AdamSmith

Now HERE we go... Donald Trump Didn’t Want to Be President One year ago: the plan to lose, and the administration’s shocked first days. By MICHAEL WOLFF http://nymag.com/daily/intelligencer/2018/01/michael-wolff-fire-and-fury-book-donald-trump.html

Agree totally! The build from 1 to 2 is nothing short of brilliant.

...My word I poured, but it was cognate, scored, By that tribunal monarch of the air... https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43262/the-bridge-to-brooklyn-bridge

I know where to place him.

intense.

The most interesting stuff is always down there. In college, when I would go up into the stuffy library stacks to research one of the 'great' writers, I would always find myself wandering off into the 'secondary' authors on either side, who were either the 'minor' progenitors whose first premonitions of a new aesthetic laid the groundwork for the canonical 'greats', or else the 'followers' who did 'Mannerist' (so-called 'trailing-off' of a given style or age). I got far more insight from those 'minor' figures than from reading the Leading Thumpers of any given literary thing. Whom of course one read, but they almost always (not absolutely always, but pretty often) turned out to be far more boring than the eccentric precursors, and then the even more eccentric followers, of any given artistic movement. (Or moment, a word I far prefer.) I will subsequently try to delve into my senescent mind to provide concrete examples.

A great work!

And the problem is...?

Voyages BY HART CRANE I Above the fresh ruffles of the surf Bright striped urchins flay each other with sand. They have contrived a conquest for shell shucks, And their fingers crumble fragments of baked weed Gaily digging and scattering. And in answer to their treble interjections The sun beats lightning on the waves, The waves fold thunder on the sand; And could they hear me I would tell them: O brilliant kids, frisk with your dog, Fondle your shells and sticks, bleached By time and the elements; but there is a line You must not cross nor ever trust beyond it Spry cordage of your bodies to caresses Too lichen-faithful from too wide a breast. The bottom of the sea is cruel. II —And yet this great wink of eternity, Of rimless floods, unfettered leewardings, Samite sheeted and processioned where Her undinal vast belly moonward bends, Laughing the wrapt inflections of our love; Take this Sea, whose diapason knells On scrolls of silver snowy sentences, The sceptred terror of whose sessions rends As her demeanors motion well or ill, All but the pieties of lovers’ hands. And onward, as bells off San Salvador Salute the crocus lustres of the stars, In these poinsettia meadows of her tides,— Adagios of islands, O my Prodigal, Complete the dark confessions her veins spell. Mark how her turning shoulders wind the hours, And hasten while her penniless rich palms Pass superscription of bent foam and wave,— Hasten, while they are true,—sleep, death, desire, Close round one instant in one floating flower. Bind us in time, O Seasons clear, and awe. O minstrel galleons of Carib fire, Bequeath us to no earthly shore until Is answered in the vortex of our grave The seal’s wide spindrift gaze toward paradise. III Infinite consanguinity it bears— This tendered theme of you that light Retrieves from sea plains where the sky Resigns a breast that every wave enthrones; While ribboned water lanes I wind Are laved and scattered with no stroke Wide from your side, whereto this hour The sea lifts, also, reliquary hands. And so, admitted through black swollen gates That must arrest all distance otherwise,— Past whirling pillars and lithe pediments, Light wrestling there incessantly with light, Star kissing star through wave on wave unto Your body rocking! and where death, if shed, Presumes no carnage, but this single change,— Upon the steep floor flung from dawn to dawn The silken skilled transmemberment of song; Permit me voyage, love, into your hands ... IV Whose counted smile of hours and days, suppose I know as spectrum of the sea and pledge Vastly now parting gulf on gulf of wings Whose circles bridge, I know, (from palms to the severe Chilled albatross’s white immutability) No stream of greater love advancing now Than, singing, this mortality alone Through clay aflow immortally to you. All fragrance irrefragably, and claim Madly meeting logically in this hour And region that is ours to wreathe again, Portending eyes and lips and making told The chancel port and portion of our June— Shall they not stem and close in our own steps Bright staves of flowers and quills today as I Must first be lost in fatal tides to tell? In signature of the incarnate word The harbor shoulders to resign in mingling Mutual blood, transpiring as foreknown And widening noon within your breast for gathering All bright insinuations that my years have caught For islands where must lead inviolably Blue latitudes and levels of your eyes,— In this expectant, still exclaim receive The secret oar and petals of all love. V Meticulous, past midnight in clear rime, Infrangible and lonely, smooth as though cast Together in one merciless white blade— The bay estuaries fleck the hard sky limits. —As if too brittle or too clear to touch! The cables of our sleep so swiftly filed, Already hang, shred ends from remembered stars. One frozen trackless smile ... What words Can strangle this deaf moonlight? For we Are overtaken. Now no cry, no sword Can fasten or deflect this tidal wedge, Slow tyranny of moonlight, moonlight loved And changed ... “There’s Nothing like this in the world,” you say, Knowing I cannot touch your hand and look Too, into that godless cleft of sky Where nothing turns but dead sands flashing. “—And never to quite understand!” No, In all the argosy of your bright hair I dreamed Nothing so flagless as this piracy. But now Draw in your head, alone and too tall here. Your eyes already in the slant of drifting foam; Your breath sealed by the ghosts I do not know: Draw in your head and sleep the long way home. VI Where icy and bright dungeons lift Of swimmers their lost morning eyes, And ocean rivers, churning, shift Green borders under stranger skies, Steadily as a shell secretes Its beating leagues of monotone, Or as many waters trough the sun’s Red kelson past the cape’s wet stone; O rivers mingling toward the sky And harbor of the phoenix’ breast— My eyes pressed black against the prow, —Thy derelict and blinded guest Waiting, afire, what name, unspoke, I cannot claim: let thy waves rear More savage than the death of kings, Some splintered garland for the seer. Beyond siroccos harvesting The solstice thunders, crept away, Like a cliff swinging or a sail Flung into April’s inmost day— Creation’s blithe and petalled word To the lounged goddess when she rose Conceding dialogue with eyes That smile unsearchable repose— Still fervid covenant, Belle Isle, —Unfolded floating dais before Which rainbows twine continual hair— Belle Isle, white echo of the oar! The imaged Word, it is, that holds Hushed willows anchored in its glow. It is the unbetrayable reply Whose accent no farewell can know. Hart Crane, "Voyages I, II, III, IV, V, VI" from The Complete Poems of Hart Crane, edited by Marc Simon. Copyright © 1933, 1958, 1966 by Liveright Publishing Corporation. Copyright © 1986 by Marc Simon. Used by permission of Liveright Publishing. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43261/voyages-56d221f94d612

http://www.brevardbluesfestival.com/index.php/portfolio/unpaid-bill-and-bad-czechs

20 Endearing Julia Child Quotes That’ll Get You Through the Day Lean August 15, 2016 No Comments THE FRENCH CHEF, Julia Child, 1962-73. photo: Paul Child Today is Julia Child’s birthday! And to honor our favorite chef and author, here’s a compilation of 20 of her most endearing and unforgettable quotes: “I enjoy cooking with wine, sometimes I even put it in the food…” “Find something you’re passionate about and keep tremendously interested in it.” “I was 32 when I started cooking; up until then, I just ate.” “There are only four great arts: music, painting, sculpture, and ornamental pastry.” “The only real stumbling block is fear of failure. In cooking you’ve got to have a what-the-hell attitude.” “A party without cake is really just a meeting.” “Just speak very loudly and quickly, and state your position with utter conviction, as the French do, and you’ll have a marvelous time!” “Tears mess up your makeup.” “Always remember: If you’re alone in the kitchen and you drop the lamb, you can always just pick it up. Who’s going to know?” “The measure of achievement is not winning awards. It’s doing something that you appreciate, something you believe is worthwhile.” “With enough butter, anything is good.” “The main thing is to have a gutsy approach and use your head.” “Every woman should have a blowtorch.” “Everything in moderation…including moderation.” “Life itself is the proper binge.” “As you get older, you shouldn’t waste time drinking bad wine.” “Cooking well doesn’t mean cooking fancy.” “The only time to eat diet food is while you’re waiting for the steak to cook.” “It is hard to imagine a civilization without onions.” “People who love to eat are always the best people.” http://foodeagle.com/eaglefeed/20-endearing-julia-child-quotes-thatll-get-you-through-the-day/

Keep talking dirty.

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/what-is-the-anthropocene-and-are-we-in-it-164801414/

Good.

1. Providing labor to eat & survive is not objectionable to me. Regardless of age. 2. 'Benign neglect' was exactly my outdoor existence in childhood. (Not indoor, but then we were allowed to go outdoors time we wanted. Without any prior notice. It was simply understood that children would run out of house and play with each other. Or in the yard or neighborhood by themselves.) 3. We did not even go in until called five, six or seven times by our parents.

P.S. In those times, individual children introduced themselves into sexual activity when they were ready. But, from open living, seeing their parents fuck right in front of them, from living in one-room dwellings (my own maternal grandmother, the sturdiest personality structure I have ever met, affirmed that fact of life), they are not traumatized by the realities of the body, or sex, or procreation. It is a welcome part of life as social beings. They are alive to all of life. /End of sermon.

To be blunt (please forgive), I think that view comes from the infantilization of children that, in essence, originated in mid- to late Victorian times, specifically in England. For the 120,000 years of H. sapiens' existence prior, 'children' were understood as equal members of society. Capable of widely independent, and 'responsible', action -- hunting game on par with their 'elders', running and playing together responsibly without 'adult supervision', indeed groups of 'children' with no adult accompaniment at all going out and successfully taking down very big -- and dangerous -- game to feed the tribe -- need I go on? I myself grew up in a 1960s-suburban translation of same. Which came from parents being farm-family types, where such behavior of children was taken for granted. In summer, out of school, after breakfast our parents gave no thought to our going out of the house and disappearing -- into the nearby woods, into other friends' houses, what did it matter? -- until lunchtime at home. And then back out again. From age five, my parents assumed I knew how to keep myself alive through whatever kind of (again, summertime school vacation) entertainment out-of-doors I found interesting. Including that they assumed I knew how not to be shot by the fairly numerous deer-hunters who peopled the thick woods behind our subdivision all through the fall and winter! (I knew to buy bright-red winter coats. ) Point is: We are all being infantilized into the state where we could elect [yes, given all the irregularities etc.] our current Orange Orangutang.