Allen Herbert Posted April 22, 2017 Share Posted April 22, 2017 Theirs no truths or lies or bs just the photograph. You communicate with it or not. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Allen Herbert Posted April 22, 2017 Share Posted April 22, 2017 So, lets look at the three photos I've posted. The first one a love thing perhaps.....but the bloke looks a bit distant. Just cannot escape from his big hands. The second a Arty type photo with an interesting character. Verticals and Horizontals come to mind. The third....just a truth of love. Theirs no truths or lies or BS just the photograph. How I read the language of these photographs are my percieved truths, Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Julie H Posted April 23, 2017 Author Share Posted April 23, 2017 just the photograph. What is that? When is paper with marks on it or a screen with varied colors/tones not a photograph? How do you know? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
AlanKlein Posted April 23, 2017 Share Posted April 23, 2017 If your stomach feels queasy about your photo, don't do it. Flickr gallery: https://www.flickr.com/photos/alanklein2000/albums Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
kellyrae Posted April 24, 2017 Share Posted April 24, 2017 I found this <,————link to be a wonderful definition of absolute truth. You don't have to be a Christian to appreciate it, for there are some secular gleanings too. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Julie H Posted April 24, 2017 Author Share Posted April 24, 2017 "But, in the end, unless this is done only on the basis of taste, which is to say, on the basis of the merely aesthetic ... there must be something further that one has recourse to, in relation to making one's judgment." "... I know it sounds somewhat absurd being an artist and a Western aesthete, in a sense, to insist on the moral, and I certainly don't mean it in a puritanical sense: but I really think art is basically a moral enterprise. And that the artistry, if you want to put it that way, is the beauty and completeness with which a moral position is asserted." "... And I don't mean this in a superior or self-righteous or any holier than thou ways, but almost primitively, as a kind of animal thirst for something solidly real. It's directed to what one really feels and not to what one prefers to feel, or thinks one feels." — Robert Motherwell in a 1960 interview How does one know what one "really feels" if it's not what one "thinks one feel"? Part of Eve’s Discussion by Marie Howe It was like the moment when a bird decides not to eat from your hand, and flies, just before it flies, the moment the rivers seem to still and stop because a storm is coming, but there is no storm, as when a hundred starlings lift and bank together before they wheel and drop, very much like the moment, driving on bad ice, when it occurs to you your car could spin, just before it slowly begins to spin, like the moment just before you forgot what it was you were about to say, it was like that, and after that, it was still like that, only all the time. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Norma Desmond Posted April 29, 2017 Share Posted April 29, 2017 The truth is, Frank is but one link in a chain. Kerouac another. Artifice can be(come) truth. We didn't need dialogue. We had faces! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Norma Desmond Posted April 29, 2017 Share Posted April 29, 2017 Maybe it's more a matter of unifying them than distinguishing them, of seeing though each of them to the other or seeing in each of them the other. An artifice is made which beholds a truth that was there or creates one that now is. We didn't need dialogue. We had faces! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Norma Desmond Posted April 29, 2017 Share Posted April 29, 2017 Nice take on that photo! We didn't need dialogue. We had faces! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
michael_darnton2 Posted April 29, 2017 Share Posted April 29, 2017 Just because someone can make a statement in the form of a question, it does not mean that the statement is not BS. I rate the original question as BS. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Julie H Posted April 29, 2017 Author Share Posted April 29, 2017 Immigrant Picnic by Gregory Djanikian [ ... ] “You’re running around,” my mother says, “like a chicken with its head loose.” “Ma,” I say, “you mean cut off, loose and cut off being as far apart as, say, son and daughter.” She gives me a quizzical look as though I’ve been caught in some impropriety. “I love you and your sister just the same,” she says, “Sure,” my grandmother pipes in, “you’re both our children, so why worry?” That’s not the point I begin telling them, and I’m comparing words to fish now, like the ones in the sea at Port Said, or like birds among the date palms by the Nile, unrepentantly elusive, wild. “Sonia,” my father says to my mother, “what the hell is he talking about?” “He’s on a ball,” my mother says. “That’s roll!” I say, throwing up my hands, “as in hot dog, hamburger, dinner roll….” “And what about roll out the barrels?” my mother asks, and my father claps his hands, “Why sure,” he says, “let’s have some fun,” and launches into a polka, twirling my mother around and around like the happiest top, and my uncle is shaking his head, saying “You could grow nuts listening to us,” and I’m thinking of pistachios in the Sinai burgeoning without end, pecans in the South, the jumbled flavor of them suddenly in my mouth, wordless, confusing, crowding out everything else. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Allen Herbert Posted April 29, 2017 Share Posted April 29, 2017 Im back, Julie:.shiver your timbers. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Allen Herbert Posted April 29, 2017 Share Posted April 29, 2017 'What is that? When is paper with marks on it or a screen with varied colors/tones not a photograph? How do you know? "Julie What is anything only what we perceive as anything. Hope you enjoyed my masterpieces of Art, Julie. No need to say thanks.. I just can feel the waves of excitement, appreciation, of great photography emulating from your very soul...no need to say anything...silence is golden.. So, Julie is a Atheist....rejecting God and therefore maybe being rejected by God....methinks he would still love you Julie. The Big But. Julie the Atheist has only her percieved knowledge....Julie really an Agnostic in denial...sort of wants God to have a personal chat with her. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Allen Herbert Posted April 29, 2017 Share Posted April 29, 2017 So, she can tell him off:) Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Julie H Posted April 29, 2017 Author Share Posted April 29, 2017 Thank you Allen. Now you'll always have to say "except for that one time ... " The Blessing of the Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog by Alicia Suskin Ostriker [ … ] To be blessed said the dog is to have a pinch of God inside you and all the other dogs can smell it Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Julie H Posted April 30, 2017 Author Share Posted April 30, 2017 "For the sake of a few lines one must see many cities, men and things. One must know the animals, one must feel how the birds fly and know the gesture with which the small flowers open in the morning. One must be able to think back to roads in unknown regions, to unexpected meetings and to partings which one had long seen coming; to days of childhood that are still unexplained, to parents that one had to hurt when they brought one some joy and one did not grasp it (it was a joy for someone else); to childhood illness that so strangely began with a number of profound and grave transformations, to days in rooms withdrawn and quiet and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along on high and flew with all the stars — and it is not yet enough if one may think all of this. [ ... ] And still it is not enough to have memories. One must be able to forget them when they are many, and one must have the great patience to wait until they come again. For it is not yet the memories themselves. Not until they have turned to blood within us, to glance, to gesture, nameless and no longer to be distinguished from ourselves — not until then can it happen that in a most rare hour the first word of a verse arises in their midst and goes forth from them. — Rainer Maria Rilke Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Julie H Posted April 30, 2017 Author Share Posted April 30, 2017 Rhapsody by Cynthia Huntington Beat it with a shoe because it can’t talk, because it won’t shut up, because it makes those noises about its loneliness endlessly. Beat it with a shoe over and over, beside the door, on the balcony; beat it because it’s yours, because you’ve had enough. Beat that shoe your foot’s orphan, like a leather club against its side, around its head, with short sharp blows. Beat it to make it stop crying. Show you mean business. Because it’s dumb, because you told it once or a thousand times; beat it because it ought to know better by now. Beat it with a shoe because it feels good — beat it until it feels good. Beat the crap out of it. Beat it senseless. Beat it within an inch. Because it’s worthless and dumb, shitty, and loud, and dirty. Beat it because there is pain in the world. Beat it because it’s yours. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Allen Herbert Posted May 1, 2017 Share Posted May 1, 2017 Once upon a time ...by me. There once was a rather splendid dog who was very thirsty, but everytime he tried to drink he saw his reflection in the water: he felt very intimidated by this other dog. No matter how many times he growled and barked at this other dog it kept on growling and barking back. Eventually he could not hold his thirst back any longer, and in a act of doggy courage, he drank from the water and the other dog dissapeared. Of cause the "he dog" could have been a "she dog". The moral of story for the dog is not to trust in your percieved perceptions as truths. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Julie H Posted May 1, 2017 Author Share Posted May 1, 2017 The Resemblance Between Your Life and a Dog by Robert Bly I never intended to have this life, believe me — It just happened. You know how dogs turn up At the farm, and they wag but can’t explain. It’s good if you can accept your life — you’ll notice Your face has become deranged trying to adjust To it. Your face thought your life would look Like your bedroom mirror when you were ten. [ … ] Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Allen Herbert Posted May 1, 2017 Share Posted May 1, 2017 Doggerel...by me I first percieved in this place a large winged monster with great wings hurtling towards me in this place. I screamed never having seen such a thing in that other place I know not what of. I was trapped in a mechanical device unable to escape not an experience in that other place I know not what of. But what and where was that other place I know not what of? I was taught by many to percieve this place but none could explain that other place I know not what of So, here am I with perceptions given, in this place on a journey to another place I know not what of. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Allen Herbert Posted May 1, 2017 Share Posted May 1, 2017 An Angel said Julie you are not a friend of God Julie replied: That is so, but Im a friend of a friend of God who I think of as Phil. For a time the Angel said nothing. Then he spoke to Julie I have received instructions to record your name at the head of a list; for hope is born of lack of hope.' Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Julie H Posted May 1, 2017 Author Share Posted May 1, 2017 Real and Half Real by Robinson Jeffers [ … ] But now consider Something not human: — here the coast hills at Soberanes Creek sea-mouth, steep wedges and cones of granite Thin-skinned with grass; their feet are deep in the flood-tide ocean, dark, heavy and still, calm in this trough Between two storms; their heads are against the dark heavy sky. No life is visible but the bright grass, And a gang of wild pigs, huddled and flank-to-flank, flowing up a swale On the far slope; and that one eagle, wheeling and rocking, high and alone Against the cloud-lid. Here are no trivial artist-signatures, no puppet-play, no pretence of free will; This is first-class reality. The human affair is half real, part myth, part art-work: this is in earnest. I conclude That men should play the parts assigned them and do it bravely, emulating The nobility of nature, but well in mind That their play is a play; it is serious but not important; what’s done in earnest is done outside it. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Allen Herbert Posted May 1, 2017 Share Posted May 1, 2017 (edited) All those poets, Julie, you are using.To my mind they are somewhat lost in their own ambiguity.Sort of like dancing naked around a fairy tree with lutes playing in the background....maybe with a few fiddles.. I'm of a more practicul nature with my prose. I have again and again grown like grass; I have experienced seven hundred and seventy moulds. I died from minerality and became vegetable; And from vegetativeness I died and became animal. I died from animality and became man/women. Then why fear disappearance through death?Next time I shall die Bringing forth wings and fearless like angels; After that soaring higher than angels..., What you cannot image I will be. I shall be that. Edited May 1, 2017 by Allen Herbert Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Julie H Posted May 1, 2017 Author Share Posted May 1, 2017 A Proud Poem by Frank O’Hara Ah! I know only too well how black my heart is how at home I am with snails and dingleberries and other dark things. Be sure that no god turns me inside out like a supple glove or nibbles my identity. I am hopelessly happily conceited in all inventions and divertissements. I hardly even notice hurricanes any more for the glamor of suspension bridges alleys and pianolas — I claim them all for my insufferable genius my demon my dish and when I’m cornered at the final minutes by cries “you’ve murdered angels for toys” I’ll go down grinning into clever flames. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Allen Herbert Posted May 2, 2017 Share Posted May 2, 2017 (edited) I like the Poem, Julie. Well constructed with the proud pride of vanity. But I keep thinking of a very large frog....maybe a toad in a very small pond. With a crown on its head. Edited May 2, 2017 by Allen Herbert Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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