It was a windy night, and before my retina registered anything, I was smitten by a feeling of utter happiness: my nostrils were hit by what to me has always been its synonym, the smell of freezing seaweed. For some people, it’s freshly cut grass or hay; for others, Christmas scents of conifer needles and tangerines. For me, it’s freezing seaweed…
A smell is, after all, a violation of oxygen balance, and invation into it of other elements – methane? carbon? sulphur? nitrogen? Depending on that invasion’s intensity, you get a scent, a smell, a stench. It is a molecular affair, and happiness, I suppose, is the moment of spotting the elements of your own composition being free. There were quite a number of them out there, in a state of total freedom, and I felt I’d stepped into my own self-portrait in the cold air.
Watermark
Joseph Brodsky A collection of forty-eight essays on Venice explores the city’s meandering, waterlogged streets, stunningly beautiful architecture, atmospheric characters, and unique spirit. By the author of Less Than One.
Yoruba Tribe In African folklore, I have found a strange image of the Creator as a swarm of bees.
INVOCATION OF THE CREATOR
He is patient, he is not angry.
He sits in silence to pass judgement.
He sees you even when he is not looking.
He stays in a far place – but his eyes are on the town.
He stands by his children and lets them succeed.
He causes them to laugh – and they laugh.
Ohoho – the father of laughter.
His eye is full of joy.
He rests in the sky like a swarm of bees.
In vain, great-hearted Kublai, shall I attempt to describe Zaira, city of high bastions. I could tell you how many steps make up the streets rising like stairways, and the degree of the arcades’ curves, and what kind of zinc scales cover the roofs; but I already know this would be the same as telling you nothing. The city does not consist of this, but of relationships between the measurements of its space and the events of its past: the height of a lamppost and the distance from the ground of a hanged usurper’s swaying feet; the line strung from the lamppost to the railing opposite and the festoons that decorate the course of the queen’s nuptial procession; the height of that railing and the leap of the adulterer who climbed over it at dawn; the tilt of a guttering and a cat’s progress along it as he slips into the same window; the firing range of a gunboat which has suddenly appeared beyond the cape and the bomb that destroys the guttering; the rips in the fish net and the three old men seated on the dock mending nets and telling each other for the hundredth time the story of the gunboat of the usurper, who some say was the queen’s illegitimate son, abandoned in his swaddling clothes there on the dock.
As this wave from memories flows in, the city soaks it up like a sponge and expands. A description of Zaira as it is today should contain all Zaira’s past. The city, however, does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand, written in the corners of the streets, the gratings of the windows, the banisters of the steps, the antennae of the lightning rods, the poles of the flags, every segment marked in turn with scratches, indentations, scrolls.
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
You want a car that gets the job done? You want a car that’s hassle free? You want a car that literally no one will ever compliment you on? Well look no further.
The 1999 Toyota Corolla.
Let’s talk about features.
Bluetooth: nope
Sunroof: nope
Fancy wheels: nope
Rear view camera: nope…but it’s got a transparent rear window and you have a fucking neck that can turn.
Let me tell you a story. One day my Corolla started making a strange sound. I didn’t give a shit and ignored it. It went away. The End.
You could take the engine out of this car, drop it off the Golden Gate Bridge, fish it out of the water a thousand years later, put it in the trunk of the car, fill the gas tank up with Nutella, turn the key, and this puppy would fucking start right up.
This car will outlive you, it will outlive your children.
Things this car is old enough to do:
Vote: yes
Consent to sex: yes
Rent a car: it IS a car
This car’s got history. It’s seen some shit. People have done straight things in this car. People have done gay things in this car. It’s not going to judge you like a fucking Volkswagen would.
Interesting facts:
This car’s exterior color is gray, but it’s interior color is grey.
In the owner’s manual, oil is listed as “optional.”
When this car was unveiled at the 1998 Detroit Auto Show, it caused all 2,000 attendees to spontaneously yawn. The resulting abrupt change in air pressure inside the building caused a partial collapse of the roof. Four people died. The event is chronicled in the documentary “Bored to Death: The Story of the 1999 Toyota Corolla”
You wanna know more? Great, I had my car fill out a Facebook survey.
Favorite food: spaghetti
Favorite tv show: Alf
Favorite band: tie between Bush and the Gin Blossoms
This car is as practical as a Roth IRA. It’s as middle-of-the-road as your grandpa during his last Silver Alert. It’s as utilitarian as a member of a church whose scripture is based entirely on water bills.
When I ran the CarFax for this car, I got back a single piece of paper that said, “It’s a Corolla. It’s fine.”
Let’s face the facts, this car isn’t going to win any beauty contests, but neither are you. Stop lying to yourself and stop lying to your wife. This isn’t the car you want, it’s the car you deserve: The fucking 1999 Toyota Corolla.
The Poplars are fell’d, farewell to the shade
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade,
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.
Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view
Of my favourite field and the bank where they grew,
And now in the grass behold they are laid,
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.
The black-bird has fled to another retreat
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat,
And the scene where his melody charm’d me before,
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must e’er long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head
E’er another such grove shall arise in its stead.
’Tis a sight to engage me if any thing can
To muse on the perishing pleasures of Man;
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see,
Have a Being less durable even than he.
Like much of John Clare’s work, Cowper’s ‘The Poplar Field’ is a poem responding in part to the destruction of the English landscape caused by landowners using the Enclosure Acts to force the rural poor off their small holdings in order to farm more profitably by dividing the land into larger fields enclosed by fences, hedges and ditches, felling trees, damming rivers and destroying habitats of animals, birds and insects. The jaunty metre Cowper employs in ‘The Poplar Field’ seems ill-suited at first to a poem about lost years and environmental vandalism. Anapaestic tetrameter is more often used for comic effect (as in Dr Seuss’s poems), but where used irregularly — as it is here by Cowper — it becomes disconcerting, and can be employed for serious effect, as it is also in Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘Annabel Lee’ — as well as in Eminem’s song ‘The Way I Am’, apart from its chorus (most rap songs use irregular tetrameter).
NOTES:
1. William Cowper – 1731 – 1800. It’s pronounced Cooper.
2. The Inclosure Acts[a] created legal property rights to land previously held in common in England and Wales, particularly open fields and common land. Between 1604 and 1914 over 5,200 individual acts enclosing public land were passed, affecting 28,000 km2. Wikipedia
Soda tastes best when you’re young, a fact attested to by Eve Babitz in Slow Days, Fast Company. “Chocolate Cokes in high school are better than caviar on a yacht when you’re forty-five,” she wrote. “It’s common knowledge.”
On writing “Burning Down the House”
The phrase “burning down the house” I’d heard being used as a chant at a Parliament-Funkadelic concert that I’d seen. They didn’t have it in a song. It was just a kind of chant that they started chanting and the audience joined in and it meant, like, “We’re going to blow the roof off the sucker. We’re going to set this place on fire. We’re going to have a really amazing time here.” It didn’t mean literally, let’s set fire to our houses or anything else. And the rest of it, I thought, let me see if I can make a song that is basically a lot of non-sequiturs that have a kind of emotional impact. That they have some sort of emotional resonance, but literally they don’t make any sense. … Like the film title, it doesn’t make literal sense, but it makes emotional sense.
JERRY HARRISON: We thought MTV was a little silly. A lot of the videos, like Duran Duran’s, felt more like fashion shoots than films. David directed “Burning Down the House” with Julia Heyward, a conceptual artist, and the idea was that we had alter egos, including a little kid who climbs all over David. He had a tendency to cram a lot of ideas into those early videos, but the one for “Burning Down the House” was actually a hit.
Watch out, you might get what you’re after
Cool, babies – strange but not a stranger
I’m an ordinary guy
Burning down the house
Hold tight, wait till the party’s over
Hold tight, we’re in for nasty weather
There has got to be a way
Burning down the house
Here’s your ticket, pack your bag, it’s time for jumping overboard
The transportation is here
Close enough but not too far, maybe you know where you are
Fighting fire with fire, ah!
All wet, here, you might need a raincoat
Shake-down, dreams walking in broad daylight
Three hundred sixty-five degrees
Burning down the house
It was once upon a place, sometimes I listen to myself
Gonna come in first place
People on their way to work say, “Baby, what did you expect?”
Gonna burst into flame, ah
Burning down the house
My house is out of the ordinary
That’s right, don’t wanna hurt nobody
Some things sure can sweep me off my feet
Burning down the house
No visible means of support and you have not seen nothing, yet
Everything’s stuck together
I don’t know what you expect staring into the TV set
Fighting fire with fire, ah
The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread, Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
Clementine: This is it, Joel. It’s going to be gone soon.
Joel: I know.
Clementine: What do we do?
Joel: Enjoy it.
[Mary reads to Dr. Mierzwiak out of “Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations”; the lines are from Alexander Pope’s poem “Eloisa to Abelard”]
Mary: How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot! / The world forgetting, by the world forgot / Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! / Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resign’d.
[last lines]
Joel: I can’t see anything that I don’t like about you.
Clementine: But you will! But you will. You know, you will think of things. And I’ll get bored with you and feel trapped because that’s what happens with me.
Joel: Okay.
Clementine: [pauses] Okay.
Mary: Blessed are the forgetful, for they get the better even of their blunders.
[they click glasses]
Mary: Nietzsche. Beyond Good and Evil. Found it in my Bartlett’s.
Over the borders, a sin without pardon,
Breaking the branches and crawling below,
Out through the breach in the wall of the garden,
Down by the banks of the river we go.
Here is a mill with the humming of thunder,
Here is the weir with the wonder of foam,
Here is the sluice with the race running under–
Marvellous places, though handy to home!
Sounds of the village grow stiller and stiller,
Stiller the note of the birds on the hill;
Dusty and dim are the eyes of the miller,
Deaf are his ears with the moil of the mill.
Years may go by, and the wheel in the river
Wheel as it wheels for us, children, to-day,
Wheel and keep roaring and foaming for ever
Long after all of the boys are away.
Home for the Indies and home from the ocean,
Heroes and soldiers we all will come home;
Still we shall find the old mill wheel in motion,
Turning and churning that river to foam.
You with the bean that I gave when we quarrelled,
I with your marble of Saturday last,
Honoured and old and all gaily apparelled,
Here we shall meet and remember the past.
Writing verse is so much fun,
Cheering as the summer weather,
Makes you feel alert and bright
‘Specially when you get it more or less the way you want it.
stanza from: An Attempt at Unrhymed Verse
Wendy Cope