“Business is war.” – William Greenspan, teacher of day trading
He was 91. He passed away on his birthday, a Markerish thing to do. He made La Jetée and Sans soleil; he also made Le tombeau d’Alexandre (The Last Bolshevik), which has one of the greatest endings I’ve even seen:
And he made Le fond de l’air est rouge (Grin without a Cat) and Une journée d’Andrei Arsenevitch (about Andrei Tarkovsky), and A.K. (about Akira Kurosawa). And he produced Loin du Vietnam. And he made many other films.
In about 20 minutes (12:04), you can experience a portion of Christian Marclay’s 24-hour-long video installation “The Clocks” in sync, here:
If you’re unfamiliar with this project, here’s a BBC clip of Alain de Botton discussing it:
And friends in NYC, today is the last day for you to go see this amazing film for free at The Lincoln Center.
July 31st, 2012 / 11:44 am
Ring of Bone: Collected Poems
by Lew Welch, Ed. Donald Allen
Forword by Gary Snyder
City Lights Publishers, June 2012
252 pages / $17.95 Buy from City Lights
Lew Welch’s collection, Ring of Bone, is more of an artist’s assemblage than a simple book of poems. This new and expanded edition by City Lights Press encompasses Welch’s poetry, music, drawings and critical writings, providing fans with a definitive edition of the poet’s long-lost works, and new readers with an expansive sample of his writing.
As Gary Snyder’s forword tells us, Welch was a little-known 60’s generation poet who was living with Snyder temporarily while building a cabin on Ginsburg’s adjoining land, when, on May 23, 1971, Welch hiked into the Sierra Nevada Mountains carrying a revolver. A suicide note, indicating a deep depression, was all that was ever found, but the mystery of this final day has made Welch somewhat of a cult figure. Fortunately, Ring of Bone, brings together Welch’s unfinished writings, providing readers with a remarkable set of poems without dramatizing the events surrounding Welch’s death.
This newly released collection is arranged into five books and a set of uncollected writings, which follow a loose chronology. However, unlike many collected works, the order of the poems is not the focus. By nature of their visionary quality, these poems form a world of dreams and nightmares so convincingly that strict organization proves ultimately unnecessary. Instead, the poems speak to each other across time through their musical tonalities and recurring thematic tensions, thus constructing one of many “rings” invoked by the book’s title.
July 30th, 2012 / 12:00 pm
1. The Washington Post has an interesting “How to Save an Indie Bookstore” blog post here with lots of glow links to booky things.
3. Here is your Charlie Sheen metaphor of the day:
My life was a dream I couldn’t wake up from, a train I couldn’t get off of, except that I was the conductor.
The Time I Shot Andy Warhol
14. Oldie but goodie: You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino‘s new novel, If on a winter’s night a traveller. Relax. Let the world around you fade.
2. Latest (I think) Charles Yu interview:
over the world
I fear to walk in my garden,
lest I see
a pair of butterflies
disporting in the sun
among the flowers.
(“Night Rain” by Bruce Lee)
5. Do you like reality shows? Do you like poetry? Well, here you go:
6. An obvious Banksy Olympics thing:
I like to think there is no substitute for space but I kind of don’t know how true anything is. If you don’t have space, you don’t have a place to unpack your shit. I can’t remember what I’ve read unless I look up and see the spine on its shelf.
This sentence: a painting of Alfred Korzybski reading Hamlet in the shower, as he drops the soap. We either do or do not look away. I’m taking care of my neighbor’s chickens. They are famous. Mostly in the gay community. A couple want their butts shaken. After this is done now and then they strut away, content. And you can’t really help but gawk at these dinosaurs as they till millions of years into the soil with an awkward scratch, arching their skinny necks, ruffling dirty feathers. If the soil is watered, or tilled, they gaze into the brown as if it were the very very meaning of life.