lovely

cayman islands is one of my favorite kings of convenience song and i just found this beautiful b-side that features feist. such a good song for days like these:


if you haven't heard declaration of dependence, their new album, check it out on grooveshark.com!

Ode to Autumn

I had a dinner party on Saturday dedicated to this poem. A really good decision.

By Keats

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 mossed 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'er-brimmed their clammy cell.

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-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-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 barred 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.

i can't embed this video, but do watch it! it is truly stunning.

http://scher.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/10/05/the-shadows-dream/

beautiful

happy monday

after months of silence, this!

it's the end of the workday, end of the workweek, and i'm reading an interview with author nelson algren [famous for writing about junkies in the 1950s-60s], and just found this paragraph so absolutely honest and correct and beautiful that i had to burst and share it. it could be applied to anything, to any life or lifestyle or person or community, not just heroin addicts. he taps into truth, absolutely unfettered --

Well, there’s always something wrong in any society. I think it
would be a mistake to aim at any solution, you know; I mean, the
most you can do is—well, if any writer can catch the routine lives
of people just living in that kind of ring of fire to show how you
can’t go out of a certain neighborhood if you’re addicted, or for
other reasons, that you can’t be legitimate, but that within the
limitation you can succeed in making a life that is routine—with
human values that seem to be a little more real, a little more

intense, and human, than with people who are freer to come and
go—if somebody could write a book about the routine of these
circumscribed people, just their everyday life, without any big
scenes, without any violence, or cops breaking in, and so on, just
day-to-day life—like maybe the woman is hustling and makes a
few bucks, and they get a little H just to keep from getting sick,
and go to bed, and get up—just an absolutely prosaic life without
any particular drama to it in their eyes—if you could just do that
straight, without anybody getting arrested—there’s always a little
danger of that, of course—but to have it just the way these thousands
of people live, very quiet, commonplace routine . . . well, you’d
have an awfully good book.

FINALLY!!!!

NEW KINGS OF CONVENIENCE!!!!

album out Oct. 10

Rosh Hashanah

Amy and I have been talking about redemption. About the possibility. And the necessity. Mostly about the first moment in fall when your breath, as I said to her, puffs out in wafts. That moment, she replied, it's like the simplest reminder of the simplest fact: we are alive. We are breathing in and out this air and we can see it.

It started because I realized as I was pulling on my long-sleeved blouse that it smelled of last winter. It smelled of settling in the curve of someone's side and huddling under blankets. I have not worn it since, with the summer's heat, and I must not have washed it.

Today, she told me, begins Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. It is one filled with contemplation and repentance. And prayer. And psalms, which I love, because they are a textual sacrifice and an attempt to praise the infinite with words. "I offer in his tabernacle sacrifices of joy; I will sing, yeah, I will sing praises unto the Lord."

Amy told me that last Saturday at midnight Ashkenazi Jews began reciting Selichot, or Shelosh-'Esreh Middot, poems seeking the thirteen attributes of mercy listed in Exodus 34. Selichot, prayers as she explained them. Key words being: forgiveness, chorus, binding, we have sinned, and petition. Key words being: compassion, mercy, grace, patience, truth, mercy, pardoning. Seeking, beseeching mercy. Forgiveness for: iniquity, transgression, sin. Key words always, insistently: forgive me, forgive me forgive me. It seems appropriate, she continued, to designate full days, weeks, months of awe—both for the things we lose, and the things we redeem. For the compassion, mercy, grace, and truth in the Lord’s infinite mercy.

And the fall is the perfect time for this, I told her. A time of forgiveness and mercy, just what I ought to feel as the sun is saying I've stayed too long already and blushing behind trees earlier in the evening. And things are getting older. Maybe that's why I'm so anxiously waiting for the cold to come and for the humidity to leave. I am craving the assurance of cardigans and warm soups. There is something comforting in the pain of frosted ears warming again. Probably about the thawing of mercy, of redemption from hurt and bleakness that sometimes doesn't seem appropriate in summer.

It seems all too appropriate, she said, to remember with longing those of our past in this week of remembrance and prayer. The many small misdoings we did to each other, the many tender acts we shared together. Even the scent of them lingering in the hems of things.

Also, Amy ROCKS

Because you're not hardcore unless you live hardcore, right, Miss Best American notable? Wahoo!

Score One for the Home Team

Just wanted to draw your attention to our friend Pat Madden's bound-to-be-awesome (wa waaa) book, Quotidiana, coming out in March. And yes, that's a kookaburra on the cover. "Legend has it that Montaigne kept one in his tower to announce the arrival of bothersome warring factions or emissaries from the king requesting his services" (PM's Facebook wall). I shared this fun fact with my roommate, who then informed me about David Sedaris' latest piece in The New Yorker, which led us in a round about way to the following great video, which certainly makes me laugh a whole lot:

Astor Piazzolla: So Hot.

He plays a mean bandoneon. He wed tango and jazz. He collaborated with Jorge Luis Borges. He had me at Libertango.

(This one kind of jumps in a second or two into it, but it's Yo Yo Ma. And therefore Awesome.)

(The one below is about the fastest I've ever heard the Libertango performed, and I don't like it as much as the versions that keep the bandoneon/accordion sound in there, but this one is tootally worth watching, just for the conductor (see 1.35 and you'll know exactly what I mean). Hoooly smokes.)

On That Note...

Patricia's post brought to mind one of my favorite pieces by one of my favorite composers, Chopin. It's his Fantasie Impromptu, Op. 66 and it is rapturous. Enjoy!

Oh. My.

Thank you, Rachel, for drawing my attention to this song. I fall more and more deeply in love with the cello every day. I have been listening to Bach's unaccompanied cello suites not stop for the past 2 weeks, and this really hit the spot.

zee avi

kind of in love
(also, sorry for being so dead online--i just moved and my internet is not hooked up yet! i will be back very shortly xo)

The Greatest Thing in the World

I'm supposed to be studying course material for the class I'll be teaching in less than a month, which means of course that I'm reading through a book by Henry Drummond, an influential Scottish writer and lecturer who lived during the late nineteenth century and wrote mostly about his two passions in life: science and religion. The title chapter of his book is a meditation on Love and since reading it I keep thinking about this:

"Religion is not a strange or added thing, but the inspiration of the secular life, the breathing of an eternal spirit through this temporal world. [Love], in short, is not a thing at all, but the giving of a further finish to the multitudinous words and acts which make up the sum of every common day."

If you have some free time, check out the full lecture here.

Inadvertent Elegies

is the name of Sarah Jenkins' chapbook, which I "won" a copy of here and which I recently read through and of course loved. I hope she doesn't mind if I share a few lines here because they are beautiful and full of heart (as is the poet), which I've been told is "the crucial bone for a writer." So:

First and Last Looks

In the beginnig was light / emanating from the first / opened eye; the implications / I let you enumerate as we exchange first and last / looks. Look / I don't know / what I see / until I see you. / I don't want to see / until I see / you. The eye emenates all / opening a thin lid / sudden expected sight. The eye emenates / all things, bright and dark, all / people, places, things. That first flame of being, beginning / kindled under streetlights / along horizons.

Emanate: give birth / give light. I give you / you give me / illumination. / We belong on the horizons, / our eyes lighting the skyline. / We belong looking at each other / for the first time, quick / glancing-- / the next word blows, but I see / white light separated: / red, orange, yellow, / orange, yellow.

[Walt Whitman Blesses the Grass]

Walt Whitman blesses the grass growing from our beautiful bodies--excellent argument, until I find you / at the base of a desert mountain, the red earth eating your bones.

Did you read Whitman? Did you imagine your body joining the mothers and sons and old men waiting? I imagine your soul triumphant, but your body--

I hate this desert, the land flat and empty, every thing dead. / If I were Whitman, I would recite your name over and over, / in perfect syllables, but I cannot translate it to sun and dust and / there are no seasons here.

I imagine you in the heat, how it makes every thing quiet.