things I like this week, vol. 32

First, the poems:

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door . . . 

. . . 

For each age is a dream that is dying
or one that is coming to birth.

. . .

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.
[XVI]

. . .

And then the pictures for which I can give no good source link, since they are off friends' facebook pages:

. . .

The bit of light on her inner thigh is what makes the photo.

. . . 

They were camped out in my friend's parents' backyard.

. . . 

. . . 

I'm not generally one to repost these ecards, but this one speaks to a pet peeve I've had for years.

I have the same pet peeve when it comes to people who get "to thine ownself be true" as a tattoo.

. . .

And now, the photos I can source:

Steve McCurry, again.

. . . 

Bookshelf Porn, so aptly named.

. . . 

Edvard Munch.

. . . 

And now, the videos:

Five ways to open a bottle of wine without a corkscrew. (The shoe is my favorite.)

. . .




. . .




. . .

Watch what she does on her toes. Insane.

. . .

And, finally, a token, a quote, a list, and a note.

. . . 

good advice

Once I get my school stuff wrapped up (classroom is still a horrific mess), this is what I'm going to do.

from here

things I like this week, vol. 30

Steve McCurry, again. The entire post was beautiful, but this one was my favorite.

. . . 

Insight from Oscar Wilde:

All women become like their mothers.  That is their tragedy.  No man does.  That’s his.

- The Importance of Being Earnest 

. . . 

I have been craving tango dresses instead of shoes, lately - flowy ones. This is from INDI Apparel's recent line. There are lace insets along the sides of the skirt, too.

. . .

Allen Ginsberg's "An Eastern Ballad" is a fitting description of how I've felt the last six weeks or so, and much better than I could articulate it, even if I had tried:

I speak of love that comes to mind:
The moon is faithful, although blind;
She moves in thought she cannot speak.
Perfect care has made her bleak.

I never dreamed the sea so deep,
The earth so dark; so long my sleep,
I have become another child.
I wake to see the world go wild. 

. . .

It says "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," which is from Harry Potter's Marauder's Map. It's a clever touch to do it in black light ink (although why the random purple spots in the background?).

 . . .

This line, in a post about a Black Keys concert:

The music performed a miracle. It made the seats disappear.

one bird

it may not always be so; and i say
that if your lips,which i have loved,should touch
another’s,and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart,as mine in time not far away;
if on another’s face your sweet hair lay
in such silence as i know,or such
great writhing words as,uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

if this should be,i say if this should be—
you of my heart,send me a little word;
that i may go unto him,and take his hands,
saying,Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.

 - e.e. cummings

for Colin

 Walking Around

I happen to be tired of being a man.
I happen to enter tailorshops and moviehouses
withered, impenetrable, like a felt swan
navigating in a water of sources and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me wail.
I want only a respite of stones or wool,
I want only not to see establishments or gardens,
or merchandise, or eyeglasses, or elevators.

I happen to be tired of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
I happen to be tired of being a man.

Nevertheless it would be delightful
to startle a notary with a cut lily
or slay a nun by striking her on the ear.
It would be lovely
to go through the streets with a sexy knife
and shouting until I froze to death.

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
vacillating, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
downward, in the soaked guts of the earth,
absorbing and thinking, eating each day.

I do not want for myself so many misfortunes.
I do not want to continue as root and tomb,
subterranean only, a vault with corpses,
stiff with cold, dying of distress.

That is why Monday day burns like petroleum
when it sees me coming with my prison face,
and it howls in its transit like a wounded wheel,
and it takes hot-blooded steps toward the night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into certain moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones stick out the windows,
into certain shoestores with a smell of vinegar,
into streets as frightening as chasms.

There are brimstone-colored birds and horrible intestines
hanging from the doors of the houses that I hate,
there are dentures left forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and fright,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and poisons, and navels.

I walk around with calm, with eyes, with shoes,
with fury, with forgetfulness,
I pass, I cross by offices and orthopedic shoestores,
and courtyards where clothes are hanging from a wire:
underdrawers, towels and shirts that weep
slow, dirty tears.

- Pablo Neruda (trans. Donald D. Walsh)

on graceful exits

As I went over to say good-by I saw that the expression of bewilderment has come back into Gatsby's face, as though a faint doubt had occurred to him as to the quality of his present happiness. Almost five years! There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams — not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.

As I watched him he adjusted himself a little, visibly. His hand took hold of hers, and as she said something low in his ear he turned toward her with a rush of emotion. I think that voice held him most, with its fluctuating, feverish warmth, because it couldn't be over-dreamed — that voice was a deathless song.

They had forgotten me, but Daisy glanced up and held out her hand; Gatsby didn't know me now at all. I looked once more at them and they looked back at me, remotely, possessed by intense life. Then I went out of the room and down the marble steps into the rain, leaving them there together.

- F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

a villanelle

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

- Elizabeth Bishop, "One Art"

I am in need of a vacation.

One where I could smoke


(I don't smoke)


walk across a sun-filled courtyard


take a blue boat far out on an azure sea.

things I like this week, vol. 22

So many things to share. Have been saving up a long time. (More like "things I like this month.")

. . .

Like a picture frame for nature.

. . .

“The story of writing in the digital age is every bit as messy as the ink-stained rags that would have littered Gutenberg’s print shop or the hot molten lead of the Linotype machine,” Mr. Kirschenbaum said, before asking a question he hopes he can answer: “Who were the early adopters, the first mainstream authors to trade in their typewriters for WordStar and WordPerfect?”

From A Literary History of Word Processing. Worth reading the entire article (assuming you're a book nerd, and I'm going to make a blanket assumption that most of my readers are).

. . .

Speaking of book nerds . . . who wouldn't want a book the size of a box of cigarettes? Heart of Darkness is particularly appropriate, I think.

. . .

Photo of the day, several days ago.

. . .

Haven't been terribly pleased with 20x200's recent price hike (the name is obsolete, now!) or their taste in goofy prints, but I love, love this photo.

. . .

So pretty.

. . .

Neil and Amanda (you should know who these people are!) had a tango lesson the day they got married. She has this to say:

and during the lesson, when she talked about how the art of tango was to relinquish control to your dance-partner and trust that he would bravely carry you across the floor, i cried.

Tango is a good metaphor for many things, on many levels.

. . .

I bought my full-access ticket to the Tucson Tango Festival at the early bird price. So excited. There is a beginner's option, if you're interested . . .

. . .

Reminiscences and resolutions from a friend:

When I was about 7 I began reading Louisa May Alcott's Little Women. I was allowed to read as late as I wanted. There was no "lights out" rule in my home. One night my mother awoke to hear me sobbing hysterically in the next room. Running in to check on me, worried, she asked what happened.

"Oh, momma!" I hiccuped, "Beth died."

She laughed at me, then folded her 6 foot frame into the tiny bottom bunk I slept in and cuddled me while I cried.

Mommas are good for that.

. . .

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd . . .

. . .

A post from a woman in Cuba about the tradition of throwing water out the door on New Year's to wash away the bad of the previous year:

The child is bathed in a basin because the suds must then be used to clean the floor, and the bent-backed retiree drags a water cart from the hydrant to the shack where he lives. The jacuzzi jets in some hotel, the stillness of of the blue waves of one of those swimming pools that can only be seen on Google Earth, so hidden are they behind the hibiscus hedges and watchdogs of certain residences. It is not the same water.

. . .

Jiro Dreams of Sushi.

. . .

More to come.

john mayer, photo editor

You're going to have to full view the image. This was posted on John Mayer's tumblr; it has since been deleted. Luckily, Google Reader has a good memory, so Mayer's folly can be exposed for all the world to see.

And here's the lesson, boys and girls: just because you're famous doesn't mean you have valid opinions.

love poem on a rainy evening

Madrigal Written in Winter

(English Translation)

In the depths of the deep sea,
in the night of long lists,
like a horse your silent
silent name runs past.

Lodge me at your back, oh shelter me,
appear to me in your mirror, suddenly,
upon the solitary, nocturnal pane,
sprouting from the dark behind you.

Flower of sweet total light,
bring to my call your mouth of kisses,
violent from separations,
resolute and delicate mouth.

Now then, in the long run,
from oblivion to oblivion the rails
reside with me, the cry of the rain:
what the dark night preserves.

Welcome me in the threadlike evening,
when at dusk it works upon
its wardrobe and in the sky a star
twinkles filled with wind.

Bring your substance deep down to me,
heavily, covering my eyes,
let your existence cut across me, supposing
that my heart is destroyed.

-Pablo Neruda

moved

I've been saving up for a massive "things I like" post (read: I haven't had time to actually put it together), but I decided this was too important to wait.

Steve McCurry, the man who shot that iconic photo of the Afghan girl with the green eyes for National Geographic, has a blog. He just recently made an entire post on Afghanistan, and the photos are incredible.



The story he tells is nearly as moving as the pictures. I'd strongly recommend reading it.

things I like this week, vol. 15

Our friend Justin has been doing these little segments on Sonoran Living, and they're awesome (if you can get past the obnoxiously fake comments of the host). They're great if you like wine but don't know enough to speak coherently about it.

. . .

A fun personal essay on wine pairings.

. . .

It's a father (the artist) and son. He's done several. I love this one the best, because somehow their eyes seem to have the same emotion in them; I want one of my sister and I.

. . .

Everything about this cover amuses me.

. . .

Cleopatra (on the left). A National Geographic photo of the day.

. . .

Awesome because it was taken in a studio (a good lesson on how photographs can lie), but also because it embodies the spirit of something that was missing from my summer.

as I walked out one evening

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
'Love has no ending.

'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,

'I'll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

'The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.'

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
'O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

'In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

'In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

'Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.

'O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed.

'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.

'O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

'O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.'

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.

W. H. Auden

untitled poem

I keep forgetting,
I stay forgetful
of the storm that shields us
from the sky.
And under that canopy you smile me,
you slyly smile me into a moment.
I'd say more, you know
but the rest
(you know the rest)
the rest is private.
Kept between you and I,
under the storm.

~Jonas Samuelle

Ode to Wine

Day-colored wine,
night-colored wine,
wine with purple feet
or wine with topaz blood,
wine,
starry child
of earth,
wine, smooth
as a golden sword,
soft
as lascivious velvet,
wine, spiral-seashelled
and full of wonder,
amorous,
marine;
never has one goblet contained you,
one song, one man,
you are choral, gregarious,
at the least, you must be shared.
At times
you feed on mortal
memories;
your wave carries us
from tomb to tomb,
stonecutter of icy sepulchers,
and we weep
transitory tears;
your
glorious
spring dress
is different,
blood rises through the shoots,
wind incites the day,
nothing is left
of your immutable soul.
Wine
stirs the spring, happiness
bursts through the earth like a plant,
walls crumble,
and rocky cliffs,
chasms close,
as song is born.
A jug of wine, and thou beside me
in the wilderness,
sang the ancient poet.
Let the wine pitcher
add to the kiss of love its own.

My darling, suddenly
the line of your hip
becomes the brimming curve
of the wine goblet,
your breast is the grape cluster,
your nipples are the grapes,
the gleam of spirits lights your hair,
and your navel is a chaste seal
stamped on the vessel of your belly,
your love an inexhaustible
cascade of wine,
light that illuminates my senses,
the earthly splendor of life.

But you are more than love,
the fiery kiss,
the heat of fire,
more than the wine of life;
you are
the community of man,
translucency,
chorus of discipline,
abundance of flowers.
I like on the table,
when we're speaking,
the light of a bottle
of intelligent wine.
Drink it,
and remember in every
drop of gold,
in every topaz glass,
in every purple ladle,
that autumn labored
to fill the vessel with wine;
and in the ritual of his office,
let the simple man remember
to think of the soil and of his duty,
to propagate the canticle of the wine.

--Pablo Neruda

things I like this week, vol. 9

Two friends tangoing in an art-deco theatre; fashion by INDI apparel; make-up by me; absolutely gorgeous photo by Neil Peters.

A leaf-shaped house.

Tango dancing in the rain . . . in galoshes, no less.

the tango shoe post

by me, with Tom's camera

So one of the major problems (I say problems facetiously) with tango is that, at least for most women, it forces you to spend exorbitant amounts of money on tango shoes.

Much of what is pretty about tango, to the onlookers, is the feet of the dancers. There's a very specific style of foot movement that goes with the dance (not just the steps, which is something different all together). The weight is nearly always on the ball of one foot, and the one that isn't bearing weight, especially if still, is usually tilted to the inside edge. That edge will often be brushed along the floor or sometimes along a partner's leg or shoe.

Like so. From Comme Il Faut Tango Shoe Addicts Non-Anonymous Group on facebook (hereafter, Addicts)

What this means, then, is that your feet have to be pretty to look at. It's a truth--though perhaps a slightly depressing one--that I (for one, although I think this is a general truth) am much less likely to enjoy watching you dance if you're wearing plain and/or ugly shoes, no matter how good of a dancer you are.

I got my first pair of Comme Il Faut (more on them in a minute) last November. All the sudden, my dancing improved quite a bit. For one, I was more aware of what I was doing with my feet, which meant I was making more elegant movements (or so I'm flattering myself). For another, it was much easier to dance in them than in the ancient character shoes I had worn before.

Purchased from, and photo by, Felina Shoes

They don't look this pretty anymore, mostly because the flour we spread on the concrete floors to make them danceable turns the suede grey, even after I brush them as clean as I can get them.

They're easier to dance in for a few reasons. One, the sole is incredibly flexible, which is important. Try taking a pair of street heels and bending the toe up. Most of them are about as flexible as blocks of wood (and you can see what this does to one's dancing when you see people foolishly trying to move in them). Two, they're soled in leather so that you can slide and turn on a dance floor (rubber doesn't let you turn). Three, because of the pitch of the shoe, you're already balanced on your toes, which is where you're going to be while dancing tango anyway.

Those are the practical reasons. The other, huge reason is that they're just damn sexy. Observe:

From Addicts.

My photo, at the Tucson Tango Festival.

Also by me.

All of the shoes in this post, incidentally, are Comme Il Faut. Long before I even really knew how to tango, I knew that Comme was the top of the line as far as women's tango heels go. (I don't recall how I found this out--probably a Google exploration). There are a few other big names, but Comme has achieved a cult status similar to Jimmy Choo or Christian Louboutin in the real world.

They're handmade in Argentina, for one thing. They're also made quite well; I've heard stories of people teaching in the same pair for 8 hours a day for years on end. The designs are infinitely sexier than almost all of the other tango shoes I've seen. They're also almost cheeky in their design choices, using extensive embellishments or unusual material or color combinations. Nearly all of their heels are a stilleto (instead of the much less graceful Louis heel).

They've also worked very hard to maintain an air of exclusivity. They only make 30 pairs of each design, so it's rare that you'll come across someone with the same pair as you. They don't let their retailers post full pictures of their shoes online to keep others from stealing their designs (this is also why I've had a bit of trouble finding the pictures I wanted for this post). I have heard, although I can't confirm, that their boutique in Buenos Aires has only about five pairs in a display case; instead of browsing their selection, you tell them what you're looking for and they go back and bring out pairs they think you'll like. It's also rumored that they only bring out the best pairs for the most stylish women.

Another nice thing about their designs is that they take into account the fact that the heels are most often seen from behind, so they'll often embellish the back of the heel cage.

From Addicts.

Also from Addicts.

Part of tango fashion also seems to be picking up some color or pattern in the heels and echoing it in your outfit.

Jennifer Richard photography (hereafter, JR). Worth clicking to view the larger image.

My photo, again at the festival. Also check out the lace pair in the background.

One of my favorite pairs I've seen is below, worn by one of the instructors at the Tango Festival, Naomi Hotta.

At rest:

JR

In motion:

JR

JR

Something about the harlequin pattern, especially worn with such a simple outfit, seemed so fun and elegant at the same time.

Looking over this post, I'm not sure that I've explained quite well enough why I--and so many other women--drop $200 or more on these shoes without a second thought, or why one pair is simply not sufficient. At any rate, I'll leave you with a shot of my second pair. They weren't what I was looking for--I wanted some in regular leather, so that I could wear them on a floured floor and not worry about ruining them, perhaps with some of those scrolls on the back--but these were so pretty that I couldn't pass them up.

My photo.

a world of made

pity this busy monster,manunkind,

not. Progress is a comfortable disease:
your victim(death and life safely beyond)

plays with the bigness of his littleness
--electrons deify one razorblade
into a mountainrange;lenses extend

unwish through curving wherewhen until unwish
returns on its unself.
                  A world of made
is not a world of born--pity poor flesh

and trees,poor stars and stones,but never this
fine specimen of hypermagical

ultraomnipotence. We doctors know

a hopeless case if--listen:there's a hell
of a good universe next door;let's go

      e. e. cummings

(I taught this poem to my sophomores today. It was their favorite, I think, of what I showed them, which makes me happy.)

things I like this week, vol. 5

(clicking on the image takes you to the source)





link also includes a way to donate to help Japan.

additionally, a sexy poem.