A moment for Edward Lear

     One hundred and twenty four years ago today Edward Lear died in his winter home in Corfu. Lear was most remembered for being the father of nonsense literature. Founding a genre which deals in the absurd, Lear created a sort of new abstraction from which he could create emotional illusion and play out miniature drama in a silly yet serious context. Reading Lear is not for the faint of heart... it it can be at times violent or bleak, but a child's wonder seeks to know the nature of the world which includes the mysterious regions of the grotesque.

There was a Young Person of Smyrna,

Whose Grandmother threatened to burn her;

But she seized on the Cat,

And said, "Granny, burn that!

"You incongruous Old Woman of Smyrna!" 

There was an Old Man of the Nile,

Who sharpened his nails with a file;

Till he cut off his thumbs,

And said calmly, "This comes--

Of sharpening one's nails with a file!" 

There was an Old Man of Cape Horn,

Who wished he had never been born;

So he sat on a chair,

Till he died of despair,

That dolorous Man of Cape Horn. 

Perhaps only those who relish the occasion to ask, "why?" or delight in the endless possibilities of the world would get a kick out of reading Edward Lear's nonsense. I found a particular kinship with Lear outside his literary contributions which are surprisingly similar to my own endeavors. He was a painter first and foremost, aviary illustration was a fascination, and children's poems were a hobby. He traveled often as he could to develop his portfolio, but it was said that he lost a large amount of appealing gesture in the grander attempts in his studio. His designs to be a great landscape painter were never realized.

                                                            here is one of his landscapes

                                                             and here is one from his
                                                               book of bird prints

more ornithological prints here...
http://www.audubonart.com/02_gall_OFMLE1.asp

This is a great rendition of Lear's poem The Dong with the Luminous Nose.

For the rest of the recording go to http://www.neokitsch.com/.

Snore & Guzzle Radio Hour #23 by snore_and_guzzle

This is a site that I found a while back that's dedicated to creating fantastic playlists composed of a broad spectrum of music. They hub out of Portland and have a knack for finding very good—often obscure—music. There are some tracks on their playlists that I haven't been able to find anywhere else one the web.

Tom Sachs

Tom Sachs, A Selby Film from the selby on Vimeo.

John Hassall, "The Arrival of Peter Pan"

The woods of Arcady are dead,

And over is their antique joy;

Of old the world on dreaming fed;

Gray Truth is now her painted toy;

Yet still she turns her restless head:

But O, sick children of the world,

Of all the many changing things

In dreary dancing past us whirled,

To the cracked tune that Chronos sings,

Words alone are certain good.

Where are now the warring kings,

Word be-mockers?--By the Rood

Where are now the warring kings?

An idle word is now their glory,

By the stammering schoolboy said,

Reading some entangled story:

The kinds of the old time are fled.

The wandering earth herself may be

Only a sudden flaming word,

In clanging space a moment heard,

Troubling the endless reverie.

Then nowise worship dusty deeds,

Nor seek; for this is also sooth;

To hunger fiercely after truth,

Lest all thy toiling only breeds

New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth

Saving in thine own heart. Seek, then,

No learning from the starry men,

Who follow with the optic glass

The whirling ways of stars that pass--

Seek, then, for this is also sooth,

No word of theirs--the cold star-bane

Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain,

And dead is all their human truth.

Go gather by the humming-sea

Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell,

And to its lips thy story tell,

And they thy comforters will be,

Rewarding in melodious guile,

Thy fretful words a little while,

Till they shall singing fade in ruth,

And die a pearly brotherhood;

For words alone are certain good:

Sing, then, for this is also sooth.

I must be gone: there is a grave

Where daffodil and lily wave,

And I would please the hapless faun,

Buried under the sleepy ground,

With mirthful songs before the dawn.

His shouting days with mirth were crowned;

And still I dream he treads the lawn,

Walking ghostly in the dew,

Pierced by my glad singing through,

My songs of old earth's dreamy youth:

But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou!

For fair are poppies on the brow:

Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.

The Song of the Happy Shepherd, W. B. Yeats