After Franz Hals

I first encountered an image of a Franz Hals painting in a book my parents had that was titled (I think): Art Treasures of the Louvre. I didn't actually see a canvas of his until I was seventeen and wandering around the European painting rooms of the Metropolitan Museum of Art with my mouth hanging open, at least metaphorically. My appreciation was heightened by taking the Northern European Painting course taught by Howard McP. Davis at Columbia during the Autumn 1968 semester. The drawing "After Franz Hals" is an attempt at an iconic, if somewhat romanticized, portrait of myself in my early twenties that I did in my late thirties while sitting through some horrendously boring meeting at Louis Harris & Associates.

Sleeping in Houses of Great Writers of the Past

Not many writers have the opportunity to sleep in a house that belonged to a great writer of the past, so I count myself extremely privileged to have spent a night in Sarceau, the chateau that belonged to the French poet Pierre de Ronsard (1524-1585). This photograph is of the library in the room I slept in. The exterior can be seen on the home page of the Sarceau website:

http://le-manoir-de-sarceau.tripod.com/

In November 2003 I was a guest of Francois Fouquet Dubois, whose mother's family purchased Sarceau in the 1830s. Francois is an excellent painter. Images of some of his works are displayed on his website:

http://www.ffdubois.com/gb/index.html

Here is an English translation (not done by me) of one of Pierre de Ronsard's poems:

ROSES
PIERRE DE RONSARD, 1550.

I send you here a wreath of blossoms blown,
And woven flowers at sunset gathered,
Another dawn had seen them ruined, and shed
Loose leaves upon the grass at random strown.
By this, their sure example, be it known,
That all your beauties, now in perfect flower,
Shall fade as these, and wither in an hour,
Flowerlike, and brief of days, as the flower sown.

Ah, time is flying, lady--time is flying;
Nay, 'tis not time that flies but we that go,
Who in short space shall be in churchyard lying,
And of our loving parley none shall know,
Nor any man consider what we were;
Be therefore kind, my love, whiles thou art fair.

Approximate Lovers

This is a sonnet I wrote while out taking a walk one lunchtime during December 2006. When I got back to the office all I had to think about while transcribing it was the punctuation:

Approximate Lovers

In our past lives we'd known each other well,
A fate we both recalled when first we met
this time around. You rang a little bell
behind your back, and voiced a small regret
about the flight you had to catch at noon.
We quickly found a luxury hotel,
and set our trusty calendars to June:
Remembrance of things past, or show and tell?
Since we might never once more chance to while
away some lazy hours, and then flee --
How can I be the one to dare defile
Pandora's Box, when you still have the key?
We'll keep our crowns and shields beneath the covers,
And remain, in the end, approximate lovers.

Ms. President's Mercenary

Raise your hand if you think the following epigram was written during the current presidential campaign. Well, if you raised your hand you are wrong. I wrote it nearly three decades ago, in 1979 (if memory serves me well):

Ms. President’s Mercenary

Demosthenes of the Elegiac Bomb-Scare will accrue
His missiles to the ablest Lysistrata, could it be you?

My model was an epigram by Alexander Pope (1688-1744):

His Majesty's Dog

I am His Majesty's dog at Kew.
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

John the Comm

John the Comm, where are you now? This pay phone was right outside of Blackout Books, a short-lived anarchist book store in the early 90s, that was on Avenue B between 3rd & 4th Streets, two doors down from my apartment.

The Prisoner of Kennebunkport

Here is a very brief introduction to "The Prisoner of Kennebunkport," a prospective new work in the form of a first person narrative by Barack W. Bush. If you haven't done so already, you can see a sketch of BWB, along with a short description of how he came to exist in this world, in the February 29th posting of this blog. The premise of the story is that BWB is physically prevented from leaving the Bush family compound by Secret Service agents who, in addition, deny him the ability to communicate via the Internet, although he does have Web access for research and entertainment purposes. His relationships with his mother and stepfather -- Barbara and George H. W. -- are, respectively, loving and cordial. It's his two "presidential" half-sibs who are responsible for his house arrest, knowing, as they do, all of the oh-so-true scurrilous tales he can and will relay about both of them if he's given half a chance. Fortunately, one summer evening BWB manages to surreptitiously sneak an illicit thumb drive he purloined from his stepfather into the pocket of a dinner guest. Rumor has it that this dinner guest was 42, who was up for the weekend visiting his friend 41.

A New Formulation from the Propaganda Machine

The Chinese Communist government's propaganda machine never ceases to amaze: "Dalai splittist clique" (2008) is right up there with "running dogs of U.S. imperialism" (1946) and "let a hundred flowers bloom" (1956). I took this photo fifteen years ago. The genocidal activities against the Tibetan people initiated by Chairman Mao and his henchmen more than fifty years ago continue to this day. The U.S. should have boycotted the 1936 Summer Olympics in Berlin, but did not. No Olympic contests were held in 1940 or 1944...

Mysterium Coniunctionis

This drawing, which I did on New Years Day of 2007, was influenced by my reading of the Bollingen edition of the Collected Works of Carl Jung. The following brief description is taken from the Carl Jung Exegesis Wiki:

"The Mysterium Coniunctionis, or Mystery of the Conjunction, is considered by many to be Jung's master work.

In this book Jung reviews the vast literature of Medieval, Renaissance, and post-Renaissance alchemy from a psychological perspective. Jung contends, and convincingly demonstrates, that alchemy at this time was not, as many mistakenly believe, mainly concerned with the transmutation of lead into gold. Rather, the aim was more spiritual and mental transformation of the alchemist him/her-self. In this sense, alchemy was a kind of precursor to modern depth psychology.

Particularly because it developed prior to the excessive rationalization of culture which has occurred in recent centuries, the ideas and, in Jung's view, especially the symbology, of alchemy has much to offer modern psychology.

The "conjunction" referred to in the title refers to an alignment, joining, or resolution of conflict between poles dualities that define human beings. The poles of one duality of special importance can be variously interpreted as Solar/Lunar, Male/Female, Spirit/Matter, Yang/Yin or various other antinomies."

Talking Baccarat Blues

Here is another blues lyric I wrote in the late 1970s. I believe I wrote this about a year before "Left Lobe Blues", which was the subject of yesterday's posting. Last week I watched R.W. Fassbinder's delightful 1979 film "Die Dritte Generation" ("The Third Generation") for the first time. The narrator of "Talking Baccarat Blues" evolved from a mind set similar to that which Fassbinder portrays. If you haven't yet seen The Third Generation you should put it onto your Netflix queue. With that preamble, here is the text of:

Talking Baccarat Blues

Now what’s the use of me working all day
When I’ve got me a lady in the Red Brigades,
She hits rich folks, she sends me the jewels,
She thinks I’m hunting ducks, I’m gambling with fools...
But I tripled our money,
Spent it all on Rembrandts, Caravaggios, Vermeers, Titians, Courbets,
You see it was time to redecorate our townhouse.

Left Lobe Blues

Early in the week a friend sent me the link to a fascinating 18 minute video of a neuroscientist talking about the stroke she suffered. In it she talks about the differing capabilities of the left and right lobes of the brain. Yesterday, while having lunch with another friend at Mamoun's Falafel on St. Marks Place, we discussed this video, and I recited a brief blues lyric I wrote in, to the best of my recollection, 1978 or 1979:

Left Lobe Blues

I’ve got the left lobe blues,
Why is my right lobe feeling all the joy?
I’ve got the left lobe blues,
Why is my right lobe feeling all the joy?
I sure do like this mistycism
But right reason is a smarter toy.

If you haven't seen this video, I highly recommend it: http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/03/13/when-a-brain-scientist-suffers-a-stroke/

Sell It To Oprah

I have Arlene Pack to thank for this one. During a phone conversation we were talking about our shared inability to understand the attractions of cocaine, and I recited to her the first sentence of a story I want to write: "Cocaine is the drug of choice of bores of all ages." This led to a broader discussion of the inherent tediousness of all narratives about substance abuse and recovery. Arlene thought I should expand on something I said during this conversation. And overnight the following country song was born. You will only need to imagine the twang in my singing voice:

Sell It to Oprah

You were addicted
You were a fool
You're in recovery
You're such a tool
Don't tell it to me
Don't tell it to me
Just tell it to Oprah

You're on the tube
You're quite a star
Who would have thought
You'd get this far
Don't sell it to me
Don't sell it to me
Just sell it to Oprah...

Discunt Rice - A Drug Storefront Circa 1992

This awning was on the south side of East 4th Street a little bit west of Avenue of B. At the time I took the photo the storefront next door was occupied by a motorcycle repair shop called Cyclopedia. Discunt Rice morphed into another drug storefront awning: Joe's Records Shop. After that the location became a Hari Krishna food preparation and distribution space. Now it's a hair salon. A sign of the times, perhaps?