Back on the Beat

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I’m embarrassed to admit that while other people are surviving hurricanes, earthquakes, and violent religious and racial persecution, all it took to knock me down was a cold virus. Very humbling and frustrating!

Venturing outside again after several days of extreme inertia, inspired to see new murals in the ‘hood, like this one, rue Henri Noguères, Ars Longa Vita Brevis, signed Lima Lima-Raphe. The title is a latin translation of a quote from Hippocrates, open to different interpretations:

…”it takes a long time to acquire and perfect one’s expertise (in, say, medicine) and one has but a short time in which to do it”.[3] …”art lasts forever, but artists die and are forgotten”[3] (in this use sometimes rendered in the Greek order as “Life is short, Art eternal”), but most commonly it refers to how time limits our accomplishments in life.[4]

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ars_longa,_vita_brevis

Thinking about art, trying to keep playing music, writing, researching, has kept me going over the past few low energy days. Here’s more nourishment for thought and soul, a beautiful article from the Washington Post, “This is Your Brain on Art.”

http://www.washingtonpost.com/graphics/2017/lifestyle/your-brain-on-art/?utm_term=.c8a54fbdf078

To be continued, xxxxx Aliss

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Last rays of summer

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Sunset on the Hudson near Kingston, NY, August 2017

Suitcase unpacked but emotions and thoughts from summer travels still in unmarked boxes, waiting to be sorted and put away. Seasons turning, another year counting down, ready or not:

Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round
in another form. The child weaned from mother’s milk
now drinks wine and honey mixed.

God’s joy moves from unmarked box to unmarked box,
from cell to cell. As rainwater, down into flower bed.
As roses, up from ground.
Now it looks like a plate of rice and fish,
now a cliff covered with vines,
now a horse being saddled.
It hides within these,
till one day it cracks them open.

Part of the self leaves the body when we sleep
and changes shape. You might say, “Last night
I was a cypress tree, a small bed of tulips,
a field of grapevines.” Then the phantasm goes away.
You’re back in the room.
I don’t want to make any one fearful.
Hear what’s behind what I say.

Tatatumtum tatum tatadum.
There’s the light gold of wheat in the sun
and the gold of bread made from that wheat.
I have neither. I’m only talking about them,

as a town in the desert looks up
at stars on a clear night.

Translated by Coleman Barks.