if music was born out of grief, painting was born out of transience within an immortal universe. painting is the charmed presence of what will no longer be there. an enchanted absence, a visible dream, a parallel universe, defying death, underlining life’s brevity. it is a vision of life from hades enchanted. it is the secret history of light, the psychodrama of colour, the moment in a mind, the moment in a song. painting is life, life smiling at death with light as its secret. painting is narcissus surprised.

painting is an inscription on the flesh of time. painting is the triumph of plants and minerals and animal hair. it is soul dancing to soul. painting is the still life of god’s mind. painting is the only mortal space where angels dwell in stillness. it is meditation with eyes wide open, contemplation with the mind’s eyes focused on enigmas. it is visualisation materialised. the mind’s strength and grace trembling in space. the unending lesson of the ascending spirit. painting is the tentative deciphering of destiny, the visual haiku of human history, musings of life in deep dimensions.

painting is human love transcending human forgetfulness. it is mortality staring at itself in the evanescent mirror of immortality. it is spaces dancing, dimensions interacting, realms interpenetrating, time zones colliding, eliding, harmonising. painting is the shaman’s mirror, the warrior’s truest shield, the healer’s armour against fate and tragedy. the celebration of light.

painting is one of the earliest tools of survival. you painted a thing first then you made it manifest later. there is painting of the mind, where you first create the complete form of a thing or dream or desire and feed it deep into the spirit’s factory for the production of reality. painting is the mirror of healing, the base of creativity, the spring-board of materialisation. painting is the mathematics of making things possible. it is planting notions in the subconscious through the allure or disturbance of the eyes.

great paintings transcend the eyes and, through other agencies, can be transmitted from soul to soul. all dreamers are spirit painters. all dreams are paintings. all spirit painters are world remakers. painting is the refresher of love, the aider of love, the incarnation of loving. painting is time multiplied by light. painting is where the dead sleep, where the labyrinth is decoded. it is the secret film of the gods, the ecstasy of dyes, the paradigm of better ways of being.

painting is the illuminated record book of invisible realms seen in glimpses. intimations of reincarnation. akashic still-points. painting is indeed one of the places where hades is averted. it is the hint of a sort of immortality within. it comes from the same place inside us where gods are born.

painting is one of the most mysterious metaphors of arcadia.

ben okri – in arcadia (2002)

ik denk altijd dat-i toch al webwereldberoemd is, jogchem niemandsverdriet. en ik dacht een paar jaar gelee ook dat ik ‘m al helemaal uit had. maar natuurlijk staan er nieuwe dingen, en natuurlijk zal niet iedereen hem kennen. vandaar dat ik hem maar tussen mijn links heb gezet: nobody here.

klik waar je klikken kunt, neem eens een kijkje in zijn hart, knip zijn neusharen, beluister zijn antwoordapparaat, fantaseer een jongetje, sta een tijdje stil of leef gewoon wat met hem mee.

ik denk altijd dat-i toch al webwereldberoemd is, jogchem niemandsverdriet. en ik dacht een paar jaar gelee ook dat ik ‘m al helemaal uit had. maar natuurlijk staan er nieuwe dingen, en natuurlijk zal niet iedereen hem kennen. vandaar dat ik hem maar tussen mijn links heb gezet: nobody here.

klik waar je klikken kunt, neem eens een kijkje in zijn hart, knip zijn neusharen, beluister zijn antwoordapparaat, fantaseer een jongetje, sta een tijdje stil of leef gewoon wat met hem mee.

ik zie dat ik plots ook een categorie mee kan geven aan een log. dat is fijn & handig, ook voor jou.

ik heb nog niet ‘t hele archief van categorie voorzien maar dat duurt niet lang meer. linksboven zie je de verschillende categorieen. klik je bijvoorbeeld op muziek dan zie je alleen de logs die volgens mij met muziek te maken hebben en hoef je al dat andere geneuzel niet te lezen als je niet wilt. ook handig om iets terug te zoeken.

nu mis ik alleen nog de mogelijkheid om aan 1 log meerdere categorieen toe te kennen. want ‘t leven laat zich best in hokjes stoppen maar zo 1-dimensionaal is het nu ook weer niet. en als ik dat zelf probeer te ondervangen door bijvoorbeeld 37 categorieen aan te maken, dan is het geen handig systeem meer. ik ga maar eens een verzoekje mailen.

en oh, elke categorie moet natuurlijk een eigen rss-feed hebben, mocht iemand echt alleen in enkele onderwerpen geinteresseerd zijn.

maar m’n blog heeft inmiddels 23 uur en 22 minuten op giro 555 gestaan en dat moet maar even genoeg zijn. nog even tijd voor iets anders vandaag, helaas even actueel. en nog 1x in de vorm van e.e. cummings. een kortere, makkelijkere en ook veel bekendere cummings.

“next to of course god america i
love you land of the pilgrims’ and so forth oh
say can you see by the dawn’s early my
country ’tis of centuries come and go
and are no more what of it we should worry
in every language even deafanddumb
thy sons acclaim thy glorious name by gorry
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-
iful than these heroic happy dead
who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
they did not stop to think they died instead
then shall the voice of liberty be mute?”

he spoke. and drank rapidly a glass of water

e.e. cummings

ik zie dat ik plots ook een categorie mee kan geven aan een log. dat is fijn & handig, ook voor jou.

ik heb nog niet ‘t hele archief van categorie voorzien maar dat duurt niet lang meer. linksboven zie je de verschillende categorieen. klik je bijvoorbeeld op muziek dan zie je alleen de logs die volgens mij met muziek te maken hebben en hoef je al dat andere geneuzel niet te lezen als je niet wilt. ook handig om iets terug te zoeken.

nu mis ik alleen nog de mogelijkheid om aan 1 log meerdere categorieen toe te kennen. want ‘t leven laat zich best in hokjes stoppen maar zo 1-dimensionaal is het nu ook weer niet. en als ik dat zelf probeer te ondervangen door bijvoorbeeld 37 categorieen aan te maken, dan is het geen handig systeem meer. ik ga maar eens een verzoekje mailen.

en oh, elke categorie moet natuurlijk een eigen rss-feed hebben, mocht iemand echt alleen in enkele onderwerpen geinteresseerd zijn.

maar m’n blog heeft inmiddels 23 uur en 22 minuten op giro 555 gestaan en dat moet maar even genoeg zijn. nog even tijd voor iets anders vandaag, helaas even actueel. en nog 1x in de vorm van e.e. cummings. een kortere, makkelijkere en ook veel bekendere cummings.

“next to of course god america i
love you land of the pilgrims’ and so forth oh
say can you see by the dawn’s early my
country ’tis of centuries come and go
and are no more what of it we should worry
in every language even deafanddumb
thy sons acclaim thy glorious name by gorry
by jingo by gee by gosh by gum
why talk of beauty what could be more beaut-
iful than these heroic happy dead
who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter
they did not stop to think they died instead
then shall the voice of liberty be mute?”

he spoke. and drank rapidly a glass of water

e.e. cummings

my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if (so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which
floats the first who, his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

and should some why completely weep
my father’s fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.

lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead he called the moon
singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice

keen as midsummer’s keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly (over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father’s dream

his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.

scorning the pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain

septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is

proudly and (by octobering flame
beckoned) as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark

his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he’d laugh and build a world with snow.

my father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)

then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine, passion willed,
freedom a drug that’s bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear, to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit, all bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth
-i say though hate were why man breathe-
because my father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all

e.e. cummings

my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if (so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which
floats the first who, his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

and should some why completely weep
my father’s fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.

lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead he called the moon
singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice

keen as midsummer’s keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly (over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father’s dream

his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.

scorning the pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain

septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is

proudly and (by octobering flame
beckoned) as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark

his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he’d laugh and build a world with snow.

my father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)

then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine, passion willed,
freedom a drug that’s bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear, to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit, all bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth
-i say though hate were why man breathe-
because my father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all

e.e. cummings

eindelijk dan toch, het laatste stukje eindejaarsopruiming! zonder verhaaltjes anders ben ik zo weer een week verder. wellicht schrijf ik er later nog wat bij maar dat durf ik niet te beloven.

1. nick cave – abattoir blues/the lyre of orpheus
2. lucky jim – our troubles end tonight
3. elliott smith – from a basement on the hill
4. the arcade fire – funeral
5. great lake swimmers – great lake swimmers
6. ghinzu – blow
7. the shins – chutes too narrow
8. boris mccutcheon – when we were big
9. blues brother castro – money maker me / gem – tell me what’s new

eervolle vermeldingen voor franz ferdinand en the killers.

een goed muziekjaar voor nederland trouwens, behalve blues brother castro en gem op de gedeelde 9e plaats (amsterdams chauvinisme deed me eerst gem op 10 zetten maar dat zou unfair zijn) heb ik ook met plezier geluisterd naar jw roy, walker diver, paper moon en nog zo wat.

favoriete compilatie:
if only you were lonely. een valentijnsdag-release van agenda music met onder andere laura veirs, the black heart procession, ron sexsmith.