Convergence for your metabolism's liaison in light (12/15/10)

by Ryland Walker Knight

Go, ye giddy goose, so should I be sure to be heart-burned.

by Ryland Walker Knight

—A shout long silent across the sky

...

Do not believe his vows; for they are brokers,
Not of that dye which their investments show,
But mere implorators of unholy suits,
Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds,
The better to beguile.

...



—Nesting habits armed with folios like fingers

...



...

Peace, good pint-pot; peace, good tickle-brain.
Harry, I do not only marvel where thou spendest thy
time, but also how thou art accompanied: for though
the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster
it grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted the
sooner it wears. That thou art my son, I have
partly thy mother's word, partly my own opinion,
but chiefly a villanous trick of thine eye and a
foolish-hanging of thy nether lip, that doth warrant
me. If then thou be son to me, here lies the point;
why, being son to me, art thou so pointed at? Shall
the blessed sun of heaven prove a micher and eat
blackberries? a question not to be asked. Shall
the sun of England prove a thief and take purses? a
question to be asked. There is a thing, Harry,
which thou hast often heard of and it is known to
many in our land by the name of pitch: this pitch,
as ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth
the company thou keepest: for, Harry, now I do not
speak to thee in drink but in tears, not in
pleasure but in passion, not in words only, but in
woes also: and yet there is a virtuous man whom I
have often noted in thy company, but I know not his name.

...



...


—Thaw, and resolve yourself into a dew

Convergence for balancing (6/1/10)

by Ryland Walker Knight

—the old with the new

Sunrise: Monkeys do piggish things, too.

by Ryland Walker Knight

—Lumber weighs a ton
So there's this brand, spankin' new Masters of Cinema release of Murnau's Sunrise. It's one of those pictures we all know is great by reputation and then get doubly learned on by actually watching (again, for me, after a long gap). Those fine folks across the pond sent me some check discs. These images are from disc 1, the Movietone version. Now, I'm not the DVD expert our friend Glenn is (see his column here), but, this new edition sure looked crisp and beautiful. At any rate, I put together an image-essay for Danny over at The Notebook. You can click right here to soak it up. I sure do hope you do, for you. And, if it helps, give old Bill Callahan a listen while you're looking to remember the daylight.

—Also, I've cross-posted my work at VINYL IS IMAGES.

Meet me at the water.

by J.D. Knight

Poems for the month: Wordsworth. "To Sleep" (3 from 1806) "Animal Tranquillity and Decay" (1798)

TO SLEEP



I.
O GENTLE SLEEP! do they belong to thee,
These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,
A captive never wishing to be free.
This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me
A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above
Now on the water vexed with mockery.
I have no pain that calls for patience, no;
Hence am I cross and peevish as a child:
Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
Yet ever willing to be reconciled:
O gentle Creature! do not use me so,
But once and deeply let me be beguiled.

II.
A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away:
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

III.
FOND words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names;
The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames,
When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep
In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames
All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims
Takest away, and into souls dost creep,
Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone,
I surely not a man ungently made,
Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?
Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown,
Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed,
Still last to come where thou art wanted most!

ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY AND DECAY



THE little hedgerow birds,
That peck along the roads, regard him not.
He travels on, and in his face, his step,
His gait, is one expression: every limb,
His look and bending figure, all bespeak
A man who does not move with pain, but moves
With thought.--He is insensibly subdued
To settled quiet: he is one by whom
All effort seems forgotten; one to whom
Long patience hath such mild composure given,
That patience now doth seem a thing of which
He hath no need. He is by nature led
To peace so perfect that the young behold
With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels.


[Poems taken from this site, which hosts his complete poetical works. Image 1: The lost girl from INLAND EMPIRE; Image 2: Al Swearengen cleaning up his own mess, as ever, denying Johnny something pretty; Image 3: Gerhard Richter's Niagra Falls.]

Sibling Pride for the day

[My sister, Chloe, is a star. And yeah: I'm back in The Bay.] --RWK