Steve McCurry, Village Zendo, New York City, New York, 2004.
Driving to Town Late to Mail a Letter
It is a cold and snowy night. The main street is deserted.
The only things moving are swirls of snow.
As I lift the mailbox door, I feel its cold iron.
There is a privacy I love in this snowy night.
Driving around, I will waste more time.
–Robert Bly
Courtesy of Whiskey River.
Luke Storms, “Ajanta Cave 26,” India, January 13th, 2013
I am currently in Kochi, India. I have spent the month traveling through this vast, colourful country. This photo was taken in Bodh Gaya where I travelled to on New Years Eve on one of India’s remarkable trains. This beautiful temple marks the spot where The Buddha stared with an “uninterrupted gaze” at the Bodhi tree after reaching enlightenment.
At the same time I should like to emphasis that I have never built up a philosophy of my own or wished to establish a new school of thought. Perhaps the greatest thing I have learnt is never to think for myself; I fully agree with Andre Gide that “Toutes choses sont dites deja” (All things are already known), and what I have sought is to understand what has been said, while taking no account of the “inferior philosophers”. Holding with Heraclitus that the Word is common to all, and that Wisdom is to know the Will whereby all things are steered, I am convinced with Jeremias that the human cultures in all their apparent diversity are but the dialects of one and the same language of the spirit, that there is a “common universe of discourse” transcending the differences of tongues.
Ananda Coomaraswamy, after-dinner speech on the occasion of his 70th birthday 1947
Ida Wyman: Wrought Iron in Snow, New York, 1947
Josef Breitenbach (German/American, 1896-1984). Illuminated Tree. Thank you, yama-bato.
Emily Dickinson, “What inn is this?” from Biblioklept.
Unknown Photographer: The first day of school, Portugal, 1936. Great shot. Thank you,luzfosca.
“After a month of hard listening, John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman has become my own kind of internal soundtrack. I whistle these ballads as I walk down the street, but mess up their difficult melodies. I try to sing them, but can’t really, not the way I’ve heard them. So I put on my headphones and play the record again and furrow my brow as I marvel at its mysterious beauty.”
Read more of Matthew Kassel’s reflection on the 1963 jazz album here.
via: theparisreview.
A wonderful piece of writing about one of my favorite jazz albums.
