Sunday, February 28, 2010
Franz Strauss Nocturno Op. 7
French Horn Solo, Steve Park, Horn
"The fish in the water is silent, the animals on the earth is noisy, the bird in the air is singing. But man has in him the silence of the sea, the noise of the earth and the music of the air.”
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Some exciting and joyful news to share:
The screen shots here, but to read what Zoe and I wrote, to zoom in, and to see the rest of the beautiful and inspiring magazine, you'll want to follow the link.
Thank you for visiting and support:)
Sunday, February 21, 2010
isn’t he just a kid
who found a box of paint
as he was running through Space?
He painted himself some friends to play
and then some toys and playgrounds.
He makes mistakes.
He makes masterpieces.
He spills the paint;
the red especially
makes the big mess.
he erases things and shakes the World
and makes us all afraid.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Entering the Magic Garden, Zoe Jordan
Zoe in Wonderland
Zoe in Wonderland
I am happy to present to you here my new collaborative artwork with the most creative, magical Zoe...Enjoy:)
A New Scent
At first, I saw only the bright light, I sensed something new. My mind couldn't immerse itself in the beautiful details until the heart sent its approval. Or, was it the other way around?
Is it all right to enjoy this? May I go on with this adventure now, here? How will this change me? Should I warn somebody that I may be gone forever? Will I be recognized when I come back?
"I can't come back", I said to myself. Time travels only forward, and life just goes on.
So, I relaxed, and let myself indulge.
It was a new scent.
The scent filled my nostrils and therefore forever changed my breath.
The scent covered my face and softened the way I look.
The scent gently landed on my eyelids and made me close my eyes and see more.
The scent flooded my mind, it sank old chains and balls and let new ideas be born.
I felt the scent as it traveled down my spine.
It was powerful like an ocean wave; it was unavoidable like an arrow arched from the birth of the Universe.
My body became the house to the fire, like a volcano. My hair turned red like lava.
My lips and my heart became One: Speaking of nothing but Love from that moment on.
Notes from Zoe:
The plants that her image begins to appear through are all versions of the Hellebore. I had been thinking of the hellebore because of its legendary ability to cure insanity--thus, it formed a symbolic curtain between this world, filled with insanity, and the world of the magic garden, where one could suddenly and naturally be cured of it, and filled with magical abilities as a result...The idea was for there to be a certain location in a garden where, at a certain hour of the night, one could pass into an otherwise invisible garden, where certain plants grew that one had to have special knowledge to use. The hellebore is one of those plants.
In A Contemplation Upon Flower: Garden Plants in Myth and Literature, by Bobby J. Ward, it says:
“...the black hellebore, presumably Helleborus niger, was supposedly favored by witches who used it in their charms because they believed that one ‘finger’ of its lobed leaves was evil. According to legend, only a witch knows which one!....
Traditionally, even the collecting of black hellebores was considered dangerous because of their connection to witchcraft and sorcery. It had to be done in a specific, prescribed way; Pliny instructed drawing a circle around the plant with a sword and while lifting the root saying certain spells or prayers, entreating permission from the gods. The mystic rites for collecting, according to some versions, suggest looking to the east to be sure that no eagle witnesses the process; if it does, the gatherer will waste away and die within a year.”
Legend has it that the Black Hellebore (so named for the color of its root) successfully cured many famous cases of insanity, including that of Heracles, and that of the daughters of Argos, who had been driven completely wild by Dionysus.
Its use throughout history went in and out of fashion, because of the dangers caused by using it carelessly--whereby it became a poison (Hellebore is the ancient Greek word for food that kills).
In The Anatomy of Melancholy, it says “They that were sound commonly took it to quicken their wits, (as Ennius of old, Qui non nisi potus ad arma--prosiluit dicenda, and as our poets drink sack to improve their inventions)...” but later it began to be rejected as a poison; for example “Constantine the emperour in his Geoponicks, attributes no other virtue to it, than to kill mice and rats, flies and mouldwarps...” Later, it was picked up again as a medicine, and those that use it say it only has to be prepared correctly to work as a medicine: Brassivola “brags that he was the first that restored it again to its use, and tells a story how he cured one Melatasta, a madman, that was thought to be possessed, in the Duke of Ferrara’s court, with one purge of black hellebore in substance: the receipt is there to be seen; his excrements were like ink, he perfectly healed at once...” Some used a linen dipped in a warm concoction of hellebore and placed on the forehead to cure melancholy, some put it in an inhalant or a perfume.
And Paracelsus told us, “It is most certain...that the virtue of this herb is great, and admirable in effect, and little differing from balm itself; and he that knows well how to make use of it, hath more art than all their books contain, or all the doctors in Germany can show.”
The large bloom at the bottom left is from the type of Hellebore called the Christmas Rose, because it blooms as early as December. Its delicate scent and large, lovely petals bloom heartily even in the snow. We were imagining these winter blooms appearing in a corner of a larger garden at a secret hour of the night, their dew-strengthened scent opening the curtain between worlds, and the girl shimmering out of one and into the other
Published in OM Times Magazine
Friday, February 5, 2010
Thank you Zoe and Migue for helping me with the translation
and making sure we keep the essence of the poem.
I will always see Migue in it and his beautiful style, casual and warm.
Glass, small glass, or how to say "I love you" in my way
How nice it would be to be able to say a glass, when I mean a glass,
and not say a cup, or even nothing at all.
How nice would it be not to regret what I have not said?
But it happens that sometimes I mean a glass and I say a small glass,
and then I do not have enough and () I regret it.
Or I think of the words I've forgotten and of those I've omitted out of fear,
and when I made a mistake without an intention, accidentally.
And what a cursed mania I have of regretting not having said glass or cup or small glass
when it is too late, because at the moment of truth, it just didn’t come out.
--(And how soon curse me to go back to do exactly the same,)
And what a curse when a bit later it happens to me exactly the same,
and again, and again, shit.
Can you talk?! - I wonder.
Yes, yes I know, but I need time to choose the words.
I'm clumsy, yes.
And not to say glass on time may be serious, but imagine that you don't say on time
"Excuse me", "I'm sorry" or "I love you".
The thing can be silly complicated by a simple unspoken word.
That's why I want to tell you now,
"Excuse me", "I'm sorry", "I love you",
"Excuse me", "I'm sorry", "I love you",
all together for you to remember them and use them,
as if I would be saying them just in the moment you think I need them.
And let me know if you run out of "I love you"'s, or "I'm sorry"'s
I will replace them so you never miss them.
I would die of stupidity if I know that you ever miss my "I love you".
I would die deservedly, like an idiot.