tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71527187428792048872024-02-24T03:02:54.756-06:00Shea's Zibaldonea hodgepodge blog by R. R. SheaAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.comBlogger169125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-69496995703407389682015-03-11T04:21:00.000-05:002015-03-11T04:21:26.559-05:00A few books I've enjoyedI have family in town, and unlike the stereotypical disaster that proposition holds for some, I love having them here. This is because they are not only good people and extremely funny, but because they are readers. A few days ago I was asked what books and authors I've really enjoyed lately. Here is my response:<br />
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<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">Some favorites</span><br />
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<br /></div>
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Poetry</div>
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<br /></div>
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Songbook by Umberto Saba</div>
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Canti by Leopardi</div>
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Love poems by Pablo Neruda</div>
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<br /></div>
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Fiction</div>
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<br /></div>
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Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon</div>
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My brilliant friend by Elena Ferrante</div>
<div style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0980392); color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.701961); font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; text-decoration: -webkit-letterpress;">
The Maias by Eça de Quieros</div>
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Club of Angels by Luis Fernando Verissimo</div>
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Maidenhair by Mikhail Shishkin</div>
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Ways of going home by Alejandro Zambra</div>
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My Struggle [vol.1] by Karl Ove Knausgaard</div>
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Nada by Carmen Laforet</div>
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Swann's Way by Marcel Proust </div>
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Piano Stories by Felisberto Hernandez</div>
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The Insufferable Gaucho by Roberto Bolaño </div>
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All Souls by Javier Marías</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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Other:</div>
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<br /></div>
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The consolations of philosophy by Alain de Botton</div>
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The architecture of happiness by Alain de Botton</div>
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A time of gifts by Patrick Leigh Fermor</div>
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Between the woods and the water by Patrick Leigh Fermor</div>
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Danube by Claudio Magris</div>
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The story of art by E. H. Gombrich</div>
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Soccer in Sun and Shadow by Eduardo Galeano</div>
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An intimate history of humanity by Theodore Zeldin</div>
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The art of happiness by Epicurus </div>
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Wind, Sand, and Stars by Antoine de Saint-exupéry</div>
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Cosmopolitanism by Kwame Anthony Appiah</div>
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The art of travel by Alain de Botton</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-14097701834865412502015-02-26T14:41:00.003-06:002015-02-26T14:41:33.598-06:00Back in the saddle. In the last five months, I have been battling cancer and neglecting this blog. The cancer remains and I keep fighting, but I think it is time for me to start blogging again. Out time is finite, and I can think of very few things I would rather do thank be with my family and talk about literature here with friends.<br />
<br />
Posts are coming. Cheers to all.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-58311185235815781882014-10-07T18:47:00.002-05:002014-10-07T18:47:45.838-05:00And the Nobel will go to...
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Thursday the Nobel Prize in Literature
is announced, and so I continue my tradition of failing to pick the
winner. My record is 100 percent at not being even close to reality. So, here we go again. Play along at home.</div>
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<br />
</div>
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First, five I feel deserve to win (the certain kiss of death to winning chances, sorry Javier):</div>
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<br />
</div>
<ol>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Javier Marías</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Cesar Aira</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Pascal Quignard</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mikhail Shishkin</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Karl Ove Knausgaard</div>
</li>
</ol>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Next, three likely to win:</div>
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<br />
</div>
<ol>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Haruki Murakami</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Adonis</div>
</li>
</ol>
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<br />
</div>
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<br />
</div>
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And three who could win but should not:</div>
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<br />
</div>
<ol>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Haruki Murakami</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Peter Handke</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Philip Roth</div>
</li>
</ol>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And you? Who do you pick?</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-89541105744439024392014-09-24T14:31:00.001-05:002014-09-24T14:31:37.853-05:00a poem for September going into October<style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.08in; }</style>
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The little white death is coming.
</div>
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Nothing existential or forever,</div>
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just the first snows</div>
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<br /></div>
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that blot out the tired grass
</div>
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and the golden carpet of leaves
</div>
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that have surrendered themselves</div>
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<br /></div>
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as messiah-like sacrifices to the
future,</div>
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so that all might live and rise</div>
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again in the Spring.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-27901051531191858502014-08-26T10:20:00.002-05:002014-08-26T10:20:46.221-05:00school is in sessionMy little princess is ready for her first day of second grade.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBk8phO-smRLTXiJWApcpUCle4Cwg-evYvWZ22zDVwIRdaA4AbsSAJ3NBYVn9GQDESIUmPW7qxNQepxhGtmuR8HNuO11xgqWp6wP27N-iiM4v2mbh1B6fsZ_pb7cujgYSeNVFR-rPhvn6g/s1600/1stday2nd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBk8phO-smRLTXiJWApcpUCle4Cwg-evYvWZ22zDVwIRdaA4AbsSAJ3NBYVn9GQDESIUmPW7qxNQepxhGtmuR8HNuO11xgqWp6wP27N-iiM4v2mbh1B6fsZ_pb7cujgYSeNVFR-rPhvn6g/s1600/1stday2nd.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-74688455255385731952014-08-26T09:58:00.000-05:002014-08-26T10:02:36.618-05:00A historical poem of sorts<style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.08in; }</style>
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The Road to Rome<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwXCNKYH2BassUMgSVu-s6VSvpCqiDSNFVU_4YoaAt2Ume3yW8B3xmtEN7-sRbFfxsZ6QNAEqx9r9_I_u0Iijjv9MCrW4twPrF8RPYFZ5X-WaKGH9NWILgr1ar3tZoD8oQ7dM_eU2131zv/s1600/The-Destruction-of-Pompei-007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwXCNKYH2BassUMgSVu-s6VSvpCqiDSNFVU_4YoaAt2Ume3yW8B3xmtEN7-sRbFfxsZ6QNAEqx9r9_I_u0Iijjv9MCrW4twPrF8RPYFZ5X-WaKGH9NWILgr1ar3tZoD8oQ7dM_eU2131zv/s1600/The-Destruction-of-Pompei-007.jpg" height="192" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
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<br />
It's August 26, AD 79.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A young boy walks the road to Rome, his
feet calloused and his ears now broken by the horrific blasts he has
heard. Never again will he hear the sounds of birds or of other
little boys or girls. He will never again hear his mother's voice,
because he is now deaf, and she is now dead. His world is a pillar
of smoke. Just a week before, he laughed as his father read him a
dirty poem carved on a stone wall as they both went to the market.
His strong father, a merchant, was building a future for the boy, a
future of prosperity, a future undercut by total death.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Horses pass the boy, and he cannot hear
the voices of the soldiers and engineers who have been sent from Rome
to assess the scope of the catastrophe. “Boy,” they shout.
“Boy!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The boy shuffles on, emotions and
awareness now as buried as his home. He has escaped with a few other
stragglers.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Forget him,” one soldier says.
“He's like the others we've met. On to Pompeii.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-54707319699901694692014-08-26T09:26:00.004-05:002014-08-26T09:26:44.218-05:00a poem for a Tuesday
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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My words are about you, about your taut
skin</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and the seaside blue of your eyes and
the heat</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
pulsating from my cathedral, your body.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My words are about you, my greatest
desire,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
my poor words, impoverished and
dependent
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
on adjectives, nouns, verbs...trifles.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My words are about you, they are
calloused ropes</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
set to ensnare you, to halt time and
rip space</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and hold you steady and immortal.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My words are about you, and so about me</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and my futile attempts to work base
metals
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
into refined gold.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My words are about you, poor offerings
from a poor beggar,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the only thing I can give you since you
already
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
have my beating heart.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My words are about you, and I sing them
like a bird</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
freed from the cage sings a song
carried</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
aloft on white tufts of cloud.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My words are about you, and now I
listen</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
as you cast forth the spell of your
words,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and our words are about us.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
RR Shea </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-9823387696813850462014-08-20T11:22:00.003-05:002014-08-20T11:22:59.690-05:00Paragraphs from friendsBehold:<br />
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Here are a few passages written by some of you. I've excluded names and included artwork. Misspellings and errors in punctuation are probably my own, and I do apologize for any I have made in retyping what you have sent me. Enjoy!<br />
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The woman on the bench liked her coffee
dark and sweet - I could smell as much from where I was leaned
against a tree, occasionally pretending to try to read. Heading to
the park to be away from distraction always seemed like a good idea
beforehand, but much like dry-shaving or having just one more drink,
it never ended the way one would hope. There were always kids or
lovers or homeless or cops enough to keep me from settling in to even
the most gripping novel, and as soon as I'd slogged mindlessly
through a few pages (which would have to be re-read), I'd re-realize
my folly, pull up camp, and head back home, the whole round trip
wasted. This time the catalyst for my capitulation would end up being
her coffee. I hadn't had any yet that morning, and my envy noisily
churned my gut. I shoved Kafka back in my bag and turned the
attention he'd been getting, and then some, to the Lady of the Mug.
She held her orange, pear-bottomed mug with her palm against the
bowl, hand threaded through the handle. Her index finger traced the
small arc of the lip that it could reach, back and forth as if
pacing. She was unperturbed by tendrils of her hair whisking across
her face, and I envied her composure, tucking the few strands that
had been courting my nostrils back behind my ear. Between the
metronome-like arcs she traced above her coffee and her absolute
stillness, I was almost certain that she was meditating - another
thing that I, as twitchiness personified, seemed incapable of doing.
Contemplating my shakey hands, I noticed that her mug didn't even
have a lid on it! How, I still wonder, had she gotten it from home to
the park bench without spilling? Just as I was adding her to the long
list of people who have all the peace I will never attain, I noticed
a bitterness flit across her face, as though she'd taken a sip, only
to find all the sugar filtered out. A mix of schadenfreude and
concern kept me watching, and the look reappeared a few more times,
like the shadows cast by a herd of small summer clouds. I walked over
to the bench and sat two butt-widths away from her, willing her to
look over so that I could smile.</div>
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A Green Line Connects Everyone Girl in
a short red skirt and a stripped black and white shirt, too nervous
to sit. Instead she stands awkwardly with her bike, wondering if
anyone is looking in her direction. A couple have a loud conversation
in plain view of everyone around, without making a sound, just a
fluttering of fingers. Happy, kissing, staring, without a care in the
world. A black man with a shiny bald head staring out the window as
the people and buildings and vehicles roll by us rolling by, biting
his fingernails, button down white shirt, lost in random thoughts The
person behind me, back to the wall, not moving not talking, trying to
be unnoticed. A black shirt, a black hat, a look not to be trifled
with The middle aged man enters on his phone, talking business, and
more business, eyes constantly on his phone because to to be doing
nothing is a waste of time The old man in the blue shirt, tucked into
his pants a bit too far, carrying a book but never opening it,
confused by technology but out in the world none the less Two twenty
something Indian sisters full of smiles, making plans, big and small,
into the city full of endless possibility.</div>
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Her head on his shoulder,</div>
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A glass of Tuaca in her hand;</div>
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It is late and she gazes off</div>
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With a faraway look until</div>
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Someone speaks</div>
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and she comes alive</div>
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blonde hair, ponytail</div>
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young and pretty</div>
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her head nestled
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on my son’s shoulder.</div>
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She is up with the sun and now sits on
my bed, her legs dangling over the edge, golden hair in tangles and the color of wheat in high summer. Her skin is more golden, enriched by the the sleep of the previous night and by dreams and by her blood, which is partially my blood, replenishing her cells. She buries her little face in the thick and furry neck of her beloved dog, an early morning intruder who has also taken
up residence on my bed. The dog opens his eyes a brief moment,
ascertains the situation, releases a sigh of obligation to the girl
who adores him, closes his eyes and fades back into sleep. I have
put my book down and now watch this morning scene play out. The
birds sing outside and, if I listen closely enough, I can hear the
hum of the city as it begins to wake, as cars begin to depart for
their morning destinations and I begin another day with my girl.
Only the empty space where my wife slept last night, abandoned much
earlier this morning as she too went off to work, besmirches this
gorgeous landscape. It is morning. It is glorious. It will come
again.</div>
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Here sits an old woman, perhaps a
grandmother, perhaps a long lost lonely lover, a teacher or just a
surviving housewife. She wears very traditional clothing in
accordance with an orthodox church of times past. A long, dark brown
skirt, cut just below her ankles as to show no skin. She wears a
once-white long sleeve blouse with a floral pattern, but tinted an
off yellow color, indistinguishable due to the use of the shirt, the
water it is washed in, or just a reflection of the age of the woman
wearing that blouse.
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On her head she wears a dark reddish
brown scarf, to protect her ears and hair from the dust and to keep
her fragile body’s warmth in. For warmth and tradition, the same
reason she wears black sox and sandals. Next to her feet rests the
end of her cane. The cane very much matching her looks: dry,
weathered, and worn out. This is what I see as I walk towards this
old woman sitting on a bench in the parking lot outside of her
apartment complex.
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She just sits and watches time go by.
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For at that age is there anything to
think about besides what deceptive input comes in through one, two,
or all of the senses at once? Being overburdened by stimulus, once
something is grasped it has already slipped away in the river of
input that is constantly bombarding the aging processor. Thought is
better left to be done in places such as the quite stillness of
church, or the personal privacy of the water closet, where
disturbances are infrequent and not interrupting at best, and
thoughts can link together through the ambiguity of synapses. Here,
as she watches time pass and perhaps unknowingly observes the sense
of detachment she feels from what once she knew to be real; she
lashes out at the fledging pigeons that walk on her sidewalk in front
of her bench or behind her, on her weeds and her garden. She protects
what she can with her extension of arm to keep time from taking what
she can grasp for now, as real.
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-19540347191744688352014-08-19T08:07:00.001-05:002014-08-19T10:58:16.295-05:00Paragraphs comingThank you to everyone who sent me their descriptive paragraphs. I plan on putting them up today or tomorrow, and if you still wish to submit one, I'll take it. If I've already uploaded the paragraphs, I can add it in an edit. Cheers, allAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-7782049584651391522014-08-15T10:54:00.001-05:002014-08-15T10:56:28.057-05:00Would you like to write desccriptive paragraph?<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">A
writing challenge for all who are so inclined: in the next day or two,
observe someone - a stranger if possible - in public, describe them,
what they are doing, what you think they are thinking about. Just a
paragraph or two. Send it to me an <a href="mailto:richard.r.shea@gmail.com" target="_blank">email</a> and I will put all
of them on my blog without any names. It might be interesting, and
being anonymous might give you a little more freedom in your writing.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-8926436877166446342014-08-09T08:53:00.001-05:002014-08-09T08:53:43.411-05:00The upcoming novel by Javier Marías
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I
haven't found much about this in English, but the Spanish papers and
blogosphere are abuzz with news of a new novel. “So Bad Begins”,
the new novel by Javier Marías, comes out in the Spanish-speaking
world on September 23, 2014, published as usual by Alfaguara.</div>
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Javier Marias states this
about his new novel: "It's a book about desire as one of the
strongest engines in the lives of people, which sometimes overrides
any loyalty, consideration and even respect in the treatment of
others. Another theme of the novel is the impunity and the
arbitrariness of forgiveness and no forgiveness. The idea of
justice demands that people sometimes have much to do with the
act itself and that does and does not affects us.” <br /><br />Please
note that translation errors from the Spanish sources are entirely my own.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-84695360019882123472014-08-06T16:17:00.000-05:002014-08-06T16:17:36.994-05:00you carry a swordIn a world of text message embraces<br />
And social media heart-to-hearts<br />
You carry a sword<br />
<br />
At your side<br />
<br />
And you hold a flower in your hand,<br />
The flower of peace and strength<br />
For your friends<br />
<br />
And the gleaming sword...<br />
<br />
The words of so many people<br />
Are like claps of thunder<br />
From a receding storm,<br />
<br />
Meaningless reverberations.<br />
<br />
But your words are the blade of your<br />
Flashing sword, cutting true and noble<br />
Into the wall of suspicion,<br />
<br />
The barrier I have built.<br />
<br />
For we lock ourselves in our own prisons<br />
Waiting to be freed, not strong enough<br />
To sever our own chains, needing<br />
<br />
A sword of comradeship.<br />
<br />
Let us leave the imperfect<br />
To the imperfect,<br />
And sally forth,<br />
<br />
our heads held high, <br />
<br />
Our blades at our sides<br />
And our hearts true and ready<br />
In friendship<br />
<br />
Flowers in our outstretched hands.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-3334348838163435312014-07-29T21:48:00.002-05:002014-07-29T21:48:56.332-05:00poem after watching my daughter swim
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She skims like a swan across the water</div>
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as fear evaporates into a dark cloud</div>
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and is blown away and scattered.</div>
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The white dresses of passing feminine
time</div>
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loom in the distance, one possible</div>
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harbor on her adventures.</div>
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Yet, other paths open up and an
archipelago
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of unpredictable futures stretches out
along</div>
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the horizon. Each stroke of the swim</div>
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Moves her closer to the bounty of her
choices</div>
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but as she glides, the opposite edges
of the island</div>
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chain become harder to steer toward.</div>
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Progress cuts off possibility, but
still she swims,</div>
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the swan out on the sea, traversing her
life</div>
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toward her awaiting destiny.</div>
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On which island will she land and how
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shall she tread upon the sea?</div>
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Swim, my swan, to destiny.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-18497262645407353442014-07-26T21:22:00.001-05:002014-07-26T21:22:17.857-05:00Luis Fernando VerissimoLuis Fernando Verissimo writes amazing books. <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/player/Radio/Writers+and+Company/ID/2453944714/" target="_blank">Here</a> is a great interview with him from the CBC.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-5019415766897148102014-07-21T07:19:00.001-05:002014-07-21T07:19:10.202-05:00poem 21 July 2014
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A soft flow of sweet milk drips down</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
from the vault of the sky,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
from the stars</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Onto the dry crust of thirsty bread</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
that is the baked earth,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the land.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I have kissed her cheek and her hand</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and with my own hand</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
carressed her face</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And numbered and named the celestial</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
bodies just to see the corners</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
of her pouting lips</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Raise up like unattended balloons</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
with strings cut by jesters</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and without anchors.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then the drip of milk becomes a trickle</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and the bread of the earth</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
cracks and crumbles</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But the stars in the sky persist,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the stars forever flowing</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and her lips rising.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
RR Shea </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-26842401085993725942014-07-20T20:55:00.002-05:002014-07-20T20:56:04.940-05:00A little Sunday Saraceni<style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.08in; }</style>
<br />
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Here are Four works to contemplate for
a fine Sunday evening, all of them by Carlo Saraceni. The Getty has
a good blurb on the artist:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<b> Carlo Saraceni </b>
</div>
b. about 1579 Venice, Italy, d. 1620 Venice, Italy <br />
Painter
<br />
Italian
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Carlo Saraceni dressed in French
clothes, spoke French fluently, and had French followers, but he
never visited France and his jewel-like painting style was most
influenced by German and Italian artists. <br />
<br />
After training in
his birthplace of Venice, Saraceni settled in Rome in 1598. He had
joined the Accademia di San Luca by 1607. In the early 1600s,
Saraceni painted small-scale biblical and mythological subjects on
copper, then a relatively new support in Rome. German artist Adam
Elsheimer's style inspired the vast landscape settings that Saraceni
began using so frequently and so well; their paintings were regularly
confused. <br />
<br />
After Elsheimer and Caravaggio died in 1610,
Saraceni seems to have inherited their market. Primarily occupied
with public commissions, he painted numerous altarpieces in and
around Rome. He grew increasingly interested in Caravaggio's art,
painting larger figures, subtle light effects, and momentary actions.
Elsheimer's influence remained equally strong: Saraceni continued
creating Elsheimer-inspired poetic landscape backgrounds.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And the works:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSepjVJOZo3Hqd9601hgu33QsHONX9R4g4r1rnP3226Vx4rOuVT3YJRfBth1mU18FiybwcmYM0gP3HnFksztytSEdi1twDnKpbMqTF_3RdFFPQGkudpbS0osOvJ8DlbrGC_Jko6xa0WDAO/s1600/carlo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSepjVJOZo3Hqd9601hgu33QsHONX9R4g4r1rnP3226Vx4rOuVT3YJRfBth1mU18FiybwcmYM0gP3HnFksztytSEdi1twDnKpbMqTF_3RdFFPQGkudpbS0osOvJ8DlbrGC_Jko6xa0WDAO/s1600/carlo.jpg" height="320" width="255" /></a></div>
Mary Magdalene Reading <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JlSc5WMT0Sifw4X0CVJW63UQEqJgrPcKDAtQIRz0hhA719Uh-Tcj6snQkDXIbPLNsaZE1_dICiQq6QDS91J_3nRPtsRlNsX6DyaFrcgC7joIBaXh3rjeO1CCXm83jRDlFVPdWbOhIztH/s1600/Carlo_Saraceni_-_Saint_Cecilia_and_the_Angel_-_WGA20829.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2JlSc5WMT0Sifw4X0CVJW63UQEqJgrPcKDAtQIRz0hhA719Uh-Tcj6snQkDXIbPLNsaZE1_dICiQq6QDS91J_3nRPtsRlNsX6DyaFrcgC7joIBaXh3rjeO1CCXm83jRDlFVPdWbOhIztH/s1600/Carlo_Saraceni_-_Saint_Cecilia_and_the_Angel_-_WGA20829.jpg" height="320" width="252" /></a></div>
<br />
St Cecilia and the Angel <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj94Q9XBBszFPtqRkjy6uGvHeqaCIPAzCKZJ4EkFkXNVOLdVhBNoZsEvFcYsQUv7EzKjnDNTMMnfYkJaj1v8JXZiUugXCyyHNlofXYWzIs6ZD0dMRJgWd4ZGtzWQKRugLR8YIHwGwn7936/s1600/Carlo_Saraceni_-_The_Martyrdom_of_St_Cecilia_-_WGA20831.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj94Q9XBBszFPtqRkjy6uGvHeqaCIPAzCKZJ4EkFkXNVOLdVhBNoZsEvFcYsQUv7EzKjnDNTMMnfYkJaj1v8JXZiUugXCyyHNlofXYWzIs6ZD0dMRJgWd4ZGtzWQKRugLR8YIHwGwn7936/s1600/Carlo_Saraceni_-_The_Martyrdom_of_St_Cecilia_-_WGA20831.jpg" height="320" width="233" /></a></div>
The martyrdom of St Cecilia <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7pdPkxuYi5FK_0xzR5FweiUHIqEou20L1AmvO-j-HzWQFfelUkYWZ-Vbx0zz0DdRSKpwqqbAhXFWd71UveOYFWtcktNwgI90Qvs-wX1opHphv1v2KXrlizftFPl5Fd7ARtkEmDTfjcQmI/s1600/IcarusSaraceni.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7pdPkxuYi5FK_0xzR5FweiUHIqEou20L1AmvO-j-HzWQFfelUkYWZ-Vbx0zz0DdRSKpwqqbAhXFWd71UveOYFWtcktNwgI90Qvs-wX1opHphv1v2KXrlizftFPl5Fd7ARtkEmDTfjcQmI/s1600/IcarusSaraceni.jpg" height="242" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Icarus Burial</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-56996745956676177732014-07-16T23:23:00.004-05:002014-07-16T23:23:56.133-05:00What will my daughter need to read?
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<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I find list-making, especially as it
applies to reading lists, to be simultaneously soothing and
infuriating. I am happy that English departments at places like
Oxford University often eschew a list and instead encourage
applicants to read widely and much. That advice in hand, it is still
true that the dons and tutors expect their incoming English students
to have read Jane Ausen, a good amount of Shakespeare, and the
Brontes. The canon remains, though it is in need of constant
revision and update. I wonder: when my daughter gets ready for
college in 11 short years, what will she be required to have read,
and what will she have read to make her ready?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'd like to provide two lists here of a
dozen literature books I want her to have read, probably in her last
few summers before going off to school. The first will be rather
obvious, but it will exclude such items as “Hamlet,” for I would
hope that between her excellent school , our private book collection,
and parenting, she will have the basics down. “Pride and
Predjuice,” Shakespeare, and some Chaucer are givens. Not all
works are originally written in English, but most are.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The second list is mostly literature in
translation, some of it is well-known, and I believe all of it is
criminally under-read by both students and adults.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And so:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The obvious list:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<ol>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Opinions-Tristram-Shandy-Gentleman-Classics/dp/0199532893/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405569986&sr=1-1&keywords=tristram+shandy" target="_blank">Tristram Shandy</a> by Laurence Sterne</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Inferno-Dante/dp/0385496982/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405570026&sr=1-5&keywords=dante+inferno" target="_blank">The Inferno</a> by Dante</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Selected-Writings-Oxford-Worlds-Classics/dp/0199539243/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405570064&sr=1-1&keywords=John+Ruskin" target="_blank">Selected writings</a> of John Ruskin</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Dubliners-Penguin-Classics-Deluxe-Editio/dp/0143107453/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405570100&sr=1-3&keywords=dubliners" target="_blank">Dubliners</a> by James Joyce</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Don-Quixote-Miguel-Cervantes/dp/0060934344/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405570140&sr=1-3&keywords=cervantes" target="_blank">Don Quixote</a> by Cervantes</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Count-Monte-Cristo-Everymans-Library/dp/0307271129/ref=sr_1_8?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405570181&sr=1-8&keywords=dumas+count" target="_blank">The Count of Monte Cristo</a> by Dumas
pere</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Red-Black-Penguin-Classics/dp/0140447644/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405570253&sr=1-1&keywords=The+red+and+the+black" target="_blank">The Red and the Black</a> by Stendhal</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Candide-Optimism-Penguin-Classics-Deluxe/dp/0143039423/ref=sr_1_6?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405570307&sr=1-6&keywords=candide" target="_blank">Candide</a> by Voltaire</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Swanns-Way-Search-Penguin-Classics/dp/0142437964/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405570345&sr=1-1&keywords=swann%27s+way" target="_blank">Swann's Way</a> by Proust</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Euripides-Electra-Phoenician-Complete-Tragedies/dp/0226307840/ref=pd_sim_b_1?ie=UTF8&refRID=18AFXE09GGD256Y2VHMM" target="_blank">The Bacchai</a> by Euripides</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Art-Happiness-Penguin-Classics/dp/0143107216/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405570473&sr=1-3&keywords=epicurus" target="_blank">The Art of Happiness</a> by Epicurus</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/The-Nature-Things-Penguin-Classics/dp/0140447962/ref=pd_sim_b_1?ie=UTF8&refRID=1MJYB37GMEJBRDZV749N" target="_blank">On the nature of things</a> by
Lucretius</div>
</li>
</ol>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And now the more ecclectic and, in my
opinion, interesting list:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<ol>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Maias-Jos%C3%A9-Maria-E%C3%A7a-Queir%C3%B3s/dp/0811216497/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405570547&sr=1-1&keywords=maias" target="_blank">The Maias</a> by Eça de Queirós</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Heart-So-White-Vintage-International/dp/030795076X/ref=pd_sim_b_9?ie=UTF8&refRID=06XMSET7PJ77H64EPPDB" target="_blank">A Heart So White</a> by Javier Marías</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Leopard-Novel-Giuseppe-Di-Lampedusa/dp/0375714790/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405570615&sr=1-1&keywords=the+leopard+by+giuseppe+di+lampedusa" target="_blank">The Leopard</a> by Giuseppe di
Lampedusa</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Month-Country-Review-Books-Classics/dp/0940322471/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405570672&sr=1-1&keywords=a+month+in+the+country" target="_blank">A Month in the Country</a> by J. L.
Carr</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Time-Gifts-Constantinople-Holland-Classics/dp/1590171659/ref=pd_sim_b_2?ie=UTF8&refRID=1CF6K4WV12F5JTH18WKC" target="_blank">A Time of Gifts</a> by Patrick Leigh
Fermor</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Golden-Compass-Philip-Pullman/dp/B008YF2ALU/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405570751&sr=1-2&keywords=the+golden+compass" target="_blank">The Golden Compass</a> by Philip
Pullman</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Songbook-Selected-Umberto-Margellos-Republic/dp/030013603X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405570804&sr=1-1&keywords=songbook+saba" target="_blank">Songbook</a> by Umberto Saba</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Canti-Poems-Bilingual-Giacomo-Leopardi/dp/0374533059/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405570848&sr=1-1&keywords=canti" target="_blank">Canti </a>by Leopardi</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Dom-Casmurro-Novel-FSG-Classics/dp/0374523037/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405570891&sr=1-1&keywords=dom+casmurro" target="_blank">Dom Casmurro</a> by Machado de Assis</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Labyrinths-Directions-Paperbook-Jorge-Borges/dp/0811216993/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405570929&sr=1-4&keywords=borges" target="_blank">Labyrinths</a> by Borges</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Cairo-Trilogy-Palace-Everymans-Library/dp/0375413316/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405570967&sr=1-3&keywords=Palace+Walk" target="_blank">Palace Walk</a> by Naguib Mahfouz</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://smile.amazon.com/Stories-Anton-Chekhov/dp/0553381008/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405571010&sr=1-1&keywords=stories+checkov" target="_blank">Stories</a> of Anton Checkov</div>
</li>
</ol>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Lists aside, it is a pleasure every day
to see her delve into books, to swim in the pages of some great
story, or to be able to read aloud to her or to watch as my wife
reads to her. Reading can be an act of love, one of the most pure.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-42132750667436601322014-07-15T21:31:00.002-05:002014-07-15T21:31:33.749-05:00little yellow bird
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<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You feast on seeds, little yellow bird,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
as the sun melts into the ground</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and the cool winds pick up</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
to stir in drops of moonlight</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
in tonight's black dance</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
of passing time.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Tomorow you will flit again</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
to the feeder standing sentry
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
in the midst of the yard,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
unaware of the passage of comedies</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and tragedies in the lives</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
of the people who put out the feed</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and observe your carefree flights</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
with a mix of youthful joy and the sure</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
knowledge of lived age.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-75068451507789600602014-07-13T09:02:00.000-05:002014-07-13T09:02:15.657-05:00Some Sunday Italian artists.
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<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
For fun, I thought I would list a trio
of modern Italian painters of interest, provide wiki bios and links,
and show a few examples of their work. Then, I'm going to spend the
day with my precious little daughter, because as much as I love art
and literature, it is the love of my wife and daughter that keeps me
going every day. They are true treasures.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Here we go</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mario Mafai:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
(from Wikipedia)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mario Mafai (12 February 1902 – 31
March 1965) was an Italian painter. With his wife Antonietta Raphaël
he founded the modern art movement called the Scuola Romana, or Roman
school.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mafai left school very early,
preferring to attend, with Scipione, the Scuola Libera del Nudo, or
free school of the nude, of the Accademia di Belle Arti di Roma. His
influences in those years were Roman galleries and museums, and the
Fine Arts Library at Palazzo Venezia.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He met painter and sculptor Antonietta
Raphaël in 1925, and they married. In 1927 Mafai exhibited for the
first time, with a show of studies and maquettes organised by the
Associazione Artistica Nazionale in Via Margutta. In 1928 he had a
second exhibition, at the XCIV Mostra degli Amatori e Cultori di
Belle Arti, as well as a collective with Scipione and other painters,
at the Young Painters Convention of Palazzo Doria in 1929.</div>
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In November 1927, Mafai and Raphaël
moved to 325 via Cavour in Rome, and made a studio there. Within a
short time, it became a meeting point for writers such as Enrico
Falqui, Giuseppe Ungaretti, Libero de Libero and Leonardo Sinisgalli,
as well as the young artists Scipione and Renato Marino Mazzacurati.</div>
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A few paintings:</div>
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Emanuele Cavalli
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(Frrom Wikipedia)</div>
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(b. 1904-d. 1981) was an Italian
painter belonging to the modern movement of the Scuola Romana (Roman
School). He was also a renowned photographer, who experimented with
new techniques since the 1930s.</div>
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Son of Apulian landowners, Cavalli
moved to Rome in 1921 and there he became a student of Italian
painter Felice Carena, also attending the local art college. In 1926
he exhibited some paintings at the Biennale di Venezia, where he
would continue to exhibit regularly.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
From 1927 to 1930, Cavalli attended
some expositions together with painters Giuseppe Capogrossi and
Francesco Di Cocco, also travelling to France (1928), where he was
introduced by his friend Onofrio Martinelli to the circle of Italiens
de Paris (i.e., De Pisis, De Chirico, Savinio and others). He
exhibited at the Salon Bovy of Paris with Fausto Pirandello and Di
Cocco, then in 1930 returned to Rome where he joined the Scuola
Romana.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="cite_ref-2"></a>In a series of
exhibitions Cavalli held from 1931 to 1933, the artist began
elaborating Tonalism, a pictorial and aesthetic style that will find
in him one of its best and most refined interpreters, even from the
theoretical point of view. In these exhibitions he received the
support from important art critics and collectors, as well as from
renowned Italian author Massimo Bontempelli, the uncle of his friend
Corrado Cagli and the promoter of "Magic realism", a
literary and artistic movement which had many similarities with
tonalistic painting.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="cite_ref-3"></a>In 1933
Cavalli, together with Capogrossi and Melli wrote the "Manifesto
del Primordialismo plastico" (Manifesto of Plastic
Primordialism) defining the Tonalist Creed, with special emphasis on
the style's spiritual and abstract side. In 1935 and 1943, Cavalli
exhibited a group of paintings at the Quadriennale di Roma,
developing the theme of painting-music relationships: he displayed a
series of feminine figures of different tonalities, and explained
this work within the terms of "contrapuntal sensitivity",
comparing it to a "collection of preludes and fugues in major
and minor tones".[3]</div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="cite_ref-4"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="cite_ref-5"></a>
Other important exhibitions were held by Cavalli at the Leonardo da
Vinci Gallery of Florence in 1939 and at the Zodiaco of Rome in 1945,
the latter crowned by the appointment as professor of Painting at
Accademia di Belle Arti Firenze. He thus moved permanently to
Florence with wife Vera Haberfeld.[4] In 1949 Cavalli was affected by
a deep crisis, increased by his professorship not being renewed and
his close friends' change of style towards abstract art.[5]</div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="cite_ref-6"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="cite_ref-7"></a>
Cavalli continued to paint for the rest of his life, alternating it
with photography and innovative imaging,[6] receiving important
commissions from public and private organisations.[7]</div>
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A few paintings:</div>
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Carlo Carra</div>
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(From Wikipedia)</div>
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Carlo Carrà (February 11, 1881 –
April 13, 1966) was an Italian painter, a leading figure of the
Futurist movement that flourished in Italy during the beginning of
the 20th century. In addition to his many paintings, he wrote a
number of books concerning art. He taught for many years in the city
of Milan.</div>
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Carrà was born in Quargnento, near
Alessandria (Piedmont). At the age of 12 he left home in order to
work as a mural decorator. n 1899-1900, Carrà was in Paris
decorating pavilions at the Exposition Universelle, where he became
acquainted with contemporary French art. He then spent a few months
in London in contact with exiled Italian anarchists, and returned to
Milan in 1901. In 1906, he enrolled at Brera Academy (Accademia di
Brera) in the city, and studied under Cesare Tallone. In 1910 he
signed, along with Umberto Boccioni, Luigi Russolo and Filippo
Tommaso Marinetti the Manifesto of Futurist Painters, and began a
phase of painting that became his most popular and influential.</div>
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Carrà's Futurist phase ended around
the time World War I began. His work, while still using some Futurist
concepts, began to deal more clearly with form and stillness, rather
than motion and feeling. Carrà soon began creating still lifes in a
style he, along with Giorgio de Chirico, called "metaphysical
painting". Throughout the 1920s and 1930s, the metaphysical
phase gave way to a sombre style akin to Masaccio's. An example from
this period is his 1928 Morning by the Sea.</div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="cite_ref-1"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="cite_ref-21"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="cite_ref-31"></a>
He is best known for his 1911 futurist work, The Funeral of the
Anarchist Galli. Carrà was indeed an anarchist as a young man but,
along with many other Futurists, later held more reactionary
political views, becoming ultra-nationalist and irredentist before
and during the war, as well as by Fascism after 1918 (in the 1930s,
Carrà signed a manifesto in which called for support of the state
ideology through art).[1] The Strapaese group he joined, founded by
Giorgio Morandi, was strongly influenced by fascism and responded to
the neo-classical guidelines which had been set by the regime after
1937[2] (but was opposed to the ideological drive towards strong
centralism).[3]</div>
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He died in Milan in 1966.</div>
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A few paintings:</div>
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To art, literature, and all those we love and cheerish in our lives.<br />
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Cheers <br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-47252513130829084472014-07-08T13:02:00.003-05:002014-07-08T13:04:26.336-05:00Inspector Montalbano vs. chemo<style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.08in; }</style>
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Nothing beats the cancer blues like my
loving family and losing myself in a well-written mystery. The chemo and radiation have been tough, and I have been very tired. But, I keep going, and I will continue to keep going. I'm going to fight and win, and I'm going to live every day. Despite my current condition, I am a truly lucky man. Now, on to the book.</div>
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My
mystery of choice is the Inspector Montalbano series. The prose is
light, the descriptions of food are glorious, the inspector is a
flawed but thoughtful character, and I find the artwork mentioned to
be intriguing. From <i>Angelica's Smile</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
by Andrea Camilleri, here is part of a dialog concerning a burglary
of money, jewels and art. Montalbano is asking an affluent young couple what has been stolen:</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;"> “What
else did they take?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;"> “Well
aside from the car,[...]and a seascape by Carrá,” the lady
concluded, cool as a cucumber.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> Montalbano
gave a start.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> [...]</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> “And?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> “A
Guttuso, a Morandi, a Donghi, a Mafai, and a Pirandello...”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> In
short, a whole gallery of art wortha fortune.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: normal;">------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ </span><br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">I know
about Carrá and Pirandello, but I don't know the other artists..
So, I have looked them up and here offer what might be the paintings
stolen.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">A
seascape by Carra:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl1pSV_pA9Asg_lHufaEwRXPWDDQC5SWpXbFTWt3dL8fiORCFo4-7FXguI4LXdDpnjyind6OtyjPQ-Rw38w5WnVMPuo5OQ5COiP_GnZdxtB52syUUv1ZNgzkIrbLt-3jP109GqkKF1yeZf/s1600/carlo-carr-barcaiolo-1930-1381440946_org.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl1pSV_pA9Asg_lHufaEwRXPWDDQC5SWpXbFTWt3dL8fiORCFo4-7FXguI4LXdDpnjyind6OtyjPQ-Rw38w5WnVMPuo5OQ5COiP_GnZdxtB52syUUv1ZNgzkIrbLt-3jP109GqkKF1yeZf/s1600/carlo-carr-barcaiolo-1930-1381440946_org.jpg" height="252" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">A
Guttuso:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ8daLTwyYEOjNJ2tKCRNRsxP1B6fQzDuqNj5hIrrIKQdU-Uf0_PBQMN3p4qrFf-EywjON6YthfITUqvkdfP5kP1LFs-JpSOtjjIIhYzdDCse3ra3Ja3nMATQK1LbrFtlHjjM-OrDnQoxV/s1600/guttuso1.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ8daLTwyYEOjNJ2tKCRNRsxP1B6fQzDuqNj5hIrrIKQdU-Uf0_PBQMN3p4qrFf-EywjON6YthfITUqvkdfP5kP1LFs-JpSOtjjIIhYzdDCse3ra3Ja3nMATQK1LbrFtlHjjM-OrDnQoxV/s1600/guttuso1.gif" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">A
Morandi:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMg-dFVJCSvi6P1ZrqfMdni6DuRz3UvG5JjcMdDpZPD0KBAjh-fgD_S7Nizga9-psHJekDztG26yNanfCugdRJoY2jX0TbUKKW1H0RcFWfKUtJ-f4go0EJP9VqahMJatL_1swbWrks6pWe/s1600/Morandi_StillLife1962.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMg-dFVJCSvi6P1ZrqfMdni6DuRz3UvG5JjcMdDpZPD0KBAjh-fgD_S7Nizga9-psHJekDztG26yNanfCugdRJoY2jX0TbUKKW1H0RcFWfKUtJ-f4go0EJP9VqahMJatL_1swbWrks6pWe/s1600/Morandi_StillLife1962.jpg" height="260" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">A
Mafai:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzYluDEGU-nH7kGa0xnUPezSm1W4Q3q4e1-IUfs9waa4FGQAZJILonL4Jk8b2oOAjRq3ZfDLIavrn35ukAVi-rW7FTf91H_bf3M9F_0NKtxucQRELIMtLRWJZZIhea_SSE-HgDB97z-X7/s1600/Mario+Mafai+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzYluDEGU-nH7kGa0xnUPezSm1W4Q3q4e1-IUfs9waa4FGQAZJILonL4Jk8b2oOAjRq3ZfDLIavrn35ukAVi-rW7FTf91H_bf3M9F_0NKtxucQRELIMtLRWJZZIhea_SSE-HgDB97z-X7/s1600/Mario+Mafai+(2).jpg" height="320" width="206" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">A
Pirandello:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAlr5gDvRibXzoC9dfisgUvmEGaFyqx9s4UchacVfLbtcnYQ35GtRFuOwHSeybgUwTEAqq3Z6sX9DwDGM50kV6LsgfRxj_uNvIxRCUWllqqrPErq3_QjGHSTq82MJhVpF9pFHkwQ9rOJjV/s1600/pirandello.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAlr5gDvRibXzoC9dfisgUvmEGaFyqx9s4UchacVfLbtcnYQ35GtRFuOwHSeybgUwTEAqq3Z6sX9DwDGM50kV6LsgfRxj_uNvIxRCUWllqqrPErq3_QjGHSTq82MJhVpF9pFHkwQ9rOJjV/s1600/pirandello.jpg" height="221" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Not bad at all.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And now, on I read, on I write, on I live, on I love, and on I fight.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1xdmopZFkT_zyT3CuWTnHBsh8h81rL493ruCkK7lPljsIU3oOqtG1v14WM1aYycMHTeurRxYXx7MOvou0hXWpboYwtQyZ7KMqQBXtffppd8qtZSCwN-B6ANo3Ny6UKFniPc6Iz59CZXXc/s1600/mont.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1xdmopZFkT_zyT3CuWTnHBsh8h81rL493ruCkK7lPljsIU3oOqtG1v14WM1aYycMHTeurRxYXx7MOvou0hXWpboYwtQyZ7KMqQBXtffppd8qtZSCwN-B6ANo3Ny6UKFniPc6Iz59CZXXc/s1600/mont.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Cheers!</div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-18435433152517957692014-07-04T09:56:00.004-05:002014-07-04T09:56:57.562-05:00blues bar on the edge of town
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<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Late
at night in a blues bar on the edge</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">of
town, a brick building crowded with emptiness,</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm
drinking whiskey from a cloudy glass,</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">and
listening to a man sitting at the piano</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">in
the corner as he pours out his anguish</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">and
his vampire fingers plunge through the ivory keys,</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">through
the floor and the crumbling foundations,</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">and
down into the earth, the victimized earth,</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">stirring
magma to trigger a Vesuvius eruption,</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">a
flame quenched only by drinks from my cloudy glass.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />
R. R. Shea Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-71557640443358133212014-07-01T22:45:00.000-05:002014-07-01T22:45:02.204-05:00The voyage of my far-away friend
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<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
For TJ. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My far-away friend sits in port,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the sails of his ship battered</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
from storms and sun,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
listening to the stories</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
of the timid locals</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and pompous magistrates,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
drinking the house wine,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and eating the bean pie</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
of the melancholy fishwive</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
with a smile and a wink</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
of gratitude.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A merchant says that the ship is lost,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
that the mast and riggings</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
will never again drag</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
my far-away friend's ship</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
onto the open waves,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
that he is stuck in port</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
to lead a small life</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
among small lives.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Such news fills</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the dock workers</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
with immense gratitude.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But my far-away friend</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
has sailed too far</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and seen too much</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
to believe idle speculations,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In the morning,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
he casts off,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
light breezes teasing</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
his boat away from land.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
His journey will be longer</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
with such tattered sails,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
but his hand never leaves
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the old iron rudder,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and the song of the sea</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and of life full lived</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
never leaves his heart.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On he sails,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
while timid souls</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
lament he left</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and his far-away companions</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
rejoice at his voyage</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
out into tomorrow.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
R. R. Shea </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-32151847642591058252014-06-29T07:59:00.000-05:002014-06-29T07:59:12.119-05:00chasing a dream
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<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As night broke into pieces, I had a
beautiful dream,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
a thought which fled me like a deer</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
frightened by the smell and sound of
people.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I chased the dream into the woods,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the trees growing thicker and larger</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the deeper in I gave chase to the
creature</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Until the beautiful dream was gone</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and I was surrounded by leaves</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and tall, scornful grass, and bemused
bushes.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My heart grew cold and I shook</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
as I heard branches crack and the birds</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
stop chirping as some unknown animal
stirred.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A hunter perhaps? I crept slowly back</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the way I had come, back to the growing
light</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
of the white and rescuing morning sun.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Back to the start of the chase of the
dream,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
a dream with features as obscure</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and anonymous as any wild deer. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
R. R. Shea </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-7254657018421009892014-06-22T09:36:00.001-05:002014-06-22T09:36:10.875-05:00Filling the box
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<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fragments of thoughts</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
drifting around inside my head</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
like sections of newspaper</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
blowing and scattering and littering</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the streets of an empty city</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
or a city still fast asleep,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
not yet touched</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
by the morning workers</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
who collect the past</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
in their garbage trucks</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
to make things neat and clean</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
before the next wave</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
of paper and print.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Salvage some of those papers,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
collect them in a wooden box</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
with a sailing ship</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
carved on the lid,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the box of hopes</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and dreams and remembering,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the treasure chest of the mind,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
a collection started and coveted</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
on the morning of our lives,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
curated as time flows forward,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
things discarded and then longed for,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
things burned away with joy,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
memories carefully wrapped</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and stored in the bottom</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
of the box.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fragments of dreams</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
- for thoughts and dreams</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
become one inside</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the treasure box -</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and fragments of hope</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
begin to fill up, until</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
we realize that the only way</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
to make room for these</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
drifting remnant pieces</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
is to throw away</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
the dirty strips of despair.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And so let us burn these away,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
burn the oiled up papers</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
of our long-ago failures,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
of our self-imposed inadequacy</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
until there is room again</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
to keep filling our box</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
of dreams and thoughts.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16763659094408522105noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7152718742879204887.post-27445909713870022752014-06-20T23:35:00.002-05:002014-06-20T23:35:52.269-05:00cycle of the poets
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<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The sun and soft breezes inspire gentle
thoughts</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and poetic musings for weekend
scriveners,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
but
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
storms and mud and lashing rain</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
uncover our true humanity and our
lives.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Floods and thunder churn up reality,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
expose the deep roots of suffering and
living,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and drag poetic wanderings back down</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
into the primeval muck of creation and
the life</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
of this world, the breeding ground
where nature</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
has her dark victory and humanity
begins again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The filth, rushing water, and strife of
this life</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
make artistic fancies gestate once
again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Nothing is unchanged and all things
bloom in death.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Struggle conquers daydream, dreams are
changed,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
then the clouds pass, the sun
returns,
</div>
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and newly evolved poetic dreams take
flight once again in the cycle
</div>
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of creation, the cycle of the living,
the cycle of the poets.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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R.R. Shea </div>
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