Memorial Day Heroes

With all the talk and blah blah blah in the air about this holiday known as memorial day, I thought that I would think back to some people who are really worth remembering- not the nameless, faceless masses who waved the flag to their unnecessary and early graves in the name of "freedom" (the catchword of politics), but rather those who fought ever so valiantly (and sometimes, not so successfully during their own lives) for the cause of Literary Freedom and glory.  It so happens that four of these happen to be buried in the same place (Pere Lachaise in Paris), alongside many politicians and military figures who are but a mere footnote or are merely forgotten (and to see the pomp of the political/military graves attest to their even more tragic impotence to retain memory after they were gone, as nobody was around to wave their flag any longer.)

But, no matter- time may not even be the judge, or "society" or "the masses", for they constitute an accumulation of no matter.  Instead, to read but a little of Proust, Balzac, Colette and/or dear Oscar (Wilde), these would be enough to bring anyone with even an ounce of wisdom or beauty of soul to stand at attention and salute.  These are real Heroes.

entrance to Pere Lachaise (one of them, at least)

dear Oscar

Mon cher Marcel

the great Balzac

A Flower and Some Thoughts

Feeling a little and a lot blue recently while thinking of the massive Unhoarding Project 2012, I haven't been too eager at all to look around at stores for any new material acquisitions. Even my old standby places no longer have the allure of days of yore, and I have to think seriously only once whether I am going to pick up something.  So, it was a relief that the exhibition catalogue I was definite to buy yesterday turned out to have had inside stamped "reference collection" of a renowned institution- which meant that it was obviously stolen by somebody, and such things do not belong in anyone's collection (especially mine!).

Well, it's a "holiday" weekend, not that it's much of a real holiday and the weekend doesn't matter one bit to me anyway, but the two beers lined up in my refrigerator (probably not enough, I know) and the seemingly endless night ahead seem a bit of a bother.  But, really, why should I complain?

Why, just last week, my friend and I were offered a carnation.  He declined, having nowhere to pin it, but I with my ever present jacket, accepted, and here it is in its pink splendor.  Alas, it blew away as I returned to the hotel. Nothing lasts forever anyway...

Nonnonba and Me too

While roaming around in the bookstore today- something which is no surprise, as I go to at least one a day (sometimes as many as five, seven, who knows), I saw the english translation of the Japanese manga artist Shigeru Mizuki's book Nonnonba, and it is something which is beyond great.  In particular, the depiction of the protagonist (a child, who is clearly modeled on the creator and his own experiences/dreams) hits so close to an emotional home (if not the reality of the situation, which is far removed in history and in place) that it seems a most refreshing wave upon wave of splendor in graphic form.  Unlike a normal comic book which becomes a hollywood blockbuster, with its unbelievable (and utterly predictable) depictions of good and evil in laughable style, this one seeks to peel back the layers that even this jaded and guarded idle fool and inhabitant of the city (where, it is mentioned in the book, people have no sensitivity to things unknown) has.  Is it not about wonder and joy and beauty and dreaming?

In Plain Sight, that is, If One Looked In

It is pretty obvious that even if one wanted to explore every part of the city (any city, every city), there would never enough time because of the rapid fluctuations of its heart, made manifest by the speed of change and/or the unnoticeable (until too late) destruction caused by such flux.  More often than not, one's own perceptions are often hindered by blind faith, self-assurance and plain old ignorance.  Recent case in point is the existence of a grand building in the form of Macy's department store in Philadelphia, which I have passed numerous times on previous visits there.  But, without the handy guidebook which I had purchased, I would not have known of what splendor was contained inside.  Even better, because of an event that they held that afternoon I visited (Brazil, which was of no interest to me- for, as you know, I  have no interest in sunny climes), they were playing the organ, and it was more grand (and no less melancholy) than being in a church (albeit one here dedicated to shopping).

Request and Requirement

Over the weekend, I snuck out of town for a small town excursion- as I really cannot consider most places (say, Los Angeles) as a proper city, and it was a good old time with a little drinks here and there, and a bunch more food than I often eat.  It passed by all too quickly as these adventures do, but seeds have once again been planted in my always working brain to escape once again first chance I get.

Here were some signs which were ignored (not by myself) but by the patrons of the drinking establishment I went to on the first night- a shame, but I really did not expect these vintage signs to be anything but a bit of old fashioned nostalgia.  First, no ties, then no jacket- what follows must surely be no shirt, no pants, nothing at all?  Here's hoping (wishful thinking) for the return of the Jacket.

A Lady No More

The current trend (in sending my material belongings back into the void, i.e., clean up clean out spring cleaning with a fury), I came across one of my favorite books from my high school years- Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights, which I do not remember much of now in the dim light of the past, but for some reason (which I could probably explain but which you may suspect) I had a fondness for the pink background and especially the cover image, which is of Lady Hamilton as Circe.  I remember telling my old but no longer so dear friend that it would be fun to find out more about her, but I had not done so since that remark of two decades ago.

Well, a few weeks ago, I found myself at the Frick, wandering about and coming face to face with a similar portrait.  I said to my companion, "That looks like Lady Hamilton as Circe," to which she of course had no idea of what I was referring, and when I saw the description, indeed it was She.

Upon returning home, I had the convenience to look up Lady Hamilton on the internet, but this was something that I really should not have done.  Without going into detail, it turns out that she was no "lady" at all but merely one of the many of those types of women who emerge in society with suspect backgrounds, fall into obscurity but try to claw back into the spotlight, but are best remembered as vague portraits for the aesthete- many years removed.

Walked On By

Perhaps you may know or have heard of my current obsession with hating stuff (material possessions)- or most likely you have not, as we probably have not spoken for a while except on this here assortment of pages.  No matter, for I must share with you my bitter tears, unshed on the exterior but made manifest in the depths of my smashed to pieces broken little heart, when I saw the following bookshelf and decided that now was clearly not the time to pick one up.  Yes, it is true that I have been on the quest for this for quite a while now, having only seen an overpriced three level number a few years back (which I did not pick up), but honestly, do I need this?  Maybe the answer is a resounding YES, but at this moment in my life- that of the many changes that are to come- I really think that this (and books, for that matter) are some of the absolute last things I need.

Well, in the future, there is always a custom order, bespoke, built to specifications mine.  Truth be told, while I absolutely adore the Kindle because of its horrible and beautiful ease (thank you to W for having the great taste and idea to get me one to save me from breaking my back), I will always have a deep affection for the physical book.

To which I will not have the honor of arranging my books in.

Not a Rocky Road

Over the weekend I had the great fun despite nursing a hangover to be surrounded by magical stones and a gem of a person who I hadn't seen for a long time but was always meaning to do so (you know how things are). In a most definitely New Age-y type of store, there was to be had in exchange for some mere rubles the whole of mystical civilization and the realms of the unknown.  It was a lot of yucks to be reading all the descriptions of the various ways that the rocks, gems and et cetera were supposed to function, trying to believe in the efficacy of each (and doubting it more than a politician's half baked speech come election time), but perhaps that is because I treated it with much less than the respect that it deserves.  Perhaps another time, when I am feeling the aura or when the stars align, but until then it was all in good fun to look at some pretty rocks.

Lights, but No Camera and No Action

The cold, cruel and completely acceptable laws of nature have it that things are often subject to change and flux, as they well should be (whether for good or for ill, though the latter seems to have its ascendancy), and this kind of thinking did not escape me when I saw the reconstruction in scale model form of the Roxy Theater.  One of those show palaces catering to the cinema as a rising art form, it is of course no longer- and a TGIF is now occupying its once hallowed corner spot in Times Square.  But to see this model in its quiet glory and contemplate on the past of such homes of the Silver Screen, housed in the Museum of the Moving Image (in Queens), and around closing time (when there were very few visitors in the galleries) is but a drop of sadness in an ocean of tears.

The Eyes have it

The thing about being in a place for too long is that I do take so many of the many wonderful things for granted.  A major case in point is the always wonderful Metropolitan Museum of Art, which I visit a few times a year (often to see the same things, or whatever new exhibitions have just opened).  Recently, though, I thought that with the exception of seeing the famous hippo mascot "William" (temporarily placed in the new Egyptian exhibition downstairs), that I would make a concerted effort to roam around the many other galleries that I never even glance at- and so it was with this idea in mind (a very simple one, of course, but a good game plan) that I sought to open my eyes.

Now, you know that in my pursuit of beauty (and truth), that I am often sidelined by humorous things, but honestly I really was looking for some kind of amusement.  Usually, this takes the shape of some small object or work that has some strange depiction, but when I was walking through the Greek galleries, the following just popped out at me!  What a ball of laughs, this set of eyes which were meant for an oversized statue.  Although I must tell you that I couldn't look at it too long, as it started giving me a small case of the creeps.

Looking at me?

Looking at you?

The Forest of Fear

Do forgive my extreme laziness for not having posted for over a week- I simply don't know why I haven't done so, besides the one fact that something is on my mind recently. Honestly, besides being a trifle under the weather (something that usually does not happen to me), I have spent the last few days looking through and looking at a great many things of interest that I will write about shortly.

To start off this volley of amusements, I finally got to scratch off my so-called Bucket List one item- the purchase of a tree shaped car freshener.  Many years ago, when I was interested in one person (who turned out to be a bitch, as they so often do), said person had a collection of many of these trees in different colors hanging prominently in the car mirror, and I thought that was a jolly assemblage.  Not having a car myself, nor being interested even in being in a car for the most part, I never gave it much thought until quite recently when I was in a car wash (not for my car) and to while away the time, I picked up a pine scented freshener.

Upon taking it home, expecting the lushness of the deep forest, what assailed me instead was something so commercial and artificial that I had to throw it away, but not before taking a photo.  Nothing beats the real thing, of course.

Yes, this day.

I have been away for a few days, escaping the tedium (not boredom) of the city, avoiding the humdrum of daily existence (and also my work on the small projects in order to gain a small perspective of distance), so it is with a renewed (albeit rather small) hope of moving forward.  Sure, there are some things which are in the way, but most surely they can be paved over.  Which brings me to this rather exciting image that was gleaned from the soon to be released book on the style of Winston Churchill- he had himself printed these stickers and used them on Downing Street.  Somehow, it strikes me as much more meaningful and powerful than the now increasingly stale "Keep Calm and Carry On"