Tag Archives: silence

selections from The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark

“It’s only possible to betray where loyalty is due,” said Sandy. Continue reading

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Emily Dickinson favorites (301-500)


I had no time to Hate –
The Grave would hinder Me –
And Life was not so
Ample I
Could finish – Enmity –

Nor had I time to Love –
But since
Some Industry must be –
The little Toil of Love –
I thought
Be large enough for Me – Continue reading

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selections from Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami

If a pistol appears in a story, eventually it’s got to be fired. Continue reading

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commonplace of Candide

ON BOREDOM In the end everything in life grows wearisome. (109) ON FREE WILL “Kiss your feet, Monsieur l’Abbé!” said Candide, “I do not understand such jokes.” Thereupon some deaf-mutes who had come from court with the abbé entered the … Continue reading

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in which the Tunnel decides to sell Dorothy. Continue reading

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San Francisco photos by Taryne

in which the Hero explores the hipster Mexican neighborhood of San Francisco while under the influence of alcohol with his beloved friend from high school. Continue reading

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2010: A Space Odyssey

Mark came over tonight, second time in the past week. and, like last time, we tripped over art–music, photos, film–over cake and beer. this time, however, our subconscious selves selected a theme for the evening: space.

it started innocently enough. when Mark walked in, Holy Fuck’s Latin had just finished playing, letting linger an uncommon gap of silence in the house. all day i’d been listening to a bunch of new artists–Holy Fuck, !!!, Surfer Blood–in a perhaps premature preparation for Treasure Island Music Festival, but now i decided it was time to let Shuffle decide and pressed play on Layla. which lasted about 30 seconds. i then switched over to Planisphère, a 17-minute Justice symphony from 2008 that i just discovered yesterday. four movements long, it’s just enough raucous electro house to tear your mind apart and cannon the pieces to the stars.

taking a seat beside me at the dining room table, Mark joined me for a feast of French sounds. with my mom ten feet away, troubleshooting her Picasa problems, we rocked the fuck out in pure armchair fashion to “new” Justice.

then we embarked on a truly epic journey.

though i’ve seen it countless times (and its ending countless^countless times), this was Mark’s very first time with the ultimate Kubrick masterpiece. the ultimate sci-fi masterpiece. the film to end all film.

he loved it, of course. and he understood what it was all about, of course. no, i don’t mean that he immediately caught on to how aliens left the monolith on Earth four million years ago as a challenge and how when we finally unearthed it on the Moon in 2001 it set off a signal to alert those same aliens and how blah blah blah unnecessary minor details unnecessary minor details unnecessary minor details. i mean, he completely understood that Kubrick’s odyssey is a film for the imagination. the story takes a backseat, the dialogue burrows under the music, and even the music sometimes bows out to silence. 2001 is not a movie but a place in which the mind must face the terrifying prospect of roaming free the universe of possible thoughts.

naturally, Mark’s mind eventually wandered to the SPACE PROJECT of photographer Vincent Fournier:

[caption id="attachment_1061" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="Kjell Henriksen Observatory #02, Svalbard, Norway, 2010"][/caption]

[caption id="attachment_1062" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="Antennas Filed SOUSY radar, Svalbard, Norway"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_1063" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="EISCAT radar, Svalbard, Norway, 2010"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_1064" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="BAF ROOM 65#01, Guiana Space Center, 2007"][/caption] [caption id="attachment_1065" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="Anechoic Chamber, ESTEC, The Netherlands, 2008"][/caption]

an anechoic chamber is a room designed to stop reflections of either sound or electromagnetic waves. combined with insulation from exterior sources of noise, the chamber simulates a quiet open space of infinite dimension. like in space!

when i die, please don’t put me in the fucking ground. send me to the stars! actually, don’t wait until i die. send me now! send me to Jupiter! please! please? who can ask? who do i have to kill? who do i have to fuck around here to get goddamn clearance on a craft headed for the firmament. i love nights like this, because it reminds me i’m a speck of star more than anything else.

it was a night nothing like being punched in the stomach and knifed in the kidneys. Continue reading

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drunk acid fucking [archive]

~ 1 ~

“I’ll take this one.”
All poetry is autobiography.
if going is going and going is gone
then where are we glowing
from the effects of the flash
I did not ash
with my crayon laden hand
like a dense cigarette
ONE SPEACIAL (so fuckin’ postmodern)


This is the idea that I have
but um errrrrrrrrrr
Fuck other people
they’re not saying anything

We always talk about
Dude Uh ha ha
I don’t think it’s possible,
the green that is called
pintree road, gingery
train stops to get off
the name
vie come back

Eat my shit

Write me a poem
I forgot,
there is a camera
behind my ear
make it its own pain
give everything its
own page

You did this:
Green and blue and
I am tripping
energy, oh my

last time
I was in a nice place
I really want a keytar
Human beings
Are wired in specific ways
8th grade: I wore
this sweater is
what I wore
A writer is someone
My mind is so mystical
(is anyone else
having trouble

the sound of
the sound of
me moving
–your life is a big
The cap fell
I always have troubling
because I am a
the big ball of paper


we are artists
I might move
is part of
the me

My vision
My dreams are my
close your eyes and
everything stops,

I need
I need

This is what your
hair looked like
moving back

Fix it?
What is
there to
I can’t watch the
words bein

She is just
the universe
and I
am too
in different

I’m experiencing
sight sound
taste touch

we are creating
on planet
We are always
It doesn’t
have a

climates are places where
we all feel the same
people know each other
best in places where
the temperature doesn’t
Holy fuck
thats Ronny

my names
the atoms
in the

If you
a trip
you come
back to
the place
where you

LIfe is one
where is


~~ 2 ~~

Thurs, March 4 — New American Poetry
Kerouac, Carso; Lawrence Ferlenghetti

I journal
I journey
spaces of probabity
yes yes only yes
my pen thinks

if only there was a day in which I
could play but if in a daze I
can create little daisies
bed angels

Ronny is God
we are creatures on planet bed
writing his bibles
different thoughts at
the same location
there’s so many stimulations
I don’t know what
predesignated dotted
I forgot that I have to be
in that window reality
the ultimate celestial divinity

makes tripod triquestrians
trees winding
I forgot everything
losing touch with
my mind
my face

hotness is my face
as if it is on fire
but I also wrote









your nose reminds me
of a mountain I once saw
it meant everything that
I wanted it to mean
everything in analog
I wine have not
me have it

I am Albert Einstein

I cant not


can I hold it
while it burns
CAREFUL ! It burns
while you hold it
my letters cant make


brugs are the universal counterculture

what is it like to
be like

oh here
is where
I was
Barack opoma
I want to see you writing
but I cant

Leonardo I have a
Leonardo on Hardo
you ache of me
you reak of me.


because purple
you cant tune
in to too many
the visions of
Im dreaming
I’m dreaming
it swallows
for the doves that have come
rummage hat sha cant
manage my hollows
How can we both write
poems when
the acid mind

one way trip
round trip
Life is one

If I could tell you
where I just went
its too far
I want to
that my
is fairly
in the
“The mirror sees “The mirror sees
everything that greater everything that
we can’t.” context we can.”
— aerienne of the universe — ronny
and how are you today, sir?” Continue reading

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These are the music and pictures of the most ancient religion. [archive]

that’s a Ralph Waldo Emerson quotation extracted from underneath a collection of words written by John Muir on how “All the World Seems a Church”:

This I may say is the first time I have been at church in California, led here at last, every door graciously opened for the poor lonely worshipper. In our best times everything turns into religion, all the world seems a church and the mountains altars.

i’ve often felt this exact thing. open the religious text of your choosing to any page and marvel at the astounding quantity of ALLs and EVERYTHINGs and ONEs that human beings have lassoed into one small section for the purpose of representing the omnipresence and pervasiveness of God. would the world be different if everybody followed in Muir’s footsteps and bowed in Nature’s Temple, instead of at the Temple of Athena/God/Hubbard?

You are going on a strange journey this time, my friend. I don’t envy you. You’ll have a hard time keeping your heart light and simple in the midst of this crowd of madmen. Instead of the music of the wind among the spruce-tops and the tinkling of the waterfalls, your ears will be filled with the oaths and groans of these poor, deluded, self-burdened people. Keep close to Nature’s heart, yourself; and break clear away, once in a while, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean from the earth-stains of this sordid, gold-seeking crowd in God’s pure air. It will help you in your efforts to bring to these people something better than gold. Don’t lose your freedom and your love of the Earth as God made it.

i don’t think i’ve lost my freedom or my love of the Earth. in fact, i think every year my freedom doubles and my love triples. check up on me in a year, if you’d like. at the phrase “better than gold,” my already well-trained ears of CA poetry ring like buzzers, but i don’t want to rush to class to share my revelation. i want to run north, to the mountains, never to be found again:

Although I was four years at the University, I did not take the regular course of studies, but instead picked out what I thought would be most useful to me, particularly chemistry, which opened a new world, and mathematics and physics, a little Greek and Latin, botany and geology. I was far from satisfied with what I had learned, and should have stayed longer. Anyhow I wandered away on a glorious botanical and geological excursion, which has lasted nearly fifty years and is not yet completed, always happy and free, poor and rich, without thought of a diploma or of making a name, urged on and on through endless, inspiring, Godful beauty.

But I was only leaving one University for another, the Wisconsin University for the University of the Wilderness.

can i do the same? could i do the same? what are the costs? i am no knave when it comes to shopping for an education to not see that every institution has its costs. will the Wilderness accept me? where will i live? how will i live? will i make new friends? how long is a term? does poetry exist in nature?

No Sierra landscape that I have seen holds anything truly dead or dull, or any trace of what in manufactories is called rubbish or waste; everything is perfectly clean and pure and full of divine lessons. This quick, inevitable interest attaching to everything seems marvelous until the hand of God becomes visible; then it seems reasonable that what interests God may well interest us. When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe. One fancies a heart like our own must be beating in every crystal and cell, and we feel like stopping to speak to the plants and animals as friendly fellow mountaineers. Nature as a poet, an enthusiastic workingman, becomes more and more visible the farther and higher we go; for the mountains are fountains–beginning places, however related to sources beyond mortal ken.

perhaps my question might be better restated as “can poetry exist outside of nature?” we, it, one. how can we write about that which exists outside of nature when we, it, live within it, through it, by it, with it, and for it. it is why we are we. as time goes on and i see my blank page with space increase, i realize the futility of my own words and wonder at the quaking confidence in the language of this famous mountain man.

At half-past two o’clock of a moonlit morning in March, I was awakened by a tremendous earthquake, and though I had never before enjoyed a storm of this sort, the strange thrilling motion could not be mistaken, and I ran out of my cabin, both glad and frightened, shouting, “A noble earthquake!” . . . as if Nature were wrecking her Yosemite temple, and getting ready to build a still better one.

[To calm one visitor’s fears] I said, “Come, cheer up; smile a little and clap your hands, now that kind Mother Earth is trotting us on her knee to amuse us and make us good.” In this work of beauty, every boulder is prepared and measured and put in its place more thoughtfully than are the stones of temples. If for a moment you are inclined to regard these taluses as mere draggled, chaotic dumps, climb to the top of one of them, and run down without any haggling, puttering hesitation, boldly jumping from boulder to boulder with even speed. You will then find your feet playing a tune, and quickly discover the music and poetry of these magnificent rock piles–a fine lesson; and all Nature’s wildness tells the same story–the shocks and outbursts of earthquakes, volcanoes, geysers, roaring, thundering waves and floods, the silent uprush or sap in plants, storms of every sort–each and all are the orderly beauty-making love-beats of Nature’s heart.

take that, Haiti.

oh, but i’m only kidding. that’s not at all what Muir meant. he means that only natural disasters in natural places, like Yosemite, are beautiful. in human places, like San Francisco and Haiti, they are tragedies. in Yosemite, Nature places her boulders more carefully than a skilled chess player places his queen. in Haiti, Nature just wasn’t paying attention. she had been idly waiting to go to lunch with her best friend, Time, when her elbow had slipped off the table, irritating her funny bone to immeasurable ends; in her squealing and cursing, 150,000 people dove into the soil, eyes gagged, ears blinded.

It seems strange that visitors to Yosemite should be so little influenced by its novel grandeur, as if their eyes were bandaged and their ears stopped. Most of those I saw yesterday were looking down as if wholly unconscious of anything going on about them, while the sublime rocks were trembling with the tones of the mighty chanting congregation of waters gathered from all the mountains round about, making music that might draw angels out of heaven. Yet respectable-looking, even wise-looking people were fixing bits of worms on bent pieces of wire to catch trout. Sport they called it. Should church-goers try to pass the time fishing in baptismal fonts while dull sermons were being preached, the so-called sport might not be so bad; but to play in the Yosemite temple, seeking pleasure in the pain of the fishes struggling for their lives, while God is preaching the sublimest water and stone sermons!

did somebody say sublime? words associated with the sublime: grandeur, unconscious, anything, sublime, rocks, trembling, tones, mighty, chanting, congregation, waters, mountains, music, angels, heaven, worms, trout, fonts, sermons, Yosemite, temple, pleasure, pain, struggling, lives, God, sublimest, water, stone, sermons. words not associated with the sublime:. words: Bouree, Handel, Jeanne, Lamon, Music, for, the, Royal, Fireworks, 7, 1749. word: n., a sound, usually one with a semantic association. semantics: the study of the study. study: the lack of sheer silence.

When the avalanche started I threw myself on my back and spread my arms to try to keep from sinking. Fortunately, though the grade of the canyon is very steep, it is not interrupted by precipices large enough to cause outbounding or free plunging. On no part of the rush was I buried. I was only moderately embedded on the surface or at times a little below it, and covered with a veil of back-streaming dust particles; and as the whole mass beneath and about me joined in the flight there was no friction, though I was tossed here and there and lurched from side to side. When the avalanche swedged and came to rest I found myself on top of the crumpled pile without a bruise or scar. This was a fine experience . . . This flight in what might be called a milky way of snow-stars was the most spiritual and exhilarating of all the modes of motion I have ever experienced. Elijah’s flight in a chariot of fire could hardly have been more gloriously exciting.

“[And after the wind, the avalanche, the earthquake, the fire] a sound of sheer silence.” ~Elijah Continue reading

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Observations on the Feeling of the Beautiful and the Sublime, Immanuel Kant [archive]

the sight of a mountain whose snow covered peak rises above the clouds is sublime, the sight of flower-strewn meadows is beautiful.
the description of a raging storm is sublime, the description of Elysium is beautiful.
Milton’s portrayal of the infernal kingdom is sublime, Homer’s portrayal of the girdle of Venus is beautiful.
the sublime is enjoyment but with horror, the beautiful is a pleasant sensation but one that is joyous and smiling
tall oaks and lonely shadows in a sacred grove are sublime, flower beds, low hedges and trees trimmed into figures are beautiful.
night is sublime, day is beautiful.
the sublime moves, the beautiful charms.
the sublime is always great, the beautiful can be small.
the sublime must be simple, the beautiful can be adorned and ornamented.
understanding is sublime, wit is beautiful.
courage is sublime, artfulness is beautiful.
veracity and honesty are sublime, jest and flattery are beautiful.
servility is sublime, courtesy is beautiful.
the sublime stimulates esteem, the beautiful stimulates love.
friendship is sublime, love is beautiful.
tragedy is sublime, comedy is beautiful.
large stature is the sublime, small stature is the beautiful.
dark coloring and black eyes are sublime, light coloring and blue eyes are beautiful.
a somewhat greater age is sublime, youth is beautiful.
genuine virtue is sublime, adoptive virtue is beautiful.
a righteous man with a noble heart is sublime, a goodhearted man with a kind heart is beautiful.
thoughtful silence is sublime, affability is beautiful.
the sublime is melancholy, the beautiful is sanguine.
men are sublime, women are beautiful.
the Germans, English, and Spanish are sublime, the Italians and the French are beautiful. Continue reading

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