warming up to these Zaderatsky preludes in c# and c:
(a faltering, teetering-on-a-melody melody)
("[don't] quit that moody brooding"!)
h
YOU ARE THE REASON

if i look back, i am lost

pixel skylines
d e v o n
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Mike Driver

Origami Around
I'd rather be in outer space đ¸
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⣠Chile in a Photography âŁ
will byers stan first human second
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me

â

Jar Jar Binks Fan Club

bliss lane

gracie abrams
NASA
Today's Document
we're not kids anymore.
seen from Indonesia

seen from TĂźrkiye

seen from United States

seen from Dominican Republic

seen from United States
seen from Vietnam
seen from Chile
seen from United States
seen from Canada
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seen from TĂźrkiye
seen from United States
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seen from United States
@unjustlyunread
warming up to these Zaderatsky preludes in c# and c:
(a faltering, teetering-on-a-melody melody)
("[don't] quit that moody brooding"!)
in potentia
â Paul ValĂŠry, from Analects, trans. Stuart Gilbert
(one of his more red-blooded pensĂŠes, but better than Goethe's one epigram about young and old women)
("if looks could [fecundate]")
Have we said enough now, and can we be released? [...] No; we must sing another incantation, if we can find another one that works against the pain. Perhaps what we have already said would do, if someone were to chant it repeatedly.
â Plotinus, appropriated from Hadot's Plotinus; or, The Simplicity of Vision
("What novel kind of incantation could we find?")
("Whenever I was downcast I asked Pistorius to play that passacaglia by the old master Buxtehude. Then I sat in the dark church in the evening, lost in that strange, intimate music which seemed to be submerged in itself, to be listening to itself[.]")
p.s.
Archie Shepp providing better forms (than words) for breath.
("In Inuit, 'to make poetry' is also 'to breathe'. Both derive from 'anerca' (the soul).")
people often mention that some of Wittgenstein's inheritance went to Rilke and Trakl, but we should also remember he sent a stranger in need some underwear he could spareâyou dropped your crown, king:
while looking for more context regarding a Wittgenstein quote used as an epigraph by Zwicky, i became merrily lost in the weedsâhere are some colourful excerpts from Drury's Conversations with Wittgenstein:
coda:
(refrain:
You canât imagine how clever you have to be in order to never be ridiculous. â Chamfort, trans. ParmĂŠe)
Mendelssohn's Variations sĂŠrieuses, op. 54 played by Brendel
("The work was written as part of a campaign to raise funds for the erection of a large bronze statue of Ludwig van Beethoven in his home town of Bonn.")
some slippery fishes:
(iykyk)
drollololololol:
(behold, a Russian beauty (and other stories in modern fiction))
(i was shopping for a Nabokov collection because of Gerald Murnane's "First Love", which also inspired me to readâin a Murnanian wayâother stories with the same title; so far, i've read Turgenev's and Beckett's, looking for more)
i recently read Kazuki Tomokawa's memoir, and the above excerpts made me think of how many people, like myself, who first heard this album not knowing anything about it, not even knowing the language, who were completely stunned from the first track to the last: Tomokawa managed to re-create his "bolt from the blue" (cf. ValĂŠry's task of the poet), he managed to transmit that lineal resonance.
(also: "the poet is an agent of destruction, a virus" lol
(perhaps a latent one))
Horowitz playing Rach's sonata no. 2, II. non allegro.
i love the way he mixes the two versions, and the string breaking was divine interventionâam undecided if malevolent or benevolent.
âIf walking on two legs is not natural to man it is certainly an invention that does him credit.â
â Lichtenberg, trans. Hollingdale
Yang Chu (c. 350 B.C.) wept at the cross-roads because whichever road he chose would lead to a new cross-roads and multiply the chances of having lost his way.
(poets and exponential sadness)
occasionally, this riotous scene, this Kafka-like parable by Werner Herzog comes to mind:
(... and ['zog] against all.)
((and this, too))
(the) two types of poet:
those who forget and those who keep re-membering.
for instance, Tu Fu's crows:
in his later poems:
("my old friends")
in his last poems:
an endnote:
("Li Po died as the legend says he died: out drunk in a boat, he fell into a river and drowned trying to embrace the moon.")
a translator's endnote from The Selected Poems of Tu Fu, trans. David Hinton
(to love from the distance of memory, from the distance of images)
("Here lostâI feel it drifting, this whole empty boat")