The root of art and decline of faith

"He thought that fear of death was perhaps the root of all art, perhaps also of all things of the mind. We fear death, we shudder at life's instability, we grieve to see the flowers wilt again and again, and the leaves fall, and in our hearts we know that we, too, are transitory and will soon disappear. When artists create pictures and thinkers search for laws and formulate thoughts, it is in order to salvage something from the great dance of death, to make something that lasts longer than we do."

-Narcissus and Goldmund by Herman Hesse (an excerpt)

This particular passage does not mirror my own beliefs. I rather like to think that all creation is done to canonize the beauty in life but see so many examples that are summed up so well by this description. Take Guernica, for example, or every Carissa's Wierd* song you have ever heard. This weighed on me pretty heavily when I first read it and thought it would be worth sharing.

(*Yes, weird is spelled incorrectly but there's a reason this group was referred to by so many

music critics as "music's spelling bee champs".)

from ali : on coming home

“[Home] is the center from which we define and understand

the nature of everything we encounter in the world.

The home . . . is not one thing among many in a world of things; nor is it merely the product of a culture.

Rather, the world of things derives its sense,

and a culture its significance,

from their relationship to the home.

Without the home, everything else in the world or in a culture is meaningless.”

- David Patterson -

For the past four weeks my primary creative project has been piecing - and at times pulling - together a living space, and the process has me thinking about homes, about their all too-frequent lack - of the sprawling several thousand square feet structures passing through my office with vaulted ceilings more conducive to admiration than comfort, formal dining rooms designed to entertain rather than embrace. But as criticism is bloodless without conviction and conviction fruitless without action, I'm striving to start in my quite literal backyard, and struggling to grasp the essence of what a home should be when so many have become just another place.

from ali : gone French

I've been ducking my head guiltily at every mention of the Tortoise since my project was waiting on a return call from Elle / the cajones to initiate a follow up, but we finally talked and boom bada boom...

I start helping out pro bono at the Chateau next weekend, but it won't be just dishes - Elle offered to let me help with the actual food prep, and all that entails, including a crash course on knife work.

Now if you'll excuse me, need to go lock myself in the bathroom and scream giddily until I pass out.

Your Father's the light within all that you see

He fills up the ponds as He empties the clouds
Holds without hands and He speaks without sounds
He provides us with the cow's waste and coconuts to eat
Giving one that nice salt taste, and the other its sweet

Sends the black carriage the day death shows its face
Thinning our numbers with kindness and grace
And just as a flower and its fragrance are one
So must each of you and your Father become

-mewithoutYou
King Beetle on a Coconut Estate

Interrupting Moon at Five A-M

The urgent moon awoke me, wide and full, wide and full
The cold bright moon awoke me wide and full
Fin'lly that entire stretch from my lungs to my mouth
Is an indian drum, dry, stretched o'r too much emptiness
Percuss, percuss, thumps throat on hollow chest

The heart beats not at all, must have forgot, I don't recall
The heartbeat doesn't beat, I don't recall
I look into the void where the moon-burn was before
The dusty lime-like drink is only warmed up by the heat
By radiator-wet forehead and feet

Wet drizzle, dry bed, unsettled place to rest my head
Unsettled, restless place to rest my head
Its coolness has been robbed away by discontent dark grey
Its cotton changed to hot rough wool on a sore moon-burned cheek
Throbbing globe, aching sphere, dull refuge keep

forward motion?

I would like very much to inform you all that I've spent the week coming up with something new to post here but time has been dedicated to porch sitting and quality time with friends and family. Instead my day will be used as an opportunity to give a progress report...

The seven songs listed in a previous post have undergone some changes. "His Name was James" has been extended from a little, two part progression to a finger picked introduction to be followed by a few extra sections. On the new additions some of my talented friends will be accompanying me and contributing new ideas to improve upon the original concept. Aside from the expansion on this particular song lyrics have been finished for "Evergreens" and "Death Egg". I'd also like to take this space to say that the latter is actually an instrumental blues song that David and I wrote together and the recorded version that's being worked on is simply going to be a stripped down version rearranged for a single guitar. The other songs are receiving finishing touches and I've given myself a deadline of mid-May to complete the project.

Sorry for the brevity and lack of content.

I work, I sit, I pass time shuffling around the pillar island, drinking half glasses of water, and thumbing through hair. While my hand wears a print on my head, between awake and asleep, my ears pique. I'm hearing a young girl stating complaints and searching for solace from a voice on the other end of the phone. I'm hearing more than that though.

I'm hearing an attempt to convince herself that the current situation isn't her fault. She lists grievances that have been leveled against her in exaggerated tones and facial expressions. A phantom in her own stories, you hear nothing of her part. What is in her mind are the extremely unecessary sacrifices she made in hopes of justifying her love. A troubled boy enters her life with similar interests and she jumps. Leaving friends and home, traveling with him to a town in which she doesn't want to live. The bigger the inconvenience, the more the pain, the stronger she is convinced of their relationship. Months pass with his constant refusal of seeking employment, which results in an failure to pay rent. Now, faced with tough decisions, she is at a loss. As a substitute for making a decision, she complains, denying her role in this state of affairs. That's where she is, roughly fifteen feet away, back-tracking through a year's complications.

I open my eyes and look over my left shoulder. At the back of the restaurant a man stressfully sifts through checks with forgotten birth dates and missing driver's license numbers. More years are piled on his face than he has lived. But I am not seeing just my boss.

I'm seeing the formerly successful member of the european lumber industry. A business his father built, and he inherited, honoring his family's name. And then the war. People fleeing homes, soldiers forcing them from their vehicles along crowded highways. I see a small family, walking back after its conclusion, in hopes of some remaining familiarity. They find their house burned to the ground. Two growing young boys and a father wondering how he will provide for them. His relatives having been doing well in the states, and it seems the most logical plan. After spending a few years in the city, although his restaurant is providing more than sufficiently, he cannot supress his country roots. They move to a small town and set up shop, but italian is not in high demand in such a rural and uncultured area. He makes enough, but with a growing family and slowing economy, only enough. Close margins force an added attention to detail, and the lines continue stacking upon his brow as he scans the checks.

I scratch my stubble and wonder if there are any tables at the moment. My question is answered by two hefty women, one chattering between gulps of her chicken alfredo and the other nodding as she inhales her lasagna. But I see beyond their lunch.

I see them sitting on benches outside of outlet malls, multiple bags from beall's and old navy stationed by their ankles. As they are heading back into town they see a billboard for a restaurant they have never heard of. Pulling in, they notice a woman descending the steps of the courthouse, and comment on her wardrobe or standing in the community. They briefly examine the menu, ordering the only items they know how to pronounce. The clinking of their furiously shoveling silverware conducts the gossip.

Time is inching by. I'm feeling more than just seconds slipping by. I'm realizing that it is from these seemingly endless variables that one single moment is comprised.