these are the timesdirty beloved
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4.1.08

the chronophaged links in the Sottsass post below:

house
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second link here
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and the room divider, also featured at Click Opera

Momus informs us, elegiacally, that Ettore Sottsass has died.
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Sottsass in the archives here (scroll down to the end, though you'll miss the affectedly uncapitalized but still readable essay on Boilly's A Game of Billiards)

1.1.08

The people who lived on St Kilda had their own culture. They lived off seabirds and were excellent climbers. An overhanging ledge above a jawdroppingly exposed cliff is known as the 'Lover's Stone.' Any man who wanted to take a wife had to prove his bravery and surefootedness by standing, on one leg, at the very end of this stone, with a 400m drop to the sea, until the elders were satisfied that he had what it would take to provide for a family in such a harsh environment. The ruler of St Kilda was always the oldest woman on the island, and people could be cut off from the outside world for months at a time by fierce winter storms.

From Where I Stand: California's river mouths
markham johnson photography

24.12.07


I travel in your head

Let us consider Daniil Kharms, the Russian writer often described as an absurdist, largely unpublished in his lifetime except for his children’s books, who starved to death in the psychiatric ward of a Soviet hospital during the siege of Leningrad, having been put there by the Stalinist government for, among other reasons, his general strangeness.
Daniil Karms via George Saunders and the NYT

23.12.07

When virtue's path his sons refuse.

Eye Contact

...which, unlike bees,

watch over us with their swan-like
necks and open their eyes at the right time
[...]
What's so great about the way the papers
blow through alleyways in the evening
like deflated rats? As if pride...
Craig Morgan Teicher
Verse Daily

17.12.07

Zhang Lin Hai
Schoeni Art Gallery
via la maine gauche

Straight Life The Movie
hand-made movie by Art Pepper's wife Laurie

The Willard Suitcase Exhibit Online

16.12.07

"...lamps, clothing, a bone-china teacup and saucer, hundreds of photos, her nursing diploma, citizenship papers and a pair of ice skates. Suffering from TB herself, and stressed over a series of illnesses and deaths among her loved ones, she was brought to Willard in 1941 without ever having seen a psychiatrist on the basis of complaints that she 'annoys people' and felt persecuted. On her way to the ward Margaret, 48, said she felt 'like a fly in a spider web.' She died there 32 years later."
Tales from the attic at the Willard Psychiatric Center in Romulus, N.Y. in the NYT

11.12.07

A mud hut, but full of books.

the storyteller will be there, for it is our imaginations which shape us, keep us, create us - for good and for ill. It is our stories that will recreate us, when we are torn, hurt, even destroyed

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