(Originally read as A Strange Race of Critters.)
Antiphanes, ancient Greece, 388-311 BCE.
A strange race of critics,
They perform autopsies on
The poetry of the dead.
Sad bookworms,
They chew through thorns.
No poetâs too dull
For them to elucidate, these who defile
The bones of the great.
Callimachus attacked them like a dog.
Out! Into the long darkness.
Perpetual beginner, little gnatâ
It is a poet you distract.
;o)
Just yesterday I found a new female singer-songwriter to enjoy. Helps that she’s a bit off-kilter. . .
;o)
This is not how I wanted to start the year. . .
Before I found out about Lindsey Stirling, I would have called Neil Peart my favorite musician. He was obviously my favorite drummer, but that’s not saying much, as I know nothing about drumming. But I do know lyrics, and he was my favorite lyricist. His songs were poetry, as were his books. Ghost Rider is still my favorite noon-fiction book.
I was waiting at a bus stop when I saw the news on social media; someone said it looked like I got punched in the stomach, which is pretty much how I felt. But as sad as I was, I got over that quickly, because I then thought of how much his daughter and wife must be hurting. My feelings are inconsequential compared to what they’re going through.
For those who couldn’t appreciate Rush’s music, perhaps this video of the three of them having dinner will show you what we fans see in them. . .
;o)
A couple of weeks ago I was tooling through the area east of Little Tokyo, which is experiencing quick gentrification, and came across this mural by Carly Ealey. I leave the viewer to decide what it means; I’ll just enjoy the visuals.
;o)
As emotionally tough as it is to work with the homeless, last night I saw something that seemed to make it even worse. a loss of hope, perhaps. . .
Every once in a while I’ll put this song on repeat and wait to see how long it takes me to eye-leak. . . usually about ten seconds.
Evanescence is an underrated jewel.
;o)
By Ho Nansorhon, Korea (1563-1589).
The candlelight shines low on the dark window,
Fireflies flit across the housetops.
As the night grows colder,
I hear autumn leaves rustle to the ground.
Thereâs been no news for some time from your place of exile.
Because of you,
My mind is never free of worry.
Thinking of a distant temple,
I see a deserted hillside
Filled with the radiance of the moon.
;o)
This time I’m going to cross you up with a completely different type of music and musician; male, for one thing, and as far away from singer-songwriter as possible, for another.
I don’t know if Horton Heat is an actual reverend, but I’d rather stay in the dark about that one. Instead I’ll just enjoy his raspy voice and quirky lyrics, though this one is less on that side and more on the Heat part of his spectrum.
I first heard this song as the opening piece of a short film called “Peep Show,” which takes what you think it is and gives it a really funny 180. I love this movie, and the song perfectly sets it.
;o)
This is a really sad song by Jamie Blythe, a beautiful voice from Texasâyou should hear her voiceover workâsinging about naĂŻve girls gone away to college and not being very responsible. The line about the makeup on the pillow always gets me.
;o)
Washington Irving
TO OUR RIGHT, ON THE OPPOSITE SIDE OF
THE RAVINE, WE WERE EQUALLY DOMINATED
BY RIVAL TOWERS ON A ROCKY EMINENCE.
THERE, WE WERE TOLD, WERE THE TORRES
VERMEJOS, OR VERMILLION TOWERS, SO
CALLED FROM THEIR RUDDY HUE.
Not wanting to cover the same ground today, Iâd noticed on the map that there had been an original path between the main part of the complex and the Generalife, not in use now because that way the tourists missed most of the gardens. . . and then I noticed yet another path down to the river, through the forest, and decided it was just the thing I needed, a little nature photography to give my analytical mind a break.
At first I thought âCuesta de los Chinos,â or at least the last word, was a diminutive for âChinese,â but then I didnât know it also referred to the little pebbles that made up the path. Obviously something I needed to learn in my path through life.
Having stopped to look at the towers closest to meâseeing them from the other sideâI now turned around to look for the Generalife, hoping to get a glimpse through the trees. I couldnât, at first, but then I looked higher and gasped, because it looked so tiny! My feet instantly started hurting as I realized how far Iâd come. It looked like it was floating on a green sea of vegetation, reminding me of that shot of the pyramids of Tikal in Star Wars. . . you know, at the end, the rebel base.
The pebbles were still warm from a morning filled with sunshine breaking through the gaps in the trees, though now the road was in shade. The air here was not only cooler, but sweeter, and as I walked on a bed of pine needles covering said pebbles I wished I had someone with me who could name all the flowers just from the potpourri in the air as I shot them. Turning back, I could barely see any of the Alhambraâs buildings through all the vegetation; I felt like an explorer in America hundreds of years ago, tramping through a virgin forest. {Later I did have someone identify, from the photos, a fig tree, an oak, laurel, jasmine, aloe. . . and are those really pistachios actually growing on a tree instead of on vines like normal nuts? And pomegranates. . . I mean granadas; yes, thatâs what the city was named for.}
Turning forward again, I enjoyed the look of sunlight dappling the road, the pebbles giving a lot more texture than mere cement. Again I wished I had a model with me. . . which is a damn rare thought, usually I canât wait to get away from them. Remembering to use my other senses, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath through my nose; the perfume of the flowers suddenly refreshed me, took away any tiredness, though it quickly lapsed toward overwhelming.
A little while later I reached the river, but I didnât try to ford it, since I had to get back to shooting the Alhambra, and Iâd already gone to the Albacin anyway. But I did stand and look and shoot for a while, finally searching for the exact spot where the museum I went to yesterday was located before turning back.
Finally I started the return trek, wishing Iâd brought a lunch, more in regular mode than photographerâs; for instance, I no longer thought of the overhanging trees and resulting gloom as âromantic;â instead I was checking dark places for attackers. Because of this attention to detail, I spotted a little path off the trail and simply had to see what was up there. Maybe I might find another erotic statue. . . and yes, I laughed.
Luckily it wasnât that big of a hill, nor that steep once I got over the humpy part, but it was just high enough to see over most of the trees. Due to the towers being the tallest part of the Alhambra, the complex looked a lot closer than it really was, though I made it back away again with a wide angle lens. Someone had brought a chair up here once, then left it, which got me even higher {if I didnât look down}. When I was done with that, I let out a sigh as I realized I was gonna remember this walk and this road more than the beautiful buildings.
There was one tower, standing all alone on the east side, I hadnât noticed, so I had to check the books to get that storyâmorning gloryâeven if it was as made up as most of them. . . but hell, I was in the perfect place for a romantic lie.
It took a while, but I finally found the Tower of the Infants; its remote and wooded location was said to attract the romantics, though I didnât see much romanticism possible in the place where the Sultanâs daughters lived. In fact, there was only one story about it at all, and it was Washington Irvingâs, which automatically made it suspect: A young and buxom Andalucian damsel first appeared to him in the upper tower, her head covered with flowers. . . . and thatâs it. Obviously she didnât need rescuing, and for sure he didnât manage to seduce her, otherwise he would have told us. After all, even us romantic guys need sex once in a while. . .
;o)
