January 19, 2007
The Creation of Adam
"Cyberspace electronically compresses the events in the Universe into the singularity of the electronic cathedral. Man is situated in this singularity, while a finger of his hand extends to almost touch the finger of God opposite him."
- Mordechai Omer
June 6, 2006
Light Emitting Beings
"When these bacteria are transferred to petri dishes, they are invisible. Within 24 hours they multiply exponentially and begin to emit a blue light . . .
The pale blue glow produced by these bacteria evokes an aura of the mystery of life in the remote depths of the ocean, where the vast majority of the ocean's organisms create their own light, and reminds us how little we really see and know of life on Earth."
Bioglyphs - a living collaboration with bioluminescent organisms
April 28, 2006
Earning a Living
What is the value of the passionate work we do?
Vincent Van Gogh is reputed to have sold one painting during his lifetime. Red Vineyards near Arles (1888) was purchased by a fellow painter, Anna Boch, for 400 francs (about $74 today).
Another of his paintings, L'Arlésienne, Madame Ginoux (1890), will be auctioned this Tuesday at Christie's in NYC. You can enter your bid online. Estimated price: $40,000,000 to $50,000,000.
January 26, 2006
What Do You See?
- Starry Night, Vincent Van Gogh, 1853-1890
When you look up into the sky at night, what do you see?
Do you see stars that sparkle down at you, showering you with their love?
Do you see planets, proof of worlds we will never know?
Do you see fiery Mars or the clear North Star?
Do you see the Moon, solemn and beautiful, waxing and waning with the shadows of the Earth?
Or do you see a shooting star, flying across the sky in wild happiness?
Or maybe you see beyond the stars and planets themselves, on to galaxies and the Universe, filled with possibilities . . .
Whatever you see, whether it be comets or simple peacefulness, I see those same stars. When I look into the sky I see the same planets, the same galaxies, the same constellations.
When I look at those stars I see hope in every one. And when I look up into the beautiful neverending sky, I see all of the people I love.
The world becomes a beautiful place.
So, the next time you look into the sky, think of the people you love, count your blessings, raise your arms to the sky and bask in the glory of your life, bask in the love of those around you, and bask in the promise of the Universe.
- Signe Freesia Erickson, Winter 2005
September 26, 2005
Takin' It To The Streets
Alleghany Meadows took a 30-foot '67 Airstream Sovereign land yacht and, with the help of his friends, remodeled it into a roving national gallery for ceramic art, putting the vessels within a vessel. Cool!
August 29, 2005
- Road with Cypress and Star, Vincent Van Gogh, 1853-1890
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
- John Keats, 1795-1821
July 25, 2005
Intimations Of Immortality
From Recollections Of Early Childhood
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparell'd in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore;
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
The rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the rose;
The moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every beast keep holiday;
Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
Ye blessèd creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feelI feel it all.
O evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning,
This sweet May-morning,
And the children are culling
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
But there's a tree, of many, one,
A single field which I have look'd upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a mother's mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely nurse doth all she can
To make her foster-child, her Inmate Man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.
Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years' darling of a pigmy size!
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,
With light upon him from his father's eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learnèd art;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song:
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride
The little actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy soul's immensity;
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,
Mighty prophet! Seer blest!
On whom those truths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day, a master o'er a slave,
A presence which is not to be put by;
To whom the grave
Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight
Of day or the warm light,
A place of thought where we in waiting lie;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
To perish never:
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence in a season of calm weather
Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither,
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound!
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquish'd one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet;
The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
- William Wordsworth, 1770-1850
photos courtesy of David J. Nightingale © 2005 (all rights reserved)
July 18, 2005
Look at this chocolaty rose.
Can you smell it?
Can you feel a petal melting on your tongue?
Can you taste its milky sweetness?
Can you hear yourself swallowing the chocolate of your mind?
July 16, 2005
say my name
"The most alluring thing I can think of at this moment is to see you in the throes of passion – to watch you getting off, and to know that I am the reason. I want to see your head thrown back, eyes closed and lips slightly parted, lost in the moment. I want to see you pass that point of no return, when the rest of the world becomes obscured by the star about to go nova within. I want to hear you call my name in that last gasp before you fall over the edge into exquisite oblivion.
But first ...
I want to take you to a secluded place, where the only sounds are our own. I want to surround you with candles. I want to trace my wine-dipped finger across your lips and watch your tongue follow.
I want you to stand behind me, snake your arms around my waist, and lower your mouth to my neck, just beneath my ear. I want you to breathe in my scent and brush your lips against my quickening pulse.
I want my hands to cover yours and my head to lie back against your shoulder as a sigh escapes your lips.
I want to witness the moment you surrender to the fact that you want "us" to happen every bit as much as I do.
I want you to slowly turn me toward you and take my face in both your hands. I want to stare into your eyes as our lips meet for the first time. I want you to feel my low groan when your tongue emerges to dance with mine. I want you to feel it at your very core.
I want you to have no doubt about my feelings for you. I want the depth of my desire to sweep away any lingering reservations you may have. I want you to know that I have never felt anything this powerful, this overwhelming, or this awesome.
I want to put my hands on your back, beneath your shirt, and feel your skin react to my touch. I want to feel you press your body more tightly into mine, making contact from shoulders to thighs. I want to see your head fall back, exposing your neck and chest to my eager mouth. I want to feel your hands grab my ass, pulling me even closer.
I want you to hear me catch my breath in anticipation as you remove my shirt. I want you to taste my skin as your hands move toward my breasts. I want you to thoroughly explore each nipple with your teeth and with your tongue as my hands insistently guide your head.
I want my mouth to give you incomparable pleasure.
I want you to hear the intensity of my arousal in the soft sounds escaping from my lips. I want to kneel before you, feeling the heat of your sex against my face. I want to see your hands urgently tear at your clothing in order to give me full access.
I want to run my fingers down your back and bring you to my lips, tasting your salty sweetness. I want to drink your anticipation.
I want to lie on my back, opening myself to you completely. I want you to bury your face in me and feel my wetness bathe your face as I lose all inhibition.
I want you to feel my breathing quicken as I move my hips to match your rhythms. I want to feel your hands in my hair as you ride our storm.
I want you to know, without a doubt, that I am yours in thought ... that I am yours, in word and in deed ... that I am yours, whenever and wherever and however you want me.
I want to see you pass that point of no return, when the rest of the world becomes obscured by the star about to go nova within.
I want to hear you call my name in that last gasp before you fall over the edge into exquisite oblivion. (Say my name... )
I want to hear you call my name as you come for me. (Say it now...)
And of course, I want to do it all again ... and again ... and again ..."
June 11, 2005
Listen . . .
Into your mind we shall sing.
- The Angel of Saint Francis, Dennis Nolan, 2005
May 24, 2005
The Ancient of Days
Then I would know the truth of the fourth beast, which was diverse from all the others, exceeding dreadful, whose teeth were of iron, and his nails of brass; which devoured, brake in pieces, and stamped the residue with his feet; and of the ten horns that were in his head, and of the other which came up, and before whom three fell; even of that horn that had eyes, and a mouth that spake very great things, whose look was more stout than his fellows.
And he shall speak great words against the most High, and shall wear out the saints of the most High, and think to change times and laws. And they shall be given into his hand until a time and times and the dividing of time. But the judgment shall sit, and they shall take away his dominion, to consume and to destroy it unto the end.
I beheld till the thrones were cast down, and The Ancient of Days did sit, whose garment was white as snow, and the hair of his head like the pure wool. His throne was like the fiery flame, and his wheels as burning fire. A fiery stream issued and came forth from before him. Thousand thousands ministered unto him, and ten thousand times ten thousand stood before him. The judgment was set, and the books were opened.
And the kingdom and dominion, and the greatness of the kingdom under the whole heaven, shall be given to the people of the saints of the most High, whose kingdom is an everlasting kingdom, and all dominions shall serve and obey him. Hitherto is the end of the matter. As for me, Daniel, my cogitations much troubled me, and my countenance changed in me. But I kept the matter in my heart.
Daniel 7: 19-20, 25-26, 9-10, 27-28, KJV
- The Ancient of Days, William Blake, 1794
May 15, 2005
The Second Coming
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert.
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
- W.B. Yeats, 1920
May 6, 2005
Leda and the Swan
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?
A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?
- W.B. Yeats 1923
- Leonardo da Vinci, Leda, 1507
April 14, 2005
God / man
These are some amazing ovservations by Ralph Miller of Leonardo DaVinci's drawing, Proportions of the Human Figure.
How many more dimensions create our reality than meet the ordinary eye?
April 11, 2005
Where to begin
Here's the painting on the wall, "After Birth", by Cosima
you should see the original