Sergei Rachmaninov: “The Divine Lithurgy of St John Chrysostom (Opus 31),” Bless The Lord, O My Soul
Flemish Radio Choir
dir. Kaspars Putninsh
Thank you, silencesounds & sheeper.
Peter Stackpole, Sun setting, Kentucky, 1937. Thank you, melisaki.
I demanded a realm in which I should be both master and slave at the same time: the world of art is the only such realm. I entered it without any apparent talent, a thorough novice, incapable, awkward, tongue-tied, almost paralyzed by fear and apprehensiveness. I had to lay one brick on another, set millions of words to paper before writing one real, authentic word dragged up from my own guts. The facility of speech which I possessed was a handicap; I had all the vices of the educated man. I had to learn to think, feel and see in a totally new fashion, in an uneducated way, in my own way, which is the hardest thing in the world. I had to throw myself into the current, knowing that I would probably sink. The great majority of artists are throwing themselves in with life-preservers around their necks, and more often than not it is the life-preserver which sinks them.
Henry Miller, “Reflections on Writing: The Wisdom of the Heart.” Thanks to Whiskey River and Such Stuff.
Bob Marley “Concrete Jungle”
The Universe story is the quintessence of reality. We perceive the story. We put it in our language, the birds put it in theirs, and the trees put it in theirs. We can read the story of the Universe in the trees. Everything tells the story of the Universe. The winds tell the story, literally, not just imaginatively. The story has its imprint everywhere, and that is why it is so important to know the story. If you do not know the story, in a sense you do not know yourself; you do not know anything.
Thomas Berry, with thanks to Whiskey River.
A man should learn
to detect and watch that gleam
of light which flashes across
his mind from within.
Ralph Waldo Emerson. With thanks to The Tao of Photography.
From the film Dead Man, directed by Jim Jarmusch. Soundtrack by Neil Young. Text read by Johnny Depp is a poem by William Blake.
Neil Young. Photo: Henry Diltz. Thank you, i12bent.
Happy Birthday, Neil.
