On Bread and Buttermilk the Girls Confess the Zodiac: June 2012

Jun 29, 2012

Visions of Violets

Why are the wires crossing?
She asked him, Did you see something?"
He replied, "Yes."
"Was is wonderful?"
Then he said, " No, sort of grey."
Laughter and the image of him walking through a field of violet colored flowers, holding a cane.
Then he was judged, struck savagely with a sword. And he was a sick man.
The attacker shouting, "Stand up!, Stand Up!" while he struck him down. He was a liar and he killed that man,
That man who only wanted to see floating beauty, traveling music, and read and read and read without interruption and watch the sky at night and learn their names to call them out, the Stars.
And he would walk and walk and walk, walk sick, with cane, walk and walk and walk and walk until he saw what he had thought that he had read about, seen or maybe it was something he had remembered, brought with him through time. So he walked and walked, not really to see something, but to be somewhere that had real feeling, real meaning.
And the vision there was its own expression.
But there are wire's crossing walking to ones ends.

Source:Favicom.com Old vintage black and white photo~

Jun 25, 2012

Francesca Woodman & THinking On These Things

All things appear as they truly are to those not blinded by their own self interest. - Guan Yin

Without desire or fear every dilemma spontaneously arrives at its natural solution. - Zhun Mang

Do Good to all living beings without even noticing. - Lao Tzu

It isn't evil ruining the earth , but mediocrity. The crime is not that Nero played while Rome Burned but That he played badly. -Ned Rosen

Think nothing. Wait until it is absolutely still within you. When you have attained this, begin to play. as soon as you start to think, stop and try and retain the state of non thinking - then continue playing. - Stockhausen

"Until the one to whom this is written came along I imagined that somewhere outside, in life...lay the solution to all things. I thought, when I came upon her, that I was seizing hold of life.... Instead I lost hold of life completely. I reached out for something to attach myself to - and I found nothing. But in reaching out, in making the effort to grasp, to attach myself, left high and dry as I was, I nevertheless found somethingI had not looked for - myself. I found that what I had desired all my life was not to live - if what others are doing is called living - but to express myself. -
Henry Miller

All Photos by Francesca Woodman - Born April 3, 1958 in Denver, Colorado, grew up in Boulder, Colorado and committed suicide in New York City on January 19, 1981. She is my all time favorite photographer and her work is a testament to the glory & magic of creativity and self expression.

Jun 18, 2012

Thinking On These Things

Listen To The Animals

Fight Your Conditioning

Money...It is a Crime

Burn Right Through to Truth

Jun 17, 2012

The Strange and the Wondrous World of Sound

Music by John RooT~

Temple of Music 1916

Kalimba made from lamp parts and an ashtray by Robert Patterson Collier

Electronic sound toy, the Tetrafol

The Ondes Martenot - A French keyboard of spacey sounds invented by Maurice Martenot in 1928

Jun 16, 2012

Mystic

On the slope of the knoll angels
whirl their woolen robes
in pastures of emerald and steel.
Meadows of flame leap up to the summit of the little hill.

At the left, the mold of the ridge is trampled by all the homicides
and all the battles, and all the disastrous noises
describe their curve. Behind the right-hand
ridge, the line of orients and of progress.

And while the band above the picture is composed of the revolving
and rushing hum of seashells and of human nights,
The flowering sweetness of the stars and of the night
and all the rest descends, opposite the knol
l, like a basket,-- against our face, and
makes the abyss perfumed and blue below.

~Arthur Rimbaud~

Jun 13, 2012

The Mother of Pearls

Here, thinking of you I remember being lost in wonder;
these shadows of memory I will never live again, where
Sometimes I have nothing to share but yesterday.
Being up all night, there will always remain my obsessions;
same old story
it's hard to find divine intervention.
But sometimes I see it,
I feel it come through the pen,
the brush,
the musical note.
Looking for something that was never mine.
a pantomime, a reflection of the real thing,
now lost to forever.
And every idol is eventually a let down
that brings you down
but makes me try harder
and then I feel more real,
a holy shimmering takes me over.
I have thrown away kisses,
cut all the guilt down,
thrown away the past.
This is only a shrinking world
a cameo
a detached pearl.
I save it like the memories put away in some locket,
heart shaped.