Archive for the Poetry Category

Jazz in Holyoke with Kaos Theory; An Unusually Fine Outdoor Experience

Posted in Adventures and Interludes, FOOD & RESTAURANTS, Life Performance Art, Poetry, Thoughts with tags on September 23, 2012 by Admin

So, my pictures from this event did not turn out well, but I think the video gives an idea of the spectacular projection and music of the band. Oddly, I have not been able to get an answer from anyone I have contacted regarding the exact name of the band. But then, some times I don’t feel so… sane.

 

The original poster:

SANYO DIGITAL CAMERA


We have been having a series of jazz concerts in a huge parking lot behind two abandoned buildings and a single occupied one, using an old long-abandoned loading dock with weeds and etc as a stage. The result is pretty amazing as the parking lot is situated such that it is between two canals and this creates a beautiful cross breeze, helpful especially on those hot summer nights. Sometimes the BYOR crew coordinates with the jazz series but on this night we were the only people who’d brought food and wine and candles and yet somehow, due perhaps to a miraculous miracle in which the dishes we’d made had self-replicated exponentially, we were able to feed most everyone who showed up. The bottles of wine lasted throughout the evening, as did the Eggplant Parmesan from a friend’s garden — well, all but the cheese — as well as the chocolate zucchini cake, the pumpkin tarts and muffins, and the myriad other dishes.

There is something rather ethereal about tablecloths, cloth napkins, candles and flowers in a visually near-post-apocalypse setting, and the stage… well it is hard to describe just how it lends itself to the various jazz bands who have played at this unnamed venue.

At this last event the evening was  the sort cool temperature bordering on cold of the sort which, following seemingly endless painfully sweltering dog days, makes wearing socks and sweaters as delicious a feeling as at the end of a long day at the beach when the sun has set and the goosebumps appear.

As I was the only person with a camera, this is the only video we have. The song which is labeled “Candy’ has been stuck in my head ever since, along with the warm feeling from sitting around the old discarded kiln we dragged out into the parking lot and used as a fire pit, and the dreams I had after a beautiful evening in the fresh air.

Restaurants owned by people and not corporations have something I love: The Joy of Casita Azteca

Posted in Adventures and Interludes, FOOD & RESTAURANTS, Life Performance Art, Music, Poetry, The meaning of life on May 5, 2010 by Admin

The Front of La Casita Azteca as seen from Cottage Street

People will complain about jobs being farmed out to India or being replaced by machines, the corporate white-collar crime stats, the overuse of fossil fuels, shipping costs, and etc; and will advocate buying locally and this or that, but then will go to chain restaurants, not keeping in mind that for starters you are getting mass-produced meals assembled by ‘chefs’ who follow corporate mandates to reduce the number of mushrooms on your pizza- which are shipped across the country in 18-wheelers – so as to increase the national or worldwide profit margin by another million(s), which will ultimately go toward corporate salaries and private jets. Essentially your meals are prepared fiscally by suits in big offices with expense accounts bigger than our annual incomes and who jet about checking on said numbers of mushrooms on said pizzas, at chains around the country.


And, as seen from the side parking lot, once one drives through the parking lot between De Grandpre Jewelers and the Sunrise Bakery

Yet there still exist, somehow, real restaurants with real food prepared on the premises, with care, often with locally-grown ingredients, and which are owned and operated by people like you an me (except that they have restaurants, so there’s that), and so I try to stick to such places, for enjoying a lovely meal, and spending my real, organic dollars on such choices. No franchises, chains, fast food, restaurants owned by a “Management Group” or the like.

And, for Cinco d Mayo, Casita Azteca is having a celebration in their lovely front garden with the pretty lights, colorful flags, flowers and vines, with live music and fun! So maybe give it a try? It’s conveniently located on Cottage Street (Route 141)  in Easthampton, next to De Grandpre Jewelers, across the street from The Brass Cat, and has free parking out back.  Affordable, delightful, delicious, musical outdoor fun!

Would it not be lovely if we all patronized local establishments when possible and thus supported mere fellow human beings trying to make a living like ourselves? before the entire world becomes one large corporation.

Excellent food, amazing atmosphere, happy times, at Casita Azteca. Always.

Le mépris Condensée/The Condensed Contempt

Posted in Adventures and Interludes, Confusion, Literary, Narcissisim, Obsessions, Philosophy?, Poetry, The meaning of life on January 26, 2010 by Admin

I watched Contemp, so you don’t have to.

Contempt (French: Le Mépris) is a 1963 film directed by Jean-Luc Godard, based on the Italian novel Il disprezzo (1954) by Alberto Moravia. It stars Brigitte Bardot.

Le Mépris

American film producer Jeremy Prokosch ((image below, in red convertible, looking smarmy) Jack Palance) hires respected Austrian director Fritz Lang (Above, right: playing himself) to direct a film adaptation of Homer’s Odyssey. Dissatisfied with Lang’s treatment of the material as an art film, Prokosch hires Paul Javal (Above, middle: played by Michel Piccoli), a novelist and playwright, to rework the script. The conflict between artistic expression and commercial opportunity parallels Paul’s sudden estrangement from his wife Camille Javal (Above, left: played by Brigitte Bardot), who becomes aloof with Paul after being left alone with Prokosch, a millionaire playboy.


Continue reading

Feminist Stripper Performance Sculpture Assemblage Mosaic Art

Posted in art, Exhibits, Life Performance Art, Outsider Art vs... Art?, Philosophy?, Poetry, Popular Culture with tags , on August 6, 2008 by Admin

I found this picture…

Stripper Ironing on pole

Stripper Ironing on pole

and it made me think of ironing because in the picture this happy stripper is ironing. I have this thing about ironing, having written posts about extreme ironing which is my favorite sport (brilliant!) and I actually have an ironing board and iron piece…

So naturally I called up this stripper in the picture (whose name now escapes me), and asked her to pose with my ironing board and iron.

Also please note the fabulous lucite shoes. I wonder if these lucite shoes have a slot for tips like these ones do?

Fun with subtitles

Posted in Confusion, Idiomacies, Life Performance Art, Literary, Philosophy?, Poetry, The meaning of life, Therapy with tags on June 22, 2008 by Admin

Addendum: R.I.P. George Carlin

I don’t have TV so I rent TV shows on DVD. I watch them with the sound on the low side and turn the subtitles on because I have thin walls and don’t want to be a nuisance. Sometimes the subtitles are hilarious. Sometimes I watch them in Spanish so I can brush up in case I am ever in a situation and need to use my Spanish to save lives and all that.

Anyway–I was watching episodes of The Wire and there was this one scene in this one episode that was pretty hilarious for its dialogue and this was even more funny because of the subtitles on the screen. I was trying to picture the people that do the subtitles because sometimes the subtitles don’t match up the words exactly, although they manage to get the same point across. For this episode they left off like 1 in 3 of the (F) words, probably because there were only a handful of words in the whole scene and I they got bored of it. I bet the writers wrote this one after a late lunch on a Friday. It’s not that I think the word ‘fuck’ is so funny (I’m an adult now), or not. But a whole scene in which any one word makes up almost all of the dialogue–that’s pretty great.

So I took pictures of watching this one scene because I knew you’d want to experience the poignancy of the subtlety of the subtitled dialogue. These two detectives, Bunk and McNulty, are investigating a crime scene, as we watch! (!) The dead body pics are fake so don’t be scared – it’s not real, like everything in this self-indulgent blog.
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases

The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases

The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases

The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases
The Wire Season One, Disc two, Episode - Old Cases

Case solved.

No dialogue was left out of this scene.

Literally Lost in Translation

Posted in Poetry on January 15, 2008 by Admin

And sometimes not lost at all…

Mo Ringey Photograph, Bangkok, Thailand, 1996.

Image: Sign at Wat, Bangkok, 1996.

I never know where I am going with these posts, which is the common denominator in the endless metaphorical fractions of this life, but often the going becomes the posts and thus the posts tell of the going. Eventually I suppose they make a point.

Mo Ringey Photograph, Chaing Mai, Thailand, 1996.

Image: Point-Breathing Dragon in Bangkok, 1996.

It’s really quite a coincidence that foreign poetry and foreign places occurred simultaneously in my unforeign day, and it was perhaps all spurred by the simple loan of a scanner, for yesterday a friend brought me a scanner for my indefinite use and I started digging through dusty boxes.

The first images I came upon that seemed worthy of a scan were of a Wat I had visited in Thailand in 1996. The header image at the top is a detail of this Wat, which had been modernized. As we were leaving this Wat, in Chaing Mai, we wandered around to the back where we were not supposed to be, and where we found an abandoned bit of the Wat, a remnant, pre-modernization, thrown in a pile carelessly, like so many commas. Something about this discarded scrap of a sacred temple struck me as both wrong and beautiful.

As I was scanning this image I heard an email slide into my inbox. It was from a stranger, more and less, and it pointed to a poem. I felt that his poem seemed a perfect accompaniment to this image even though I had no idea what the poem said, being written in French. I translated it using babelfish and as it began to resemble sense, it seemed that somewhere in the sense there might be more sense and so I sent it to a fluently-French friend who fixed up the translation a bit for me. The resulting poem seems so relevant to the image and so I juxtapose the two below, with the machine translation and original poem below the below:

Mo Ringey Photograph, Chaing Mai, Thailand, 1996.

I think that in this moment
nobody maybe thinks about me in the universe,
that only I think of me,
and if I died now,
nobody, not even me, would think of me.

And here begins the abyss,
as when I go to sleep.
I am my own support and my collapse.
I contribute to covering absence with all sorts of things.

It is for this that maybe
That to think about a man
Comes back to a savior.

~hand-translation from a friend

 

I think that in this moment
person maybe thinks about me in the universe,
that me only I think myself,
and so now I died,
anybody, or me, would not think me.

And here begins the abyss,
as when I myself m’endors.
I am my own support and removes it for me.
I contribute to decorate with absence all things.

This is for that maybe
That to think about a man
Comes back to to save it.

~translation by a well-meaning machine

 

Je pense qu’en ce moment
personne peut-être ne pense à moi dans l’univers,
que moi seul je me pense,
et si maintenant je mourais,
personne, ni moi, ne me penserait.

Et ici commence l’abîme,
comme lorsque je m’endors.
Je suis mon propre soutien et me l’ôte.
Je contribue à tapisser d’absence toutes choses.

C’est pour cela peut-être
Que penser à un homme
Revient à le sauver.

Roberto Juarroz, Première Poésie Verticale.
Extrait de Poésie Verticale,
traduit de l’espagnol (argentin)
par Roger Munier,
© Fayard, 1980

-original poem translated and posted on facebook

%d bloggers like this: