tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9894517520893697392012-01-28T12:40:22.318-05:00Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comBlogger1031100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-17376958862305769112011-09-22T09:43:00.000-04:002011-09-24T22:31:23.165-04:00

Stars and blossoming fruit trees: Utter permanence and extreme fragility give an equal sense of eternity. ... ~ Image: Arbor cognationis spiritualis (Spiritual tree of bonds), 14th century; from L'arbre: Histoire naturelle et symbolique de l'arbre ~ Text: Simone Weil, Gravity and Grace

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-81722190220101647652011-08-07T17:04:00.000-04:002012-01-17T23:02:13.083-05:00

If I knew how this leaf had sprung from its sprig, I would keep silent: there is knowledge enough. ~ Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Epigrams He saw his world as an arena where das Gleitende - a gliding, swirling - held sway, and he eventually constructed his art as one that tried not to fix but to blend, and he did so not by imposing law, but by revealing the hidden forms in which the parts

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-60124475040803909292011-08-06T14:27:00.000-04:002011-08-07T18:28:27.625-04:00

The notes were like mysterious symbols on the large stiff sheets, some of them only half-filled, and the little black rounds sat on the thin lines like tiny birds on telegraph wires. ...~ Text: Joseph Roth, The Blind Mirror~ Image: Score for Der Tag, der ist so freudenreich, in Bach's hand

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-12742577266167282522011-05-25T21:49:00.015-04:002011-07-11T00:29:36.157-04:00

I have lived by this. It is the lingering emblem of the Heaven I once dreamed....~ Text: Emily Dickinson, Letters~ Images: A Cottage on Dartmoor, 1929, Anthony Asquith

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-21659572763627057982011-05-11T08:16:00.006-04:002011-07-11T00:30:39.578-04:00

High up in the heavens, the larks sang ceaselessly; one seemed not to hear them at all until the rare moments when their music paused for the length of a single breath...~ Text and title: The Rider on the White Storm, Theodor Storm, 1888~ Image: Wounded Stag, Ralph Albert Blakelock, 1880

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-12229523569597846252011-03-13T18:02:00.003-04:002011-07-11T00:31:25.400-04:00

She received her songs as gold letters that hung from the ceiling of her darkened room....~ Images and text from Heavenly Visions: Shaker Gift Drawings and Gift Songs: a sacred sheet and short hymn composed by Eunice Wythe, 1815~ Post title from Eunice Wythe's hymn

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-25141086681963717672010-09-07T07:15:00.020-04:002011-03-14T12:18:49.175-04:00

He seeks life where it is to be found: in all that is most delicate, in the folds of things....~ Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Andreas, 1932~ Images from Sergei Parajanov's Hakob Hovnatanyan

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-51140448335682359302010-05-31T12:28:00.003-04:002011-03-19T21:47:11.599-04:00

In her clashed the dreamsOf low stone walls, Sea shimmers,Herds on the moors.Around her a tremblingLike the lichenOn the dolmens and menhirs....~ Text fragments from Eugene Guillevic's poem "Carnac," 1961. ~ Image: Woman and menhirs in Carnac, Britanny, n.d.

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-2229756504001949592010-05-06T06:47:00.021-04:002011-03-19T21:55:11.994-04:00

Cornice Channel, Wilhelm Archipelago, Antarctica"uncharted dangers", Prime Head, The Mouth of the Antarctic Sound, AntarcticaThe Eastern Entry, King Frederik IX Land, GreenlandThe Drake Passage, Island of Horn, Antartica ChilenaThe Greenland Sea, Kap Patrick Brooke, Shannon Island, GreenlandThe Arctic Ocean, Sea Ice, Looking NorthSmith Sound, Kap Alexander, GreenlandBut not yet have we solved the

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-77747874185024296102010-04-02T10:15:00.006-04:002011-03-19T22:07:34.843-04:00

...~ Images: Cloud chamber photographs originally invented by Charles Thomas Wilson for studying cloud formation and optical phenomena in the moist air. Inspired by sightings of the Broken Spectre while working on the summit of Ben Nevis, Scottish Highlands, in 1894, The New Landscape in Art and Science, 1956, Gyorgy Kepes

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-83033618764995575552010-03-30T15:51:00.023-04:002011-04-30T13:30:10.545-04:00

We look at a forest and say:Here is a forest for ships and masts,Red pines,Free to the tops of their shaggy burden,To creak in the stormIn the furious forestless air...~ Texts: Osip Mandelshtam, Whoever Finds a Horseshoe, 1923~ Images from Street Angel, directed by Frank Borzage

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-70961798769104899122010-02-27T18:47:00.008-05:002011-07-10T17:01:31.002-04:00

Lully, lully, lully, lully! The fawcon hath born my make away! He bare hym up, he bare hym down, He bare hym into an orchard brown. In that orchard there was an halle That was hangid with purpill and pall. And yn that hall there was a bede, Hit was hangid with gold so rede. And yn that bed there lythe a knyght, His woundis bledyng day and nyght. By that bedeside kneleth a may, And she wepeth

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-33422802234907111722010-01-18T16:38:00.026-05:002011-03-19T22:19:01.417-04:00

Photomicrograph of a flower's stem by I.W. Bailey, Harvard University. Structure in Art and Science, Gyorgy Kepes, Braziller, 1969 Cathedral New Norcia (looking up through the vaulted and transparent roof), Pier Luigi Nervi, Australia, 1959-1961. Structure in Art and Science, Gyorgy Kepes, 1969The [Bishop's] day was not complete if cold weather or rain stopped him from passing an hour or two

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-22208218609821887952010-01-11T20:24:00.008-05:002011-03-18T21:36:24.893-04:00

Listen to this voice...Like two people whose paths seem to cross and then they don't...There is some neutrality here. No, I wouldn't call it neutrality ... but a need to concentrate on each sound, so that every blade of grass would be as important as a flower...It could be like a break on the radio. Such signals sometimes sound as if they lasted an entire life.Of future, or past, and outside time

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-7545312394228597272009-11-17T00:00:00.007-05:002011-04-30T12:33:57.724-04:00

Unidentified Festival of Song and Light after duskFestival of Song and Light, Central Park, New York, 1916...~ Images: Tableaux for sound, light screens, lanterns, and song designed by Claude Bragdon, Crystal and Arabesque by Jonathan Massey.

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-62015512506375225012009-10-24T15:00:00.035-04:002011-12-01T15:19:01.591-05:00

The three great elemental sounds in nature are the sound of rain, the sound of wind in a primeval wood, and the sound of outer ocean on a beach. I have heard them all, and of the three elemental voices, that of ocean is the most awesome, beautiful, and varied. For it is a mistake to talk of the monotone of ocean or of the monotonous nature of its sound ... Every mood of the wind,

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-22232186595758275112009-09-17T10:40:00.009-04:002011-03-18T21:27:51.707-04:00

... and The Secret History of the Dividing LineThe Enjoyment of Reading, Lost and Found (2001): book as strataThe Enjoyment of Reading, Lost and Found: circles of confusionThe Enjoyment of Reading, Lost and Found: sonnet by Michael DraytonThe Great Art of Knowing (2004): William Byrd bookplateMoxon's Mechanick Exercises (1999): bible pagesSecret History of the Dividing Line (2002): film splices

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-27645182339516201042009-08-30T16:03:00.060-04:002011-12-01T16:31:27.979-05:00

Silent friend of many distances, feel how your breath is still increasing space. ... ~ Text: Ranier Maria Rilke ~ Image: Film still from The White Owl, 1922, from the Secrets of Nature film series

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-83082511449644735342009-08-01T08:56:00.021-04:002011-12-01T16:30:42.577-05:00

Slowly night comes. Moths settle down on the pane: small pale messages from the world. ... ~ Images: stills from Bergman's Through a Glass Darkly; photographed by Sven Nykvist; beautiful sound and music by Bach, birds, whispers, water, and foghorns. ~ Title of post from Tranströmer in Three Swedish Poets, Seventies Press, 1970

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-53524812888619021672009-07-29T14:44:00.010-04:002011-10-21T21:48:07.711-04:00

A trace is the apparition of a distance, however close that which it evokes may be. Whereas the aura is the apparition of a nearness, however far away that which left it behind may be....~ Images: Galileo’s sunspot drawings, published in Istoria e Dimostrazioni Intorno Alle Macchie Solari e Loro Accidenti Rome, 1612~ Text: Walter Benjamin, fragment from the Arcades Project

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-80832019909907679122009-07-20T17:03:00.008-04:002011-12-01T15:46:42.940-05:00

In the august sense, to hear is always already to have heard: to take one's place in the assembly of prior listeners {écoutants antérieurs} and thus permit them once again to be present in this enduring hearing {dans l'entente persévérante}. ~ Blanchot

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-30557757207302568572009-07-14T10:24:00.030-04:002011-03-21T11:03:41.673-04:00

Henry Peach Robinson, Seashore and Clouds, albumen print, 1870 Gustave Le Gray, Seashore, Lighthouse, Clouds, Le Havre, albumen print, 1856 Gustave Le Gray, Seashore and Clouds, Sete, albumen print 1857 Carlo Baldessare Simelli, Clouds with Dome, Rome, albumen print, 1860 Adolphe Braun, Gorner Glacier, albumen print, 1863 Gustav Jaegermayer, Pasterze Glacier, albumen print, 1863Gustav Jaegermayer

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-43596791474107831152009-05-16T19:02:00.034-04:002011-04-30T19:42:25.495-04:00

As the tide goes down, the higher reaches of the rock are seen to be clothed by Conferva rupestris as by a sward of grass; upon the more exposed edges, where the currents are most swift and the breach of the sea heaviest, Baderlock or Henware flourishes; and the great Tangle grows at the depth of several fathoms with luxuriance. Before man arrived, and introduced into the silence of the sea the

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-53370944263538629622009-04-27T05:52:00.008-04:002011-04-30T19:46:56.132-04:00

...and the music of crystals. Das Mineralreich in Bildern, J.C. Kurr, 1858 And, he, his own transparency involved with that of the dream, contained in the dream and containing the dream, he lifted himself in the enormous effort required of him and with a final piercing through of the dream’s border, with a final shattering of every sort of image and every sort of revelation, with a last

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-35344928166634490132009-04-20T20:13:00.009-04:002011-05-01T12:42:29.036-04:00

It was by chance, yes, truly by chance, in the summer of 1963, that we came into a part of Haute-Provence in the south of France which was, and still is, rather deserted, and which seems cut off from the world [...] silence eveywhere ... and the mystery of the most fundamental and unembellished architectural forms, certainly, but more still the stirring of a shadow on words engraved in stone, or

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-86575568175470439972009-04-14T01:01:00.008-04:002011-12-01T16:32:48.652-05:00

Sept. 3As I went under the new telegraph wire, I heard it vibrating like a harp high overhead. It was as the sound of a far-off glorious life, a supernal life, which came down to us, and vibrated in the lattice-work of this life of ours.Sept. 22Yesterday and today the stronger winds of autumn have begun to blow, and the telegraph harp has sounded loudly. I heard it especially in the Deep Cut

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-78620779314590484142009-04-13T07:20:00.015-04:002011-05-01T13:06:12.825-04:00

Fig. 715 - A field of faint nebulae. Between each pair of white lines on the original plate from which this picture is reproduced, can be detected a faint smudge - all that can be seen of galaxies at the extreme limit of our observation. (L. Rudaux, Larousse, 1949)...Fig. 544 - A Beach Photographed At Low Tide By The Light Of The Night Sky (L. Rudaux, Larousse, 1949)...StarsFloat from the borders

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-83910410209105823472009-04-05T09:50:00.025-04:002011-05-15T00:01:30.737-04:00

Apparent extension of the fields on Sunday. Born of two causes: absence of sounds and absence of visible objects. Noise that comes from a single place makes the places around it seem deserted. When it comes from several, it makes even the intervals seem populated. It is to the mind, to the soul even more than to the eye, that the countryside seems extended, immense, uninhabited.The silence of the

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-48900253694996077952009-03-25T09:18:00.012-04:002011-05-26T22:37:00.008-04:00

the same note, the same word, the same leaf…Plants at night.The exhalation of carbon dioxide in the making of chlorophyll, like a sigh of satisfaction that would last hours, as when the deepest note of string instruments, the most relaxed possible, vibrates at the limit of music, with pure sound, and silence....~ Text and title: Francis Ponge, from “Fauna & Flora” in Things, 1936-37

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-40627144560254151542009-03-15T18:29:00.048-04:002011-05-26T22:23:01.547-04:00

... Essere de Nulla … In lovely bluenessIn lovely bluethe steeple blossoms with its metal roof... Around which drift swallow cries… the crying of swallows hoversaround which lies most loving blue.… most moving blueness surrounds it.Take the stairs down from the belfry…… come down beneath the bellThe windows the bells ring through are as gates to beauty.… bells ringing are like gates in

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-34294946581318677502009-03-02T14:12:00.008-05:002011-05-14T23:57:26.974-04:00

Then, reassured, with the doors and shutters closed, he set out on his usual twilight walk, even though the heavy drizzle, common in late autumn, did not stop, fine rain, falling vertically, weaving moisture, sewing down the air, setting the smooth surface of the canals abristle with needles, capturing and transfixing the soul, like a bird, in the interminable meshes of a watery net ...the bells

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-88386325624443129792009-02-22T09:14:00.031-05:002011-05-14T23:56:11.675-04:00

I see well what limits my gaze; and it is precisely there, against those high insurmountable walls, that I like to get lost…To give a name to this joy would be to mislay it … These are approximations because the mystery remains whole …Writing. By tiny brushstrokes, tiny hard brushstrokes. Brevity, from the heart…Shadows that arise and lie down as evening comes on, lengthening shadows that cross

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-17837934711036448082009-01-18T19:22:00.022-05:002011-06-14T14:59:11.474-04:00

That relentless self-condensing of a music continually seeking to evaporate. Consummator of the world: as that which falls down in the rain over the earth and upon the waters, falling down carelessly, falling haphazard – rises again out of all things, more invisible, and joyous in its law, and ascends and floats and forms the heavens: so the ascent of our precipitations rose out of you and

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-7404676257300046462009-01-12T19:15:00.017-05:002011-12-01T16:28:37.590-05:00

Charles Emile Jacque, Paysage, 1848 The swifts turn in the heights of air,yet higher unseen stars are turning.So we live in a domain of movementsand distances; so the heartgoes from tree to bird, from bird to distant stars,from the star to its love… ~ Fragment from Jaccottet’s Seedtime that was never included in the only English translation.

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-40371158946069358152009-01-11T16:02:00.013-05:002011-12-01T16:39:04.419-05:00

Then we become little by little this foliageThat endlessly whispers and perhaps travelsWith our sleep which it takes in and leads rightTo where roots plunge, the very depths,Where the top of small branches wanders under the wind.We sleep, the tree keeps watch, it listens to the wordsThe dark tree of dreams murmurs as it sleeps. ... ~ Text: From “The Second Room” in Return to Calm, poems by

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-54794663477833194612008-12-26T10:52:00.004-05:002011-07-10T12:01:36.524-04:00

In a blinded windowsuddenlythe tunnel of dawn along the staircaseappeared in all its definitionlike footsteps hastening through sunny leavesand everything fell suspended and silent.Rustles hid themselves,the birds swallowed their voices,the sun motionlessly spread its raysand sunbeams rustled in the eyes.As in this fallen silent world...~ Text: Excerpt from a poem written by an anonymous Russian

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-26304920808349037972008-12-21T13:13:00.025-05:002011-07-10T17:07:39.014-04:00

Vilhelm Hammershøi: The Poetry of Silence, 2008His work is long and slow~ Rilke on Hammershoi

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-58047331834078369572008-12-20T18:48:00.003-05:002011-05-01T14:23:48.627-04:00

I ran barefoot to the window. The sky was swept lengthwise by gusts of wind. Vast and silvery-white, it was cut into lines of energy tensed to breaking point, into awesome furrows like strata of tin and lead. Divided into magnetic fields and trembling with discharges, it was full of concealed electricity. The diagrams of the gale were traced on it which, itself unseen and elusive, loaded the

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-28347021793418851772008-12-15T18:43:00.009-05:002011-05-01T14:25:21.538-04:00

A Dream of Snow-Covered BridgesAs we stand the snow falls thicker.Your sleeve turns white.My sleeve turns white.They move between us likesnow-covered bridges.But snow-covered bridges are frozen.In here is living warmth.Your arm is warm beneath the snow, anda welcome weight on mine.It snows and snowsupon silent bridges.Bridges unknown to all....~ Text: Chapter 12 in The Ice Palace by Tarjei Vesaas

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-43007565246739583402008-12-09T06:02:00.004-05:002011-05-25T21:08:14.304-04:00

Thresholds appear often in her work – as do walls, windows, doors, gardens, paths, colors (especially gold), and ‘transparency.’ ‘At the heart of the stone,’ she writes, ‘reposes transparency.’ […] An image involves holding one’s breath and being ‘without thickness,’ so as to squeeze into a sort of initiatory passageway. ‘In in-betweenness,’ she explains, ‘the world is real.’~ Text from “

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-41983262796486690212008-10-10T06:20:00.009-04:002011-05-14T23:37:23.253-04:00

A week must elapse from the day of her birth before she will quit the hive; she will then perform her first "cleansing flight," and absorb the air into her trachae, which, filling, expand her body, and proclaim her the bride of space. Thereupon she returns to the hive, and waits yet one week more; and then, with her sisters born the same day as herself, she will for the first time set forth to

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-1473233681313504512008-09-28T18:35:00.009-04:002011-12-04T07:41:01.110-05:00

Dream of the "merveilleux" - observing the moon in the sky - (pale blue) it descended + seemed to be of silver, seamed (like a bell) - it hovered in one spot above the ground by a matter of feet... Dream remembered - the sublime ones too elusive [...] large slices of snow... ... ~ Text: from Joseph Cornell's Dream Journals ~ A post for Pascal who traced his dreams on parchment and

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-80382803218719002852008-09-20T17:00:00.029-04:002012-01-04T21:55:13.629-05:00

He found a twig and pricked an answer in an empty space on the brown surface. He didn't use ordinary letters; it was meant for the woodcock, so he wrote in the same way as the birds. ... ~ Text: Tarjei Vesaas, The Birds, 1957 ~ Images: Starlings by Richard Barnes~ Note: At home in wet thickets, moist woodlands, and alder swales; most often observed tracing lines in crepuscular

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-70181675408550148472008-09-06T10:21:00.011-04:002011-12-04T07:46:36.340-05:00

Over him the heavenly dome, full of quiet, shining stars, hung boundlessly. From the zenith to the horizon the still-dim Milky Way stretched its double strand. Night, fresh and quiet, almost unstirring, enveloped the earth. The white towers and golden domes of the church gleamed in the sapphire sky. The luxuriant autumn flowers in the flowerbeds near the house had fallen asleep until

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-74011201849764350132008-07-20T11:58:00.015-04:002012-01-07T20:15:43.062-05:00

Like a dusky dream. Huge masses of light gushing at times from the valleys like a golden river, then clouds again, hanging on the highest peak, then climbing down the forest slowly into the valley or sinking and rising in the sunbeams like a flying silvery web; not a sound, no movement, no birds, nothing but the wailing of the wind, sometimes near, sometimes far... ... ~ Text: Georg

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-84485215045985380272008-07-13T12:45:00.026-04:002012-01-07T20:19:22.794-05:00

As a tiny carillon, these drops of water... Then suddenly, unexpectedly, you become aware of hearing the repeated trickle of drops of water, and it is not clear for the moment whether you saw them as well, or whether it was enough to hear them to imagine you had seen them, crystalline, cold and merry, minute, numerous, limpid, on the surface of the soft dark moss: a kind of carillon, minute

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-35959604701813470772008-06-19T11:31:00.010-04:002011-03-14T20:32:08.216-04:00

Then these children of the open air […] betook themselves to the field-path; and as they went there moved onward with them, around the shadow of each one’s head, a circle of opalized light, formed by the moon’s rays upon the glistening sheet of dew. Each pedestrian could see no halo but his or her own, which never deserted the head-shadow […] but adhered to it, and persistently beautified it;

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-60828692068906569452008-06-08T08:39:00.007-04:002012-01-07T20:22:49.949-05:00

In the space between the curtains and the blind a dark greenness gushed forth; thin bands of the white froth of morning seeped in between the slats. This might have been my last waking impression or a suspended dream vision. Then I was awakened by something drawing near; sounds were coming closer. Once, twice I sensed it in my sleep. Then they sat perched on the roof of the building next door

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-27150731490866405002008-06-04T08:21:00.005-04:002011-12-01T12:17:36.843-05:00

All the sounds seemed to be sleeping, or afraid to ring out. Early in the morning or late in the evening, the slow exhalations of foghorns could be heard, exchanging warning signals off in the distance and announcing the presence of boats. They sounded like the plaintive cries of helpless animals. Yes, fog was present in abundance. And then, now and again, there would be yet another beautiful day

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-67571450626007025482008-05-31T10:36:00.009-04:002012-01-07T20:23:36.257-05:00

The piano was hammering glinting note heads into a wall of air. Although the origin of this process was entirely real, the walls of the room soon disappeared, and there arose in their place golden partitions of music, that mysterious space in which self and world, perception and feeling, inside and outside, plunge into one another in the most indefinable way, while the space itself consists

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-31673135563616243072008-05-15T13:49:00.028-04:002012-01-04T22:27:39.085-05:00

Yet still by birds’ dark flight the visionary Is touched, and by blue flowers’ holiness,  And the near-by silence ponders forgotten things, extinguished angels. Below in the vale the old bells and sombre hamlets rest. ... Text: fragments from Selected Poems: Georg Trakl

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-22618362885204982732008-05-11T13:02:00.009-04:002012-01-04T22:31:25.606-05:00

A music of the spirit, a pure art, removing us far away from the deafening turmoil of life to lead us to the silent kingdom of conceptual shadows. ~ Karl Kostlin describing a string quartet, 1850 A more secret world / in rich silence / born from ether / in the eternal silent light / emerging into air and light ~ Luigi Nono, notes to performers, taken from Holderlin ... Some

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-24178265616796427162008-04-27T10:45:00.012-04:002011-06-14T16:10:14.946-04:00

As I recover it in recalling my child-wrought memories, it is no complete building; it is all broken up inside me; here a room, there a room, and here a piece of hallway that does not connect these two rooms but is preserved, as a fragment, by itself. In this way it is all dispersed within me – the rooms, the stairways that descend with such ceremonious deliberation, and other narrow, spiral

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-47262022154104614612008-03-29T10:53:00.029-04:002012-01-04T22:18:24.667-05:00

Come and go and come again,come and stay, a house,a house of mist, stands before the forest,roofs of smoke,towers of birdcalls,birch-branches secure the door at evening. ... ~ Images: Larousse Encyclopedia of Astronomy by Lucien Rudaux, circa 1959. ~ Text: Poems by Johannes Bobrowski, translated by the Meads, Shadow Lands, New Directions, 1984.

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-47665487313314539282008-03-16T13:13:00.018-04:002011-12-01T16:58:39.086-05:00

Johann Schroeter, Selentopographische fragment, 1791 I’ve always loved this lonesome hill And this hedge that hides The entire horizon, almost, from sight. But sitting here in a daydream, I picture The boundless spaces away out there, silences Deeper than human silence, an unfathomable hush In which my heart is hardly a beat From fear. And hearing the wind Rush rustling through these bushes, I

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-91076702383380690512008-03-05T19:13:00.008-05:002011-05-01T20:55:36.660-04:00

And the trees and the nightDon't move anymoreExcept from nests...~ Text and title: Giuseppe Ungaretti ~ Image: Gisele Celan-Lestrange~ Both remind me of another passage I recently found, by C. E. Montague:Something simple, minute, and obscure, wholly goodand not puffed up at all, something almost atomic — agrain of wheat, a thread of wool, a crystal of clean salt...

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-26853160106929330462008-02-23T13:11:00.071-05:002012-01-07T20:27:18.387-05:00

Stan Brakhage, The Garden of Earthly Delights The history of paradise is perhaps not a fable: looking, speaking must have been born when one ceased to exist completely in the world ... the world of flowers and snowflakes on flowers. ~ Philippe Jaccottet, Truinas, Le 21 avril 2001 At night when the small orchestras travel home, tall trees stand along the streets like gates of

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-23537188038893976982008-02-20T10:36:00.011-05:002011-07-12T22:41:21.319-04:00

{Fox Talbot, Erica Mutabilis, 1839, photogenic drawing, a present for Sir John Herschel}{Fox Talbot, Melancholy Gentleman, 1838, photogenic drawing}Leaves take all kinds of strange shapes, as if to invite us to examine them. Star-shaped, heart-shaped, spear-shaped, arrow-shaped, fretted, fringed, cleft, furrowed, serrated, sinuated; in whorls, in tufts, in spires, in wreaths endlessly expressive

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-66879653660864615672008-02-17T15:16:00.050-05:002011-05-14T22:49:07.501-04:00

The Garden of Earthly Delights (film still), Stan BrakhageAlmost like legends were the clickers or marbles we played with [...] They were Arabian stones, ringed with red or green, sometimes with stars, even with miniaturized lands; these were carried in our pockets. But it was at six in the evening, out on the field, I hear the bells ringing in the clock tower. I was gathering pebbles from the

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-81947690607885191732008-02-10T20:55:00.001-05:002011-05-14T22:43:18.564-04:00

"But now it had the charm for her which any broken ground, any mimic rock and ravine, have for the eyes that rest habitually on the level; especially in summer, when she could sit on a grassy hollow under the shadow of a branching ash, stooping aslant from the steep above her, and listen to the hum of insects, like tiniest bells on the garment of Silence…"~ From The Mill on the Floss by George

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-68849259447161938602008-02-08T22:56:00.002-05:002011-05-14T22:42:44.551-04:00

I wind, I wind these ribbonsover my beloved’s eyes, over her soulWith brown, almost faded inkI will write in my linen ribbonssecret signsand I will wind them like a lullabyaround my beloved’s soul –O never exuded balmsO narrow ribbonswound in layer on layer of artful braid!Don’t you already seem like the pupa of a butterflyas it hangs on the rose bush!You with the great eyes I gave you!You with

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-27065962279688382232008-02-03T16:03:00.003-05:002012-01-07T20:28:14.617-05:00

Otto Marseus, Forest Floor...... Albrecht Durer, Orpine and Bugle Albrecht Durer, Daffodils and Other Flowers .... Dawson Turner, Fucus Digitatus, 1808 (Sea Flower) Anselm Kiefer, For Robert Fludd, book pp. 19-20, 2003 Anslem Kiefer, Johannisnacht, 1987-1991 John Blakemore, Chimerical Landscapes 3, from Inscape Basilius Besler's Book of Plants, Peony & Adder's Tongue Suddenly,

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-23230482174016451012008-01-29T09:28:00.005-05:002011-05-14T23:00:59.617-04:00

But when they were crossing the silent market-place on which nobody was to be seen except the sentry on duty at military headquarters, when the empty place surrounded by the dark houses, in which scarcely a light was burning, lay before them like a crater of isolation, like a crater of silence out of which recurring waves of peace flowed over the sleeping town, then Heinrich Wendling took his

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-59149576471618344722008-01-10T09:34:00.004-05:002011-05-14T23:00:39.840-04:00

Even the silence that surrounded him was like an end in itself, it might have endured as it was for ever; no one spoke a word, the room, filled with the silence, strangely emptied by the silence, seemed to extend beyond its own walls, and the yellow sunlight outside the open door flowed past like an eternal immeasurable river on whose banks they were sitting.-…it was in a sense an incorporeal

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-91552102614654428642007-12-24T11:37:00.006-05:002011-05-26T10:35:38.745-04:00

Within your cells awakenYou children of old years;Your couches be forsaken,For now the morning nears.Your threads of life I'm weavingInto one mighty whole.The feuding years are leaving;Your lives shall be one soul.Each will in all be dwellingAnd all in each one too;One heart in you be swelling,One breath the whole imbue....For Herbert ~ Text from Fable's song in Novalis' Henry von Ofterdingen

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-25884184017262453002007-12-23T10:55:00.007-05:002011-05-01T21:12:41.426-04:00

Snow is falling, and through the streets, bareheaded, crazy Tiennette is running like a crazy woman. She plays all alone, catches the white flies as they fall in her violet hands, sticks out her tongue to dissolve the light candy she can just taste, and, with the tip of her finger, draws sticks and rings on the bright sheet. Then the shoes that made her as tall as the roof thatch and dizzied her

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-37668060562090741162007-12-06T19:55:00.008-05:002011-03-20T10:16:21.656-04:00

... gleamings of slowed handsMeditations have words that are soundless;How I love to seek them in the silence!It is necessary only that,Night should forget itself more fully,Night should forget itself fasterAmong its sparse street lights,Round the cornerLike a forsaken house...Should forget itself among the quiet diningRooms above you, in the lilac-colored…That from the tablecloth the

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-47711972347814191032007-08-09T08:54:00.002-04:002011-12-01T11:53:15.489-05:00

... Comet trails and star structures, circa 1795

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-48835600953666422062007-07-27T05:48:00.000-04:002011-12-01T11:54:44.828-05:00

"For things are what they are, earth and sky, cloud, furrows, undergrowth, stars; it is things alone which transfigure themselves, in no way are they symbols; they are the world we breathe..." ... Text from Philippe Jaccottet's Landscapes with Absent Figures, Editions Gallimard, 1979

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-39777624627051517162007-07-19T21:30:00.009-04:002011-03-14T15:56:03.677-04:00

There is no sky these nightsin early July, just an emptiness,a pale absenceover the woods and bogs andthe haze-blue fields [...]But it has committed the starsto the moss's protection,the moss in the woodsthe mildest and softest on earth.I walk among star images,walk like a little Lordthrough galaxiesof shining whiteness. ...~ Images: Solar prominences and sunspots from Professor Todd's New

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-47617098096156574912007-07-12T16:03:00.009-04:002011-06-10T19:54:44.237-04:00

They gathered round it as round a fountain and for a few moments forgot everything else: it was as though this slender golden thread of sound, rising and falling, were winding itself round them and linking them in that unity on which the comfort of their living and dying was established; it was as though this thread which wavered up and filled their being, and yet curved and wound back again to

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-44762557594642828692007-07-04T10:41:00.006-04:002011-12-01T11:57:57.879-05:00

Wienhausen, Cistercian convent, cloister walk with chests Eberbach, Cistercian monastery, interior Psalter and Hours of Bonne of Luxembourg A life-size arme Christi, the side wound of Christ, or "the entrance to Christ's heart" "Paradiesgartlein," Kloster Ebstorf Silk flowers for an "enclosed garden" Portable altar, German, ca. 1490, D.C., National gallery of Art Garden of

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-76602315822803226252007-07-02T15:05:00.007-04:002011-12-01T11:59:43.339-05:00

Volume One, Swann's Way ~ Perhaps it is not-being that is the true state, and all our dream of life is inexistent; but, if so, we feel that these phrases of music, these conceptions which exist in relation to our dream, must be nothing either. We shall perish, but we have as hostages these divine captives who will follow and share our fate.  Volume Two, Within a Budding Grove ~ One felt that

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-44340860037826324212007-06-26T18:24:00.007-04:002011-05-14T22:57:30.129-04:00

The romantic journey into such blue days - in such conditions, and as such a sudden gift - was, for him, to pass into the brightest sun of happiness, where sparkling light scatters and one seems entirely covered with shining glints....~ The Awkward Age, Jean Paul, 18o4

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-17053554793726191272007-06-24T02:17:00.004-04:002011-05-14T21:57:05.824-04:00

There are evenings in spring when the twilight lasts far longer than the astronomically prescribed period. Then a thin smoky mist sinks over the city and gives it the subdued suspense of evenings preceding a holiday. And at the same time it is as if this subdued, pale grey mist had netted so much light that brighter strands remain in it even when it has become quite black and velvety....~ Text:

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-75693435828510455392007-06-19T10:37:00.007-04:002011-05-14T22:56:59.953-04:00

They went slowly, walking through a landscape expectant in its stillness, and yet which had nothing to expect save the rain and the evening. The sky hung softly over it, sometimes united indissolubly to the earth by a veil of rain, and for them too, wandering through the stillness, there seemed to be nothing left but expectation, and it was as though all the life in them had flowed to their

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-28090112430076235112007-06-12T18:01:00.005-04:002011-05-01T21:17:36.499-04:00

“As in the case of archery, there can be no question but that these arts are ceremonies. More clearly than the teacher could express it in words, they tell the pupil that the right frame of mind for the artist is only reached when the preparing and the creating, the technical and the artistic, the material and the spiritual, the project and the object, flow together without break.”“The completed

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-83460316264815535292007-06-02T07:20:00.009-04:002011-05-14T22:56:38.987-04:00

"A mist-like rain spread a blue, tremulous dusk over the garden. The black boughs of the larch, the drooping leafy veil of the birch, the rounded crowns of the beech stood like shadows breathed on a background of gliding mist, while the clipped yew-trees shot upward like the black columns of a roofless temple." "The stillness was that of a deep grave, save for the raindrops, falling light as

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-26911687895432797082007-06-01T06:28:00.009-04:002011-05-14T22:02:38.079-04:00

“If flowers were merely beautiful to the eye, they would still hold their charm; but at times their scent draws us back – like a happy condition of existence, like a sudden invitation – to a deeper sense of life. Whether I’ve sought out these invisible emanations or, more especially, whether they have suddenly happened of their own accord, I accept them as an intense but precarious expression of

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-29912245929033986762007-05-30T17:56:00.008-04:002011-12-01T09:06:57.031-05:00

“In a sky reflected downward on a lake, the clouds whirl around like summer spirits, and as you row across this sky of water your oar dips quietly towards evening like a dark wooden spoon into the cloud-milk. You feel giddy in a silent and private feeling of detachment, simultaneously lost and at home in the light playing tricks among the reflections, and you continue rowing both in water and in

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-28224777301839027622007-05-28T16:54:00.005-04:002011-05-14T21:42:30.909-04:00

"He remembered the joy which the sight of the big night-bird always caused to the heart of Childerique. 'I count that a great stroke of luck, a great happiness, to see an owl,' she had said to him. He had asked her if she believed that the birds were omens of happiness. 'I do not know,' she said, 'I think it is a great happiness, in itself, to see them.'"...~ Text: Isak Dinesen's "The Caryatids"

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-86348858062175212592007-05-27T11:34:00.011-04:002011-07-18T13:21:51.047-04:00

“If, in planting a coffee tree, you bend the taproot, that tree will start, after a little time, to put out a multitude of small delicate roots near the surface. That tree will never thrive, nor bear fruit, but it will flower more richly than the others … Those fine roots are the dreams of the trees. As it puts them out, it need no longer think of its bent taproot. It keeps alive by them – a

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-28759130388656919992007-05-21T21:07:00.003-04:002011-05-03T07:26:12.140-04:00

“To find a kinship between image, sound and silence. To give them an air of being glad to be together, of having chosen their place. Milton: Silence was pleased.”“Slow films in which everyone is galloping and gesticulating; swift films in which people hardly stir.”“Image. Reflection and reflector, accumulator and conductor.”“Silence, musical by an effect of resonance. The last syllable of the

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-62743966435520110362007-05-18T14:30:00.004-04:002011-03-14T15:57:05.489-04:00

The Great Orion Nebula, 1874-1875 by Etienne Leopold Trouvelot, pastel Part of the Milky Way Visible in Winter: Observed in 1874-1875 by Etienne Leopold Trouvelot, pastel...

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-5083856125582753142007-05-15T06:07:00.006-04:002011-05-26T15:59:29.568-04:00

George H. Seeley, Winter Landscape, 1909“It was no wonder to them now that they had not been able to tell what it was, for this surface was everywhere crowded with shadows. The mass was chiefly made up of shadows of leaves innumerable, of all lovely and imaginative forms, waving to and fro, floating and quivering in one breath of a breeze whose motion was unfelt, whose sound was unheard […] As

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-64897294139714026122007-05-12T08:03:00.020-04:002011-05-26T16:04:59.417-04:00

La Recherche Expedition, 1838-1840 Theodor Kittelsen, "Skomvaer," circa 1890sA.F. Skjöldebrand, Aurore Boréale, 1800The northern lights bring silence. The northern lights lower the eyelids.The northern lights waft in you and surge over you,For a world sinks gloriously down to you......~ Images from a wonderful site I recently found on The Northern Lights Route.~ Text from Däubler’s book on the

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-55458134140855129792007-05-10T19:19:00.005-04:002011-05-28T10:54:29.641-04:00

"Elfride never went out on horseback but she brought home something - something found, or something bought. If she trotted to town or village, her burden was books. If to hills, woods, or the seashore, it was wonderful mosses, abnormal twigs, a handkerchief of wet shells or seaweed."...~ Text: Thomas Hardy, A Pair of Blue Eyes, 1873~ Images: Swedish Botanical, 1920s

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-9445766743050617322007-05-08T08:04:00.006-04:002011-05-26T16:10:28.473-04:00

The Moon: Sculptures by James NasmythThe Sun: Studies of the Solar Spectrum by Jules Janssen“The three people, the captain, a gentleman, and a young girl, climb into the basket, the anchoring cords are loosed, and the strange house flies, slowly, as if it had first to ponder something, upward […] Everything has an almost brownish clarity. The beautiful moonlit night seems to gather the splendid

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-53866654894282770932007-04-28T12:22:00.004-04:002011-05-26T16:18:34.539-04:00

If it’s a ray, if it’s light,that’s only becausethe whisper and chatter of loversstrengthen and warm it.And I want to tell youthat I’m whispering,I’m giving you the ray,little one, in whispers....~ Text: from Selected Poems of Osip Mandelshtam translated by Clarence Brown ~ Image: Vittore Carpaccio

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-30466318960215099792007-04-23T14:16:00.011-04:002011-07-23T13:47:25.151-04:00

It is of that world at the same time past and desired, mysteriously mingled with the world of my life, mysteriously suggested by it, that I wish to speak... Nevertheless, I do not think that it is the sole mystery of one will, one divinity, but rather of a life remembered with my past life, of a landscape which the actual landscape makes me desire. I shan't find, like Gide, words on the actual

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-5912817673715960742007-04-21T09:32:00.005-04:002011-05-03T08:07:07.611-04:00

"He took my hand and led me down the stair again, and through a narrow passage, and through another, and another, and another. I don't know how there could be room for so many passages in such a little house. The heart of it must be ever so much farther from the sides than they are from each other. How could it have an inside that was so independent of its outside..."...Text From the story "

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-59593234043158341162007-04-19T09:54:00.002-04:002011-05-03T08:07:31.045-04:00

“It is the inaudible and the imperceptible that slowly... does not fill the space, but discovers it, unveils it. And this provokes an unexpected being in the sound... signals of the very rich acoustic life within and without us... in order to be able to discover, to be able to be amazed at the unknown, at the almost impossible to perceive...”- Luigi Nono

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-89891297083793654652007-04-15T07:55:00.003-04:002011-05-26T16:46:57.513-04:00

"They were floating, almost at one with the darkness, reflecting no light. Their footsteps could not be heard. But their breathing could, and perhaps the heart. They mingled with other almost inaudible nocturnal stirrings, like a small vibration in long wires."...Text: Tarjei Vesaas, The Ice PalaceImage: Hercules Seghers, Mountain Gorge with an Impression of the Rigging of a Ship

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-79331021244974191752007-04-15T07:24:00.003-04:002011-05-26T16:49:24.803-04:00

“There is an instrument that can hardly be heard; it is played in Africa for oneself alone, inside the hut, or outside without bothering or attracting anyone. Rudimentary, archaic, apparently put together haphazardly, freely, by the village blacksmith, the sanzas (that is its name): no two the same, no good even for a slightly elaborated melody, it is independent of any scale, anarchical! A music

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-55448678419661837732007-04-04T14:32:00.005-04:002011-05-05T08:32:50.154-04:00

VI go out.I dream that I am going out into the snowy night.I dream that I am carryingWith me, far, outside, there is no turning back,The mirror from the upstairs bedroom, the mirror fromSummers past, the boat at whose prowWe, simple, pushed forward...VIBut here I am nowStanding outside the house; everything is motionlessSince it is only a dream. And so I go on, leaving,It hardly matters where,

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-80492719398784685482007-04-02T05:43:00.006-04:002011-05-03T08:10:14.927-04:00

“On that night the sky laid bare its internal construction in many sections which, like anatomical exhibits, showed the spirals and whorls of light, the pale-green solids of darkness, the plasma of space, the tissue of dreams...”“From all the crevices in the floor, from all the moldings, from every recess, there grew slim shoots filling the gray air with a scintillating filigree lace of leaves: a

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-65810165750903626572007-03-29T07:51:00.015-04:002011-07-07T12:57:05.001-04:00

“it robbed them of words, this silence, almost of thoughts as well, and she remained sitting there as before, with her gaze toward the darkness of the foyer, and he remained standing there, leaning over her, staring down at the plaid of her silk lap, and unconsciously, seduced by the gentle silence, he began to rock her in the chair, very gently, very gently…”“It was like the strange vegetation

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-39199396760189216032007-03-28T07:04:00.008-04:002011-05-23T20:52:50.275-04:00

Also pray for those who were in ships, andEnded their voyage on the sand, in the sea's lipsOr in the dark throat which will not reject themOr wherever cannot reach them the sound of the sea bell'sPerpetual angelus.-And the children in the apple-treeNot known, because not looked forBut heard, half-heard, in the stillnessBetween two waves of the sea....~ Text: T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets~ Image:

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-67258148718804028572007-03-18T20:45:00.013-04:002011-05-25T19:53:37.622-04:00

from Rock Crystal by Adalbert Stifter, Pantheon"In summer as the sun and temperate winds melt the snow on the steep gradients, the horns soar up, as the mountain people say, black into the sky, their surface marked only by exquisite little flecks and snow-veins. These veins, however, are not really white but the delicate milky blue of the distant snow on the darker blue rocks.""Now they

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-989451752089369739.post-18622606850809937402007-03-17T10:50:00.016-04:002011-05-26T17:56:06.547-04:00

from Snow Crystals by W.A. Bentley and W.J. Hunphreys, Dover Pres"Recently I dreamed I flew over a round, fragile sheet of ice, as thin and transparent as a windowpane, and curving up and down like glassy waves. Beneath the ice, spring flowers were growing. As if raised up by a spirit, I floated back and forth and was pleased by the effortless motion. In the middle of the lake was a temple which

Woolgathersomehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15704390123128831588noreply@blogger.com