"How can there be too many children? That is like saying there are too many flowers." ~Bl. Teresa of Calcutta

On the Media

Whenever I have a chance to listen to this show, I am constantly awed. If you ever doubt the value of public media, this show is evidence that public radio is ... well, going to go in-depth and actually inform you of something.

Do you wonder why oil is so expensive? The typical line is supply blah blah and demand. Well, have a listen here to Supply and Command and you may actually begin to grasp what is going on:

http://www.onthemedia.org/

Policy does matter...

it effects all of our lives. Listen to this.

mathematics.

Living Math.
Mathematical Gnomes and Gnumbers.

A (bath)Room with a View.

A happy houseplant, and woolies drying in the one bathroom of our house.

Ciné.

I was very pleased to hear that the work of G. Melies, the inspiration for The Invention of Hugo Cabret is now released on DVD. I was thinking about this and mused that surealism, dream-like realities, and more primary (native?) to film then the realism of Passolini, or the modern usage of film. Where somehow the realism seems to have less in common with a human reality. Reality v. appearance.

And then I was thinking about all the ways in which technology changes art--the camera making realism in painting obsolete, and paint in tubes making expressionism possible. One could easily paint outside. And use a lot of paint.

a love song

A Love Song
by William Carlos Williams

What have I to say to you
When we shall meet?
Yet—
I lie here thinking of you.

The stain of love
Is upon the world.
Yellow, yellow, yellow,
It eats into the leaves,
Smears with saffron
The horned branches that lean
Heavily
Against a smooth purple sky.

There is no light—
Only a honey-thick stain
That drips from leaf to leaf
And limb to limb
Spoiling the colours
Of the whole world.

I am alone.
The weight of love
Has buoyed me up
Till my head
Knocks against the sky.

See me!
My hair is dripping with nectar—
Starlings carry it
On their black wings.
See, at last
My arms and my hands
Are lying idle.

How can I tell
If I shall ever love you again
As I do now?