Today I spent a couple hours meditating over the paintings, objects, and art in the Nicholas Roerich Museum, in New York City; I had wanted to visit the place a long while. I first was alerted to his mysterious, mystical, and cosmic landscapes, through a reference in a letter I read by H.P. Lovecraft.
- Adalbert is a forum for me, to post ephemera, photography, poetry, occasional travel notes, and various spontaneous motions. Cover photo: Parsonage where my great-grandfather spent his early years. Taken near Liegnitz, Silesia, ca. 1870. The "xothique" portion of the web address is a nod to Clark Ashton Smith's fictional continent of Zothique.
Wednesday, October 9, 2019
Friday, September 20, 2019
Here follows the (lightly edited) text of a letter I wrote, in October 1985, to family members; during my stay in Colorado, through parts of 1984 and 1985.
I've tried to call about 6 times or more the past 3 days, but with no luck. I realised then that you are probably in California. Otherwise, I would've written sooner.
(Switching to ink -- that ball-point is hard on my hand.)
I went to Roman's last week-end and stayed for 4 days. The 1st day he served me frog legs, seaweed and noodles, a most exotic dish. His apartment is nice, tho' the furniture is rather broken down, and he has no bed (we slept on mats on the floor).
The first night we viewed a great film directed by Luis Bunuel, Viridiana. We spent a lot of time painting and wandering about in Denver.
On the 3rd day it snowed 2 feet; we went to downtown Denver, as he had no classes, and ate at a Russian cafe; on the way back a car smacked into the side of our bus, and the bus drove over the sidewalk & smashed into a 'phone (sic-- with power lines) pole, which broke off and slammed on the roof with tremendous noise, causing people to scream; everyone thought he was done for. Several wires lay across the roof of the bus, so everyone on board (about 20) had to wait for quite a while whilst police, fire trucks, power officials and so on showed up. Finally, the power was shut off, and we could leave; the incident was on the news a couple hours later.
As soon as the bus had come to a stop the driver screamed "Don't anybody move! Don't anybody touch anything!"
I got back here alright, as most of the streets were clear, tho' they were like rivers from the melting snow. It seems to snow more in Denver than here for some reason; only about 1 foot of snow fell here.
I feed the 3 horses 2 bales of hay every day, and break the ice off the tanks. The temperature has been in the 20s and 30s, which is unusually cold for this time of year.
There was an earthquake about a week ago, centered near Casper, Wyoming, which rattled Colorado, Nebraska, and a couple other states, registering 5.5 on the Richter Scale. I was sitting on the couch, and felt it shake, but I thought it was the cat playing until I heard later about the 'quake.
Thanks exceedingly for the birthday presents; I did not expect them. I'm wearing the long-sleeved shirt right now.
-- Would you send me, please, the address of the U of O School of Musick?
Clark Dissmeyer and Marc Myers called a few weeks ago, comprising the first time I've talked to Clark, tho' we didn't get much said, it being difficult to talk to two people at once.
As always, your oblig'd and obt. servant,
A sample from the letter, and one from the envelope: and a photo of me, Boulder, 1985.
Thursday, September 12, 2019
Thursday, August 29, 2019
"I am considering moving Into one of those lofts around Union Station:" Letter from Roman Scott, 1988
The following is a letter to me, from Roman Scott, detailing a period in his life when he moved from Sandy, Oregon, to Portland (as things transpired, he initially dwelled in an atmospheric apartment building, with shared bathrooms, in the Lair Hill district, instead of the "lofts near Union Station"). After about a year (also including a stint living in the attic of the Pythian Building) in Portland, he headed to New York City, where he spent the next 12 or so years; as artist, student, and teacher.
Dreamt of an impossible large old factory building, so huge it would dwarf the largest of the pyramids. Inside it was built an entire old city, known for ages, with odd & forgotten streets build on many levels.
My mom came into my room, & I realized with horror that her face was that of an old Indian.
Lately I’ve been getting my airbrushes back in working condition as I have an illustration job which requires the technique. I’ve taken to a British canned airbrush propellant called friskair; the stuff is 8.00 a bottle, but it lasts a good while, & is infinitely more enjoyable than that damned compressor hammering away. It took two days to repair the more expensive brush, the company of which, incidentally, has gone out of business, taken over by a New Zealand firm. I bought it for $60; now it would cost $200.
Sent some Hollandse Zigarren to the Meck for his birthday.
I am considering moving into one of those lofts around Union Station; actually, they are not in Union Station, but on Everett & 6th, closer in. & they will be quite fancy (Casablanca fans, high ceiling, a living loft above, & a kitchen/bathroom space below. Even with the subsidy I wonder whether I could afford it. Yet it would be in the best location. I would call it “Gallery Roman” perhaps. I have till Nov. to decide.
Today commenced “Sandy Mt. Days.” I am doubtful that I have the strength to confront it again.
Instead I’ve been lounging around making cassette tapes. Last night I finally made a recorder take two different inputs, recording internally. This tape, the final product, I will call Het Ij.
Recorded a good, though expurgated Burroughs reading on Kaboo (KBOO).
The stamp & envelope of this letter are compliments of Anne Hughes’ coffee room, which sent it to me so that I would feel inclined to buy a spendy 10.00 ticket for one of their performances.
Friday, August 2, 2019
Saturday, July 20, 2019
Saturday, June 29, 2019
Digital collage by JF
Angelo Muscat Film Festival
The man-hero poured the drink directly into his brain.
I said that's what you are deeply thinking. Puce scapegoat grace, a walnut reminiscence of timeless misouts. Reference 1: I refer you to my Uncle Charlie, who last knew his source 15 years ago, smothered in that cake of which he sowed nothing.
a poisonous dripping Grim Reaper taking us all to task, hovering over the soap mix bowl.
Saturday, June 15, 2019
Saturday, June 1, 2019
Here's a study I did; based on my recollection of a photograph (or based on an amalgam of several photos) captured of Allen Ginsberg, by Roman Scott, April, 1985; at the Boulder Book Store, Colorado. We spent twenty or thirty minutes conversing with the poet... The series of photographs vanished, alas, as I have mentioned elsewhere. Ginsberg also snapped a couple pictures of me, Roman, and others who were there. I have examined the images from that period in the Allen Ginsberg collection, in the Stanford University Library digital archives -- but if the photos survived that he took at the signing, I was not able to locate them (there are a couple sheets of Ginsberg photos from April 12th and 13th, 1985, in Boulder -- the same visit).
Saturday, May 25, 2019
A dressed-up version of the flyer (incorporating an earlier image with Andy Warhol) for the performance of The Velvet Underground (in a later incarnation of the band) and The Chapter Five on 21 November, 1969, at Springer's Hall, Gresham, Oregon (I believe at that period the location fell within unincorporated Multnomah County). (Other notable bands also played at the venue, including The Grateful Dead, the Byrds, and others; according to the Rock Archaeology 101 blog post, in the preceding link). I've long been an admirer of the band; since some friends recommended their music in the last millennium. I purchased a copy of the Velvet Underground "banana" album at a thrift store in the 80s (then inexplicably gave away the record a few years later). I later frequented the building in its later incarnation, as Springer's Flea Market, in the 70s and 80s (as mentioned in previous posts). The story of Springer's ended dramatically, with the consumption of the entire edifice by fire. This event happened apparently in August, 1987, according to Roman Scott's comment in the "Rock Archaeology" blog (and from what I remember of that time). I did see John Cale in a solo performance, in the 80s, at the Pine Street Theater in Portland (later La Luna).
I was within a ten or twenty minute drive of the 1969 Velvet Underground concert at Springer's; although would not have quite been old enough to have grokked it, had I attended. Still, there was something in the breezes...
Saturday, May 11, 2019
The decades plangent, winter’s night, ancient youth; I watched occultation as the sun’s corona snapped; the initial eclipse, revelation by the blackboard, fell during Jimmy Carter’s reality.
Valkyries whirred through marmoreal heights, the aurochs of Christiania, scooped orbs of febrile rocks.
Totems hermitic, thunder eggs of stumbling youth, reincarnations argent.
Past mages’ mouths sealed now with wixtax, sires driving their pickups into the bardo, in the alder woods a hinged homunculus burrowed.
Saturday, April 20, 2019
A short piece I wrote on the artist Roman Scott's comics, in 2016. The impetus was a proposed tribute to some of Roman's early graphic work, which would have appeared in a local publication (unfortunately, the project never materialized). And the cover (ca. 1980) of his photocopied mini, called Flamboody.
Thursday, April 11, 2019
A digital collage I made, based on a cutting with a review (by Bob Hicks) from The Oregonian, of a reissue of Abel Gance's silent film Napoleon (1927), and other elements. I attended the film with the family, at the long-defunct Movie House theatre in Portland, Oregon. Based on the profusion in the ads of films from 1981 and 1982, this event must have been in 1982 or 83. I could stand to see the film again; the triptych sequence at the end, and dizzying camera work throughout were intense.
Friday, March 29, 2019
Saturday, March 16, 2019
I first became cognizant of Enid Starkie's beefy biography and critical study of the sui generis French poet Arthur Rimbaud in the mid 80s, when a friend of mine at that time had the tome; and displayed a copy to me. I have a memory of him and another friend conversing about Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell; with regards to synesthesia. While this is indeed a reasonable take on his lines about the colors of vowels; when I finally purchased and consumed the tome, my understanding of the writer and adventurer exponentially expanded, with this and other matters. She linked the words, inspired by a French primer, with Rimbaud’s study of alchemy.
I ultimately spotted a copy of the tome at a bookstore on Hawthorne Boulevard, in 2018, in Portland, Oregon. The store filled the lower rooms in an older home; inviting a leisurely survey of the shelves. For a sum not more than a few U.S. dollars, I left with a liquidated 1947 edition of the critical biography, (along with some other books); with its jacket weakened and bleached by stray sun rays over long years; but still perfectly readable.
Absorbing its densely rewarding pages; I found a deep presentation of Rimbaud, with intensive coverage of his relations with his mother and siblings (his father dropped out of home life at an early date), his literary stirrings during the violence and uncertainty in the era of the Franco-Prussian War and the Paris Commune (which he apparently only witnessed briefly, if at all); his frenetic relationship with Paul Verlaine, analysis of his poetry, and a detailed account of his years traveling and living in Aden, Harar, and other locales. Curiously, Starkie left most of the poetry untranslated (and my one year of high school French didn't help too much in this regard, although I read many of the works she referenced in translation, elsewhere); but she translated the examples of correspondence, in the biography. Enid Starkie’s Rimbaud is an extraordinary study of the poet, his life and influence.
Below; an analog/digital collage I made, combining elements of paintings from 1872 by Arnold Böcklin and Fantin-Latour.
Friday, March 8, 2019
Saturday, February 23, 2019
I've been revisiting Los Angeles and surroundings for a bit. Today: The La Brea Tar Pits and Museum. Below, spectral glyphs from comic actor Joe E. Brown, at Grauman's Chinese Theater (Joe E. Brown appeared often as a sort of totemic spirit in Oddities and other related zines); and a revenant jest from Humphrey Bogart.
I originally posted this on 2/20/19, but the text and photos manifested as an unintended work of glitch art (merging two posts), also below:
Thursday, February 14, 2019
The first two pages from a paper, dated March 7, 1993, I composed for a seminar on Melville taught by Professor Michael Hollister, at Portland State University. The class involved some lively, intense discussions in our small group. Also: a collage piece I constructed in the far-off year of 2005.
Saturday, January 26, 2019