“This tower, patched unevenly with black ivy, arose like a mutilated finger from among the fists of knuckled masonry and pointed blasphemously at heaven. At night the owls made of it an echoing throat; by day it stood voiceless and cast its long shadow.”
― Mervyn Peake, Titus Groan
Best and Worst Best Pictures
I thought “Chariots of Fire” was rated too high, “Schindler’s List” rated too low. Overall, a pretty good listing… don’t know about “Casablanca” at number one though. It’s an iconic movie, but not sure if it beats some of the others.
I don’t know if I agree with this or not – but it is an interesting read anyway. I think cultural inheritance is more important here than genes… so many wealthy and successful people I know are idiots.
I understand, but don’t agree with rural folks’ opposition to rail to trail conversion through their area. They don’t want a lot of trouble from city slickers and gving up some of “their” land is the ultimate anathema. However, it doesn’t take very much land and where the trails have been built out and mature, such as the Katy in Missouri, there is a lot of opportunity for making money by the people that live along the trail.
I would love to live to see the NETT fully realized.
Sometimes I wish I was young.
This article is vehemently anti-streetcar. So far, the streetcar in Dallas has been a good thing – though it is more of a tourist attraction than a real transit option. Once the new upgrades and expansion are in place, plus the route to Oak Cliff, it will be interesting to see whether the problems cited in the article begin to rear their ugly heads.
“With the sound of gusting wind in the branches of the language trees of Babel, the words gave way like leaves, and every reader glimpsed another reality hidden in the foilage.”
― Andrei Codrescu, The Posthuman Dada Guide: Tzara & Lenin Play Chess
– – Moby Dada 1
All visible objects call my shadow
unreasoning mask, reasoning thing
from behind the sweep in my soul
grooved to run over unsounded gorges
except by tranquil beauty and brilliancy
of the ocean’s skin, angle to the iron way!
– – Moby Dada 2
We are too much like oysters
can ever be under torrents’ beds
the undoubted deed in looking at things spiritual,
I spit my last breath substance; from hell’s heart
they weary me, make me faint, I grapple with thee
–then, talk not to me of blasphemy and tow to pieces
To produce a methodically knocking
I’d strike the sun off from the comber of my death!
enveloped in topmost grief, not excluding its suburbs
though many there be who have tried it
Give me Vesuvius’ times of dreamy quietude
Ho, ho! for hate’s sake
as soon as I can. Towards thee I roll, from hell’s heart
I didn’t use random words as in the link above, of course… rather seperate lines and phrases from quotes from the book, sliced and reaarranged at random.
Now I really make the little idea from clay, and I hold it in my hand. I can turn it, look at it from underneath, see it from one view, hold it against the sky, imagine it any size I like, and really be in control, almost like God creating something.
And certainly the history of public sculpture has been disastrous but that doesn’t mean it ought not to continue and the only way it even has a chance to continue is if the work gets out into the public.
“ice contains no future , just the past, sealed away. As if they’re alive, everything in the world is sealed up inside, clear and distinct. Ice can preserve all kinds of things that way- cleanly, clearly. That’s the essence of ice, the role it plays.”
― Haruki Murakami, Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman
I have always enjoyed the slightly dated but still beautiful fountain at Richardson City Hall, behind the library. It, for example, was one of the destinations on the famous Richardson Sculpture Bicycle Photo Scavenger Hunt.
Today, I dropped some books off at the library after work, and noticed the fountain had a different look about it.
Maitland felt himself alone on an alien planet abandoned by its inhabitants, a race of motorway builders who had long since vanished but had bequeathed to him this concrete wilderness”
—-J.G. Ballard, Concrete Island
“Come with uncle,” I said, “and hear all proper. Hear angel trumpets and devil trombones. You are invited.”
—A Clockwork Orange