"Philosophers ponder the idea of identity:
what it is to give something a name
on Monday and have it respond
to that name on
-- Bernard Holland
in the New York Times
of Monday, May 20, 1996
New York Times on Friday:
From Wallace Stevens,
"The Rock, Part III:
Forms of the Rock in a Night-Hymn" --
The rock is
the gray particular of man's life,
The stone from which
he rises, up--and--ho,
The step to
the bleaker depths of his descents...
From this morning's
New York Times obituaries--
leve Gray, a painter admired for his large-scale, vividly colorful
and lyrically gestural abstract compositions, died on Wednesday in
Hartford. He was 86.
The cause was a massive subdural hematoma
suffered after he fell on ice and hit his head on Tuesday outside his
home in Warren, Conn., said his wife, the writer Francine du Plessix
Jackson Mac Low, a poet, composer and performance artist whose work
reveled in what happens when the process of composition is left to
carefully calibrated chance, died on Wednesday....
... in 1999 [he] received the
Wallace Stevens Award, which carries a $100,000 prize, from the Academy
of American Poets.
A Wallace Stevens Award,
in Seven Parts:
I. From a page linked to in
Tuesday's entry White Christmas:
"A bemused Plato reasoned that nonbeing must in some sense be,
otherwise what is it that there is not? In our own day Martin Heidegger
ventured that das Nichts nichtet -- 'the nothing nothings' -- evidently still sensing a problem."
-- W. V. Quine in Quiddities
II. "As if nothingness
contained a métier..."
-- Wallace Stevens, "The Rock"
III. "Massive subdural hematoma"
-- Three-word poem
performed on Tuesday
IV. mé·tier n.
An occupation, a trade, or a profession.
Work or activity for which a person is particularly suited; one's specialty.
[French, from Old French mestier, from Vulgar Latin misterium, from Latin ministerium. See ministry.]
Source: The American Heritage® Dictionary of the English Language, Fourth Edition
-- Wallace Stevens, "The Rock"
VI. Francine du Plessix Gray...
Archives of the
New York Review of Books:
VII. From an entry of April 29, 2004:
July 16, 1992: Splendor and Miseries, review of
Women for Hire: Prostitution and Sexuality in France after 1850 by Alain Corbin, translated by Alan Sheridan
La Vie quotidienne dans les maisons closes, 1830–1930 by Laure Adler
Figures of Ill Repute: Representing Prostitution in Nineteenth-Century France by Charles Bernheimer
Painted Love: Prostitution in French Art of the Impressionist Era by Hollis Clayson
-- Wallace Stevens
as quoted by Michael Bryson
(p. 227, The Palm
at the End of the Mind:
Selected Poems and a Play.
Ed. Holly Stevens.
New York: Vintage Books, 1990)
"Flowers and a bottle of Rogue 'Dead Guy Ale' sit on a rock outside of
the Alrosa Villa nightclub in Columbus, Ohio, December 9, 2004. A man
charged on stage and opened fire at a heavy metal band and fans at the
crowded bar, killing four people and wounding two others before being
killed by police, officials said on Thursday. Photo by Matt
-- Reuters, story of 2:04 PM ET today
|String Theory: |
The Devil Came Up
From a Log24 entry of Friday, December 3, 2004:
but the void. And so we keep hoping to luck into a winning combination,
to tap into a subtle harmony, trying like lock pickers to negotiate a
compromise with the 'mystery tramp,' as Bob Dylan put it...."
-- Dennis Overbye, Quantum Baseball,
New York Times, Oct. 26, 2004
From this morning's New York Times:
Tenn., Dec. 8 (AP) - Ralph Blizard, a
renowned fiddler who began his
career playing on the radio, died here on Friday [Dec. 3, 2004],
according to a
funeral home in Kingsport. He was 85.
Mr. Blizard started playing at age 7. He began his career on
the radio in Tennessee's
tri-cities area with his band, the Southern Ramblers. In the 1950's he
stopped performing, taking a 30-year break to raise a family.
In 2002, Mr. Blizard was inducted into the American Fiddlers Hall of
Fame.... [He] was a
founder of the Traditional Appalachian Music Heritage Association.
In memory of Mr. Blizard:
Mountain, by Charles Frazier, 367-368:
They consulted and twisted the pegs again to make the dead man's
tuning, and they then set in playing a piece slightly reminiscent of
Bonaparte's Retreat, which some name General Washington's tune.
was softer, more meditative, yet nevertheless grim as death. When
minor key drifted in it was like shadows under trees, and the piece
called up something of dark woods, lantern light. It was awful
music in one of the ancient modalities, music that sums up a culture
and is the true expression of its inner life.
Birch said, Jesus wept. The fit's took them now.
None of the Guard had ever heard fiddle and banjo played together in
that tuning, nor had they heard playing of such strength and rhythm
applied to musical themes so direful and elegiac. Pangle's use of
thumb on the fifth string and dropping to the second was an especial
thing of arrogant wonder. It was like ringing a dinner bell, yet
solemn. His other two fingers worked in a mere hard, groping
but one honed to brutish perfection. Stobrod's fingers on the
neck found patterns that seemed set firm as the laws of nature.
was a deliberation, a study, to their clamping of the strings that was
wholly absent from the reckless bowing of the right hand. What
Stobrod sang recounted a dream -- his or some fictive speaker's
said to have been dreamed on a bed of hemlocks and containing a rich
vision of lost love, the passage of awful time, a girl wearing a mantle
of green. The words without music would have seemed hardly fuller
detail than a telegraphic message, but together they made a complete
When the song fell closed, Birch said to Teague, Good God, these is
holy men. Their mind turns on matters kept secret from the likes
you and me.