Saturday, December 28, 2013
Friday, December 27, 2013
The Mask of the Sun
Venus and Jupiter, occluded, sanguine notes through corridors fell. Wild anguish of accordion, clarinet, cloud banks of frost and dusk. Intention was to see the mummies, not the clavicle of coronas, Robert H. Barlow I guess hunting for alligators, goofballs snake charmer. In its stead, creaked raven’s beak, essence of coals mummified in Sol’s face, humbling of Caesar’s petroglyphs, I have seen the yelling of bronze spokes in flooded Telemark. Intent was, ceremonial mask whistling, bitumen lich crotch, the weasel head really stunk they said. Cat fang trapped in ton of bombs. A traveler gone elegant, Nosferatu bells pounded effortlessly, pasty lips still.
JF December 27, 2013
Untitled Painting, tempera on paper, 1986
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Headstone of the Iranian author Sadegh Hedayat in Père Lachaise, and a view of the dense necropolis. Hedayat's novel The Blind Owl, with its mystical refrains and echoes of Poe, and some of his short stories affected me greatly when I read them years back. After I took the photo, an Iranian fan of the writer appeared, also taking a picture. I spoke with the man briefly. He said, "There he is... He died much too soon."
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Jim Morrison's grave; the wall at which some of the holdouts of the Paris Commune were executed May 28, 1871; and Marcel Proust's gravesite. Some elderly woman came up to me, speaking in Italian, I think. All I could get out of what she said was JEEM Morrison, interspersed with other things. I thought she was looking for his resting place, and pointed in the general direction. She shook her head, walking off saying JEEM Morrison. Later I acted as an ad hoc tour guide, directing some guys from Strasbourg, France to the spot -- and it was the first time I had visited Père Lachaise. I also showed up with the right timing to witness a coffin unloaded from a hearse, and marched up the hill by pallbearers to the decedent's final sleep, just like in the movies. I did not take a picture, due to
not getting my camera ready fast enough respect for the survivors.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Monday, December 16, 2013
Friday, December 13, 2013
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Obligatory shot. Today paid a visit to the Rijksmuseum. Some Dutch guy started talking to me about a 17th century domestic painting, insisting I explain why "I liked it." He went on to say, "I'm from here, and this is my first visit (to the museum)... shame on me."
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Friday, December 6, 2013
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Friday, November 22, 2013
I am re-posting this image, originally from 5/17/2012. The killing of the sacred king on 11/22/63 occurred before my birth. Yet the murder and the later shocks of the 1960s tinged the atmosphere, an unseen train passing. I cannot recall when I first gained a concept of the Kennedy assassination -- the tropes seemed to emerge complete, like Minerva. And the mystery of Oswald, who traveled when and where he pleased (except on his final journey), and the mystery of the companion shooter, or shooters, if they existed, persists.
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Wake of river, between mist-filled canyons, dense trees, leeches, roads wrought on the backs of ridges, untraced save by feet.
Bark and circles.
Black iron pagodas and low, square-founded sites, with around shimmering, yellow stalk, a true Neanderthal head, an unmanifested star: Standing at angles to the sun on top of the hill.
Not an inch uncultivated, kelp, no titanic masonry dropped, bordering, and draping, filled-in oratories, dragon creepers, fjords, scarce walkers, the upper dell obliquely green, ice and grey churning.
JF ca. 1990
Untitled painting by myself, from 1986. Tempera on paper.
Room, from 1986
Friday, November 8, 2013
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Which is no longer an island: Ostrów Tumski. The time when I was there, a flautist played Bach as I walked the Tumski Bridge. The notes faded into the bricks and stonework of the ancient fanes and houses.
The postcard looks to date from communist- era Poland, maybe 1950s or 60s. The language, not surprisingly, is Polish, and the sender appeared to have forgotten to bring the recipient's address.
Wyspa Tumska is an alternate form of Ostrów Tumski -- Dominsel in German, or Cathedral Island in English.
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Friday, October 11, 2013
Bad breath, muddy complexion, dull eyes, nervous headache, nervous indigestion -- who wants that?
Concerning Dr. Miles and Dr. Miles Nervine (sic) : http://arnoldzwicky.org/2010/12/18/dr-miles-nervine/
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Another relic from the Alaskan project my father worked on in the late 1950s (see entry of 3 August 2012). I am pretty sure the White Alice network, or anything concerning it, no longer falls under the label of "classified" : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Alice_Communications_System -- in fact, the government decommissioned the antenna array decades ago. White Alice -- wasn't that a Jefferson Airplane Song?
In Hodges' biography of Alan Turing, he indicates that American usage made "classified" a synonym for "top secret," rather than referring to levels of classification. Classification level: Top stupid. Then, the American habit of saying "hello" repeatedly through the day irritated Turing during one of his stints here.
The guy on the phone looks as if he's about to issue some kind of doomsday order. Serious business, no doubt.