goodbye seaside, goodbye august, goodbye sea oats, and goodbye mollusks...
31 August 2010
30 August 2010
29 August 2010
28 August 2010
Nobodiness
..."when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six year old daughter why she can't go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her eyes when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children, and see ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky...when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and are plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of "nobodiness"".
Martin Luther King Jr
Letter from Birmingham Jail
16 April 1963
27 August 2010
26 August 2010
a long day's journey into night, a play by eugene o'neill, and yet another illustration featured at polish poster...
25 August 2010
24 August 2010
23 August 2010
22 August 2010
21 August 2010
20 August 2010
19 August 2010
18 August 2010
17 August 2010
16 August 2010
15 August 2010
I've been reading...
The Bone Fire, by Christine Barber
"Lucy shook her head, 'He's in word salad. It's the technical term. One of the hallmarks of schizophrenia is disorganized thinking, and word salad is about as disorganized as it gets. He's probably delusional, has hallucinations. What else is he doing?'
'He's constantly talking', Gil said.
'That's pressured speech,' Lucy said."
(All she had to mention, was "Frito pie" in one of the passages, and I was right back at Mid-High in downtown Santa Fe. Even now, with all the new-age fusion locavore Mexican vegan restaurants circling the plaza, you can still pick up a tacky - my mouth is watering - little Frito pie.)
"'Every year for Zozobra,' Gil said, 'they put a few public boxes around town so people who have something they want to forget about, like photos of an old girlfriend or a mortgage, can put it in the box. Then the box is dumped into Zozobra right before he burns.'"
Zozobra and Fiesta - fire water, plus holy water.
Frito pie - chile over Fritos, served in the bag.
Cheese optional.
"Lucy shook her head, 'He's in word salad. It's the technical term. One of the hallmarks of schizophrenia is disorganized thinking, and word salad is about as disorganized as it gets. He's probably delusional, has hallucinations. What else is he doing?'
'He's constantly talking', Gil said.
'That's pressured speech,' Lucy said."
(All she had to mention, was "Frito pie" in one of the passages, and I was right back at Mid-High in downtown Santa Fe. Even now, with all the new-age fusion locavore Mexican vegan restaurants circling the plaza, you can still pick up a tacky - my mouth is watering - little Frito pie.)
"'Every year for Zozobra,' Gil said, 'they put a few public boxes around town so people who have something they want to forget about, like photos of an old girlfriend or a mortgage, can put it in the box. Then the box is dumped into Zozobra right before he burns.'"
Zozobra and Fiesta - fire water, plus holy water.
Frito pie - chile over Fritos, served in the bag.
Cheese optional.
14 August 2010
Ormond Memorial Art Museum and Gardens,"presents About Face, a portraiture exhibition featuring artists"
Robert Scholler
Richard Currier (his painting is in the background)
Jeff Whipple
13 August 2010
12 August 2010
A Swimmer in the Air"That sea we see of surfaces
Turned upside down would be another world:
A bone shop, soaked in pearl, a dumping-Ground for rarities, the sea-maws pumping
Grecian garbage Roman cities hurled
Seaward westward toward our faces."
11 August 2010
10 August 2010
09 August 2010
08 August 2010
I've been reading...
"I had often seen visitors gather around the iron lung and talk to one another as though no one else were present. They would talk about her, and they would talk about others:
'Well, it looks as though he'll be able to get around pretty well on crutches; he's lucky not to end up in a wheelchair.'
Or 'Well, he's one of the lucky ones - at least he can get around in a wheelchair, you know; he's not in an iron lung.'
Or 'Well, probably she won't stay in that iron lung forever, and she's lucky to be alive.'
Or 'Well, it's lucky in a way - at least she didn't live on and have to spend the rest of her life in an iron lung.'
This was my brief, but definitive, course in the absurdity of comparing my own life, and my own circumstances, to those of anyone else. We all have the experience of life in common, but the lives we all have are incomparable."
A Nearly Normal Life, by Charles L. Mee
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