THE SIGNAL from David Katznelson
"Everyone else my age is an adult, whereas I am merely in disguise.” ― Margaret Atwood
Mark Twain’s first story was published today in 1865. And it was/is a doozy: The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County. He supposedly wrote it in the same cabin at the same time that Bret Harte wrote his most famous short story The Luck of Roaring Camp (this told to me by a local historian and I choose to believe it) and I have always wondered what it must have been like to be in the same room with two up-and-coming authors writing defining pieces, just starting bodies of work and legacies that are still so prominent today (bigger for Twain, and more complex).
My friend Roberta Peterson lived in the aptly named town of Twain Harte for a few years, and whenever I would drive up to see her, I would always stop at that cabin on my way through the gold country and take in the inspiring feeling that is still there…
Anyone need some STONES GOODNESS today? And maybe more?
Toni Morrison’s Library Is for Sale, and It Reveals the Range of the Author’s Tastes
An incredible way to paint a portrait of a legendary writer: through her book collection. Aside from really wanting to just scroll a list of her complete book holdings, the article showcases some great authors/titles collected as well as her thoughts behind her method of cataloging and storing her books. As a problematic collector myself, that insight is golden.
A Collective "Hysteria": Cleon Peterson is the Artist a Most Unfinest Hour
Cleon Peterson’s stuff is not for everyone…so be prepared for some graphic images. But there is no denying the iconic feel of his art and the pertinent and timely stories he tells. I was fortunate enough to see one of his early gallery exhibitions and my first reaction was of distress, close to disgust…but as I took a deep dive into his imagery, the power of what he was doing began to seep out…coming to grips with the darkness of the current human societal/sociological realities, “stuff” we need to wrestle with while we strive to heal our broken world.
This traditional Japanese wind chime is the perfect background noise
My wife gave me an old Tibetan singing bowl for our anniversary. Sitting and quietly listening to a ambient acoustic sound and its deterioration is a nice wash for the mind. Read and listened to this Boing Boing post this morning…I probably need to add these complex, reverberatory sounds to my habitat.
NEW FOLK
By Terrance Hayes
I said Folk was dressed in Blues but hairier and hemped.
After “We acoustic banjo disciples!” Jebediah said, “When
and whereforth shall the bucolic blacks with good tempers
come to see us pluck as Elizabeth Cotton intended?”
We stole my Uncle Windchime’s minivan, penned a simple
ballad about the drag of lovelessness and drove the end
of the chitlin’ circuit to a joint skinny as a walk-in temple
where our new folk was not that new, but strengthened
by our twelve bar conviction. A month later, in pulled
a parade of well meaning alabaster post adolescents.
We noticed the sand-tanned and braless ones piled
in the ladder-backed front row with their boyfriends
first because beneath our twangor slept what I’ll call
a hunger for the outlawable. One night J asked me when
sisters like Chapman would arrive. I shook my chin wool
then, and placed my hand over the guitar string’s wind-
ow til it stilled. “When the moon’s black,” I said. “Be faithful.”