The earth without form was waste.
DARKNESS was the face of the deep.
His spirit was the wind brooding over the waters.
*
In the darkness he said, LET THERE BE LIGHT.
There was light.
In the light he said, IT IS GOOD.
God, dividing darkness from light,
named light DAY and darkness NIGHT.
Night and day were the first day.
*
God said, LET THE FIRMAMENT
ARC THE EARTH.
The waters opened.
The ARC above the eath
divided the waters above from the waters below.
God named the arc, HEAVEN.
Night and day were the second day. 
View high resolution

Genesis 1-2:4, according to Frank Bidart (In The Western Night)

In the beginning, God made HEAVEN and EARTH.

The earth without form was waste.

DARKNESS was the face of the deep.

His spirit was the wind brooding over the waters.

*

In the darkness he said, LET THERE BE LIGHT.

There was light.

In the light he said, IT IS GOOD.

God, dividing darkness from light,

named light DAY and darkness NIGHT.

Night and day were the first day.

*

God said, LET THE FIRMAMENT

ARC THE EARTH.

The waters opened.

The ARC above the eath

divided the waters above from the waters below.

God named the arc, HEAVEN.

Night and day were the second day. 

Posted on 5th Jul at 7:39 AM, with 1 note
"For years, I had been asking myself what might be special or unique about the brains of the workshop writers I had studied. In my own version of a eureka moment, the answer finally came to me: creative people are better at recognizing relationships, making associations and connections, and seeing things in an original way—seeing things that others cannot see."
Why was it so hard for Nancy Andreasen to figure out this very obvious fact? #sciencestrugglingtoundestandliterature
Posted on 4th Jul at 8:11 AM, with 1,062 notes
magicsystem:

Milford Sound by __Nicolaa on Flickr.

|||
“… I, who used to imagine Paradise as a sort of library…" — Jorge Luis Borges
|||
(from the Mildred Boyer and Harold Morland-translation, Dreamtigers (1970))
||
Slow in my darkness, I explore
The hollow gloom with my hesitant stick — 
I, who used to picture Paradise
In such a library’s guise.
|
Something that surely cannot be called
Mere chance must rule these things;
Some other man has met this doom,
On other days among these books and in this dark.
|
As I walk through the slow galleries
I grow to feel with a kind of holy dread
That I am that other; I am the dead,
And the steps I make are also his.
|
Which of us two is writing now these lines
About a plural I and a single gloom?
What does it matter what word is my name
If the curse is indivisibly the same?
|
Whether Groussac or Borges, I gaze at this beloved
World that grows more shapeless, and its light
Dies down into a pale, uncertain ash

Resembling sleep and the oblivion of night.
View high resolution

magicsystem:

Milford Sound by __Nicolaa on Flickr.

|||

… I, who used to imagine Paradise as a sort of library…" — Jorge Luis Borges

|||

(from the Mildred Boyer and Harold Morland-translation, Dreamtigers (1970))

||

Slow in my darkness, I explore

The hollow gloom with my hesitant stick —

I, who used to picture Paradise

In such a library’s guise.

|

Something that surely cannot be called

Mere chance must rule these things;

Some other man has met this doom,

On other days among these books and in this dark.

|

As I walk through the slow galleries

I grow to feel with a kind of holy dread

That I am that other; I am the dead,

And the steps I make are also his.

|

Which of us two is writing now these lines

About a plural I and a single gloom?

What does it matter what word is my name

If the curse is indivisibly the same?

|

Whether Groussac or Borges, I gaze at this beloved

World that grows more shapeless, and its light

Dies down into a pale, uncertain ash

Resembling sleep and the oblivion of night.

Posted on 4th Jul at 7:25 AM, with 1 note
No one should read self-pity or reproach into this 
statement on THE MAJESTY OF GOD,
who, with such  splended   irony
granted me books & blindness at one touch.
|
Guardianship of this city of books He handed over to 
sightless eyes, which now can do no more than read 
in dream libraries the poor & senseless paragraphs
dawns deliver to wishful scrutiny. 
|
In vain, the day wastes on these eyes 
its infinite volume, as distant to me as 
the inaccessible tomes that perished 
long ago in Alexandria.
|
From hunger & from thirst (in the Greek story),
a prostrated king dies among gargens & fountains.
Aimlessly, endlessly I trace the confines, tall & 
profound, of this blind library. 
|
Cultures of East and of West, the entire atlas,
encyclopedias, centuries, dynasties,
symbols, the cosmos, and cosmogonies are 
offered from the shelves, all to no end. 
|
In shadows, with a tentative stick I try
the shallow twilight, slow & imprecise —
I, who always thought of Paradise, 
in form & in image, as a library. 
|
Something, which definitely is not defined
by the word ‘fate,’ determines all these things;
another man was given, on other evenings now gone,
these same books. He, too, was blind.
|
Wandering through the gradual galleries,
I often feel, with vague & holy dread,
I am that other, dead one, who attempted
the same uncertain steps on similar days. 
|
Which of the two is setting down this poem —
a single sightless self; a plural I?
What can it matter, then, the name that names me,
given our curse is common and the same?
|
Groussac or Gorges, now I look upon 
this dear world
losing shape, fading away into a pale, uncertain
ash-grey that feels like sleep, or else oblivion. 

No one should read self-pity or reproach into this 

statement on THE MAJESTY OF GOD,

who, with such splended irony

granted me books & blindness at one touch.

|

Guardianship of this city of books He handed over to 

sightless eyes, which now can do no more than read 

in dream libraries the poor & senseless paragraphs

dawns deliver to wishful scrutiny

|

In vain, the day wastes on these eyes 

its infinite volume, as distant to me as 

the inaccessible tomes that perished 

long ago in Alexandria.

|

From hunger & from thirst (in the Greek story),

a prostrated king dies among gargens & fountains.

Aimlessly, endlessly I trace the confines, tall & 

profound, of this blind library. 

|

Cultures of East and of West, the entire atlas,

encyclopedias, centuries, dynasties,

symbols, the cosmos, and cosmogonies are 

offered from the shelves, all to no end. 

|

In shadows, with a tentative stick I try

the shallow twilight, slow & imprecise

I, who always thought of Paradise, 

in form & in image, as a library. 

|

Something, which definitely is not defined

by the word ‘fate,’ determines all these things;

another man was given, on other evenings now gone,

these same books. He, too, was blind.

|

Wandering through the gradual galleries,

I often feel, with vague & holy dread,

I am that other, dead one, who attempted

the same uncertain steps on similar days. 

|

Which of the two is setting down this poem —

a single sightless self; a plural I?

What can it matter, then, the name that names me,

given our curse is common and the same?

|

Groussac or Gorges, now I look upon 

this dear world

losing shape, fading away into a pale, uncertain

ash-grey that feels like sleep, or else oblivion. 

Posted on 29th Jun at 6:36 PM, with 1,336 notes

pleoros:

Bernhard Lang - Winter Aerials

(from Katrine Pilcher Keuneman’s intro to her English translation of Roland Barthes’ “Criticism and Truth”)

|

|

The writer is the person for whom language is

problematical, not transparent; who lays emphasis

on the depths,

not the instrumentality, of language.

|

|

Posted on 29th Jun at 5:28 AM, with 343 notes
nurnielfa:

Walls and colors in Kastellet, Copenhagen, by Nur Nielfa


The Cloud

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY


   I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
         From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
         In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
         The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,
         As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
         And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
         And laugh as I pass in thunder.
   I sift the snow on the mountains below,
         And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night ‘tis my pillow white,
         While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
         Lightning my pilot sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
         It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
         This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
         In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
         Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
         The Spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in Heaven’s blue smile,
         Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
   The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
         And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
         When the morning star shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
         Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
         In the light of its golden wings.
And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
         Its ardours of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
         From the depth of Heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine aëry nest,
         As still as a brooding dove.
   That orbèd maiden with white fire laden,
         Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor,
         By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
         Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent’s thin roof,
         The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
         Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
         Till calm the rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
         Are each paved with the moon and these.
   I bind the Sun’s throne with a burning zone,
         And the Moon’s with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
         When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
         Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,
         The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
         With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,
         Is the million-coloured bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,
         While the moist Earth was laughing below.
   I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
         And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
         I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
         The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
         Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
         And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
         I arise and unbuild it again.
View high resolution

nurnielfa:

Walls and colors in Kastellet, Copenhagen, by Nur Nielfa

The Cloud

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

   I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
         From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
         In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
         The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,
         As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
         And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
         And laugh as I pass in thunder.

   I sift the snow on the mountains below,
         And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night ‘tis my pillow white,
         While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
         Lightning my pilot sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
         It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
         This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
         In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
         Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
         The Spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in Heaven’s blue smile,
         Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

   The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
         And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
         When the morning star shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
         Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
         In the light of its golden wings.
And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
         Its ardours of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
         From the depth of Heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine aëry nest,
         As still as a brooding dove.

   That orbèd maiden with white fire laden,
         Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor,
         By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
         Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent’s thin roof,
         The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
         Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
         Till calm the rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
         Are each paved with the moon and these.

   I bind the Sun’s throne with a burning zone,
         And the Moon’s with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
         When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
         Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,
         The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
         With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,
         Is the million-coloured bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,
         While the moist Earth was laughing below.

   I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
         And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
         I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
         The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
         Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
         And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
         I arise and unbuild it again.
Posted on 15th Jun at 9:47 PM, with 39 notes
"from Daddy

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time—
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du."
from “Daddy” by Sylvia Plath (via words-in-lines)
Posted on 11th Jun at 12:26 PM

Osk - Peace of Mind (live a cappella version)

Posted on 7th Jun at 1:25 PM, with 4 notes
koeb-en-havn:

Christiansborg


I have of late—but
wherefore I know not—lost all my mirth, forgone all
custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily
with my disposition that this goodly frame, the
earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most
excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave
o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted
with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to
me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason!
how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how
express and admirable! in action how like an angel!
in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the
world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me,
what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not
me: no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling
you seem to say so.
View high resolution

koeb-en-havn:

Christiansborg

I have of late—but

wherefore I know not—lost all my mirth, forgone all

custom of exercises; and indeed it goes so heavily

with my disposition that this goodly frame, the

earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most

excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave

o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted

with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to

me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.

What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason!

how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how

express and admirable! in action how like an angel!

in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the

world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me,

what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not

me: no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling

you seem to say so.

Posted on 30th May at 11:36 AM, with 4 notes
I was corrupted by Faust. And Shakespeare. And Proust. And Hemingway. But mostly I was corrupted by Dylan Thomas. Most people see me as a rake, womanizer, boozer and purchaser of large baubles. I`m all those things depending on the prism and the light. But mostly I`m a reader.
….
The house in Celigny some day will cave in under its own weight from the books. I hope I`m there when it does. One hundred six years old…

(Richard Burton, CBE )
View high resolution

I was corrupted by Faust. And Shakespeare. And Proust. And Hemingway. But mostly I was corrupted by Dylan Thomas. Most people see me as a rake, womanizer, boozer and purchaser of large baubles. I`m all those things depending on the prism and the light. But mostly I`m a reader.

….

The house in Celigny some day will cave in under its own weight from the books. I hope I`m there when it does. One hundred six years old…

(Richard Burton, CBE )

Posted on 27th May at 10:35 PM, with 7 notes

Sonnet 19: When I consider how my light is spent

BY JOHN MILTON

When I consider how my light is spent,
   Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
   And that one Talent which is death to hide
   Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
   My true account, lest he returning chide;
   “Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
   I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
   Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
   Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
   And post o’er Land and Ocean without rest:
   They also serve who only stand and wait.”
reblogged from alsothesetumbleweeds:
I x you 
Posted on 26th May at 12:05 PM, with 247 notes

“We believe that we know something about the things themselves when we speak of trees, colors, snow, and flowers; and yet we possess nothing but metaphors for things — metaphors which correspond in no way to the original entities.”

— Friedrich Nietzsche, “On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense

Start
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