The Labyrinthine

November 30, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , — thelabyrinthine @ 3:53 pm

That’s my niece on top left, and no wonder she is so handy with an iphone :]

opposite me

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , — thelabyrinthine @ 3:25 pm

pulling, pulling on lines. not just a line, they be very straight lines.  connecting dots, and pulling on lines to acquaint the two that are seemingly at odds with each other.

she writes with a pencil, because her lines aren’t allowed to walk in squiggles, nor can her dots splotch in their chairs. she seems very practical.  Her snacks sure are.  Green leaf tea, out of a bottle, with a straw.  Granola on the side.

Bangs pinned to the netherlands of her head full of jet black strands.  straight, without squiggles.  Glasses too lose for her small, angular face, slips down and down until every two seconds a hand goes up to push it back up to the forehead.

Frowning lips, open much as small gasps of patience flow in and out.  She doesn’t enjoy her arithmetic, but she lives it.  She even excels in it.

Sometimes I wish when I behold faces such as these, I wish I had their focus.  Then I look up to see what she does with it and I know.  why she sits opposite me.

November 29, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , — thelabyrinthine @ 10:19 pm

November 27, 2010

Sukumar Ray was a Bengali humorous poet, story writer and playwright. As perhaps the most famous Indian practitioner of literary nonsense, he is often compared to Lewis Carroll.”

The King of Bombaria
In the land of Bombaria
The customs are peculiar.
The king, for instance, advocates
Gilded frames for chocolates.
The queen, who seldom goes to bed
Straps a pillow round her head.
The courtiers- or so I’m told-
Turn cartwheels when they have a cold:

… The King’s old aunt- an autocrat-
Hits pumpkins with her cricket bat
While Uncle loves to dance Mazurkas
Wearing garlands strung with hookaha.
All of this, though mighty queer,
Is natural in Bombaria.

Translated by Satyajit Ray
The Bengali version is “Bombagarer Raja”.

[sublimethings]

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , — thelabyrinthine @ 6:58 pm

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , — thelabyrinthine @ 6:27 pm

The artist is the creator of beautiful things.

To reveal art and conceal the artist is art’s aim.

The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.

The highest, as the lowest, form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.

Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming.  This is a fault.

Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated.  For these there is hope.

They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only Beauty.

There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book.  Books are well written, or badly written.  That is all.

The nineteenth century dislike of Realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass.

The nineteenth century dislike of Romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass.

The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium.

No artist desires to prove anything.  Even things that are true can be proved.

No artist has ethical sympathies.  An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style.

No artist is ever morbid.  The artist can express everything.

Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art.

Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art.

From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician.  From the point of view of feeling, the actor’s craft is the type.

All art is at once surface and symbol.

Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril.

Those who read the symbol do so at their peril.

It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.

Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital.

When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself.

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it.  The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.

All art is quite useless.


OSCAR WILDE

November 24, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , — thelabyrinthine @ 9:23 pm

That’s me, and my neck which is reasonably long…and for which I’m very thankful, because I find short ones not so attractive.

Anyway, big day tomorrow.  I’m actually making something for Thanksgiving dinner!  I wasn’t discouraged even when I had to wait around (along with another girl) for someone really old to come along and tell me what rosemary, thyme and chives look like.  Probably not something I’d want to share with Benoit, who is cooking my favorite eggplant ratatouille!  …Oh and I’m going to attempt Green Bean Casserole.

November 23, 2010

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , — thelabyrinthine @ 10:53 pm

[via recordisphotography]

Something like this has always floated in my dreams. Kisses on roof shed and a creek around the corner.  And I can’t even explain how nostalgic this makes me feel…

 

November 22, 2010

it’s slightly ironic but it makes sense

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , , — thelabyrinthine @ 11:30 pm

I didn’t get to talk to you today, so here I am.  You said you’d call in the morning to tell me what’s going on but you didn’t call and I wasn’t expecting you to.  So here I am.  I miss your warm brown eyes and cherry lips like light syrup of the kind I’d like.  But besides that, I had a few things in mind.  Maybe I’d get to tell you at the middle of the night.  We started to read the book you said was the one that dug deep in your heart, The Picture of Dorian Gray.  I wish you were sitting right next to me on the floor.  I’d refresh your mind all about hedonism and its virtues.  We’d ponder Harry and ….  I almost bought you a bee’s wax tonight.  But the line was too long.   I love you more than I love myself every single day and I contemplate hedonism and its virtues.  It’s slightly ironic but it makes sense.

pink, puce or slightly mauvish too

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , — thelabyrinthine @ 12:44 am

Probably my favorite of Rabindranath Tagore’s paintings.  At least in terms of color pallet.  I thought of this now because I’m in a similar color state (of mind) at the moment.  I should go nuh night right now though. sigh.  My sister snores.  but I guess I missed this place due to school stuff lately.

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