Thursday, 31 July 2014

Paradise Now - The Living Theatre in Amerika

Paradise Now
by The Living Theatre in Amerika



Tadeusz Kantor


Tadeusz Kantor ' Panoramic Sea Happening'

 From "dead class"



Albert Einstein On God


1. Albert Einstein: God is a Product of Human Weakness 
The word god is for me nothing more than the expression and product of human weaknesses, the Bible a collection of honourable, but still primitive legends which are nevertheless pretty childish. No interpretation no matter how subtle can (for me) change this.


2. Albert Einstein & Spinoza's God: Harmony in the Universe
I believe in Spinoza's God who reveals himself in the orderly harmony of what exists, not in a God who concerns himself with the fates and actions of human beings.

3. Albert Einstein: It is a Lie that I Believe in a Personal God
It was, of course, a lie what you read about my religious convictions, a lie which is being systematically repeated. I do not believe in a personal God and I have never denied this but have expressed it clearly. If something is in me which can be called religious then it is the unbounded admiration for the structure of the world so far as our science can reveal it.
      Albert Einstein, letter to an atheist (1954)

4. Albert Einstein: Human Fantasy Created Gods
During the youthful period of mankind's spiritual evolution, human fantasy created gods in man's own image who, by the operations of their will were supposed to determine, or at any rate influence, the phenomenal world.

- Albert Einstein, quoted in: 2000 Years of Disbelief,

5. Albert Einstein: Idea of a Personal God is Childlike
I have repeatedly said that in my opinion the idea of a personal God is a childlike one. You may call me an agnostic, but I do not share the crusading spirit of the professional atheist whose fervor is mostly due to a painful act of liberation from the fetters of religious indoctrination received in youth. I prefer an attitude of humility corresponding to the weakness of our intellectual understanding of nature and of our own being.

- Albert Einstein to Guy H. Raner Jr., Sept. 28, 1949,

6. Albert Einstein: Idea of a Personal God Cannot be Taken Seriously
It seems to me that the idea of a personal God is an anthropological concept which I cannot take seriously. I also cannot imagine some will or goal outside the human sphere.... Science has been charged with undermining morality, but the charge is unjust. A man's ethical behavior should be based effectually on sympathy, education, and social ties and needs; no religious basis is necessary. Man would indeed be in a poor way if he had to be restrained by fear of punishment and hope of reward after death.

- Albert Einstein, "Religion and Science," New York Times Magazine, November 9, 1930

7. Albert Einstein: Desire for Guidance & Love Creates Belief in Gods
The desire for guidance, love, and support prompts men to form the social or moral conception of God. This is the God of Providence, who protects, disposes, rewards, and punishes; the God who, according to the limits of the believer's outlook, loves and cherishes the life of the tribe or of the human race, or even or life itself; the comforter in sorrow and unsatisfied longing; he who preserves the souls of the dead. This is the social or moral conception of God.

- Albert Einstein, New York Times Magazine, November 9, 1930

8. Albert Einstein: Morality Concerns Humanity, Not Gods
I cannot conceive of a personal God who would directly influence the actions of individuals, or would directly sit in judgment on creatures of his own creation. I cannot do this in spite of the fact that mechanistic causality has, to a certain extent, been placed in doubt by modern science. My religiosity consists in a humble admiration of the infinitely superior spirit that reveals itself in the little that we, with our weak and transitory understanding, can comprehend of reality. Morality is of the highest importance -- but for us, not for God.

- Albert Einstein, from Albert Einstein: The Human Side.
*****************************************************
 letter to Albert Einstein; from the calvary tabernacle association oklahoma's founder; (From Church)
"Professor Einstein, I believe that every Christian in America will answer you, 'We will not give up our belief in our God and his son Jesus Christ, but we invite you, if you do not believe in the God of the people of this nation, to go back where you came from.' I have done everything in my power to be a blessing to Israel, and then you come along and with one statement from your blasphemous tongue, do more to hurt the cause of your people than all the efforts of the Christians who love Israel can do to stamp out anti-Semitism in our land. Professor Einstein, every Christian in America will immediately reply to you, 'Take your crazy, fallacious theory of evolution and go back to Germany where you came from, or stop trying to break down the faith of a people who gave you a welcome when you were forced to flee your native land.'
*******************************

After Albert Einstein said;  'Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the universe.' :)))
I love Albert Einstein  

The Call to Freedom


  The Call to Freedom (1819)
     by Percy Bysshe Shelley,


From the workhouse and the prison

Where pale as corpses newly risen,

Women, children, young and old

Groan for pain, and weep for cold -

From the haunts of daily life

Where is waged the daily strife

With common wants and common cares

Which sows the human heart with tares -

Lastly from the palaces

Where the murmur of distress

Echoes, like the distant sound

Of a wind alive around

Those prison halls of wealth and fashion

Where some few feel such compassion

For those who groan, and toil, and wail

As must make their brethren pale -

Ye who suffer woes untold,

Or to feel, or to be behold

Your lost country bought and sold

With a price of blood and gold -

Let a vast assembly be,

And with great solemnity

Declare with measured words that ye

Are, as God has made ye, free -

And these words shall then become

Like Oppression's thunder doom

Ringing through each heart and brain,

Heard again - again - again

Rise like Lions after slumber

In unvanquishable number -

Shake your chains to earth like dew

Which in sleep had fallen on you -

Ye are many - they are few.

The Ballad Of The Skeletons & HOWL by Allen Ginsberg

The Ballad Of The Skeletons  
(Photo; Bob Dylan & Allen Ginsberg - The Grave of Jack Kerouac)



A Desolation

* * *
Now mind is clear
as a cloudless sky.
Time then to make a
home in wilderness.

What have I done but
wander with my eyes
in the trees? So I
will build: wife,
family, and seek
for neighbors.

Or I
perish of lonesomeness
or want of food or
lightning or the bear
(must tame the hart
and wear the bear).

And maybe make an image
of my wandering, a little
image—shrine by the
roadside to signify
to traveler that I live
here in the wilderness
awake and at home.

Howl

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!
The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand
and asshole holy!
Everything is holy! everybody's holy! everywhere is
holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman's an
angel!
The bum's as holy as the seraphim! the madman is
holy as you my soul are holy!
The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is
holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!
Holy Peter holy Allen holy Solomon holy Lucien holy
Kerouac holy Huncke holy Burroughs holy Cas-
sady holy the unknown buggered and suffering
beggars holy the hideous human angels!
Holy my mother in the insane asylum! Holy the cocks
of the grandfathers of Kansas!
Holy the groaning saxophone! Holy the bop
apocalypse! Holy the jazzbands marijuana
hipsters peace & junk & drums!
Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements! Holy
the cafeterias filled with the millions! Holy the
mysterious rivers of tears under the streets!
Holy the lone juggernaut! Holy the vast lamb of the
middle class! Holy the crazy shepherds of rebell-
ion! Who digs Los Angeles IS Los Angeles!
Holy New York Holy San Francisco Holy Peoria &
Seattle Holy Paris Holy Tangiers Holy Moscow
Holy Istanbul!
Holy time in eternity holy eternity in time holy the
clocks in space holy the fourth dimension holy
the fifth International holy the Angel in Moloch!
Holy the sea holy the desert holy the railroad holy the
locomotive holy the visions holy the hallucina-
tions holy the miracles holy the eyeball holy the
abyss!
Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours!
bodies! suffering! magnanimity!
Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent
kindness of the soul!"
  by  Allen Ginsberg
(From Howl and Other Poems)

Wednesday, 30 July 2014

blue flowers for my father...

30.07.14

This One's For The Fascists Across The World.

This one's for the entire fascists across the world.
K. S
 All You Fascists Bound To Lose, by American folk singer Woody Guthrie .


I ain't a gonna kill nobody
I took a bath this morning in six war speeches, and a sprinkle of peace. Looks like ever body is declaring war against the forces of force. That's what you get for building up a big war machine. It scares your neighbors into jumping on you, and then of course they them selves have to use force, so you are against their force, and they're aginst yours. Look like the ring has been drawed and the marbles are all in. The millionaires has throwed their silk hats and our last set of drawers in the ring. The fuse is lit and the cannon is set, and somebody is in for a frailin. I would like to see every single soldier on every single side, just take off your helmet, unbuckle your kit, lay down your rifle, and set down at the side of some shady lane, and say, nope, I aint a gonna kill nobody. Plenty of rich folks wants to fight. Give them the guns.
        Woody Guthrie

Sunday, 27 July 2014

Animals and humans

Nice to see such a beautiful picture of animals and humans living together harmoniously as one on a planet. That should be the way to love one another.We are same, animals got soul, too :)





Saturday, 26 July 2014

Great! 'let's hit Putin where it hurts"!;D

Sanctions Against Russia...it's cool!!!




Contemporary ART

  Master of modern indian painting; M. F Husain


Jim Shaw is a contemporary American artist.





Surrealist Rene Magritte


Friday, 25 July 2014

Liverpool's Giant Spectacular -2014

  Liverpool's Giant Spectacular - 2014 
(23 -27 july)
 The Sea Odyssey started two days ago  The well known Giants returned on the streets of Liverpool.
The Giants-  marionettes authour is Paris born Artist & writer Jean-Luc Courcoult
  the giants were last in Liverpool in April 2012, About 800,000 spectators visited Liverpool for Sea Odyssey in 2012.... Memories of August 1914 will tell the story of the Liverpool Pals, the 5,000 local men who answered Lord Kitchener's call to arms at the beginning of World War one.
About 800,000 spectators visited Liverpool for Sea Odyssey in 2012 and show was said to have generated £32m for the local economy... Liverpool's residents said; People like to talk about the past, history and keep them alive..

The Sea Odyssey giants which captured the imagination of hundreds of thousands of Merseysiders is as part of this year's World War I commemorations. The five-day spectacle, called Memories of August 1914, It's 100th anniversary. too.


The Giants organisers  said that The Sea Odyssey story - show continues with the Little Girl Giant and her pet dog Xolo and the Grandmother on Albert Dock and down the River Mersey to close the 2014 Giant Spectacular at around 12:30pm on Sunday.

In the photo; Little Girl Giant goes to bed in Kings Dock as sunsets against Anglican cathedral. Not long now until the Giants return to the Liverpool streets..






 Sleeping Giant Girl in Chinatown, Liverpool - 2014
by k. Shiuka


Thursday, 24 July 2014

Democracy of Affection


  Frank O’Hara's  Democracy of Affection'

I am mainly preoccupied with the world as I experience it, and at times when I would rather be dead the thought that I could never write another poem has so far stopped me. … What is happening to me, allowing for lies and exaggerations which I try to avoid, goes into my poems. I don’t think my experiences are clarified or made beautiful for myself or anyone else; they are just there in whatever form I can find them.
                      Statement for “The New American Poetry,” 1959
(photo; Back Table; Frank O’Hara left, Artist Larry Rivers center and painter Grace Hartigan right )
Frank O’Hara’s poems are many things to many people, but most of all they are astonishingly fresh and intimate today, nearly half a century after the poet’s untimely death at the age of forty.

New York City was where O’Hara — born in Baltimore in 1926 and killed in a car accident on Fire Island in 1966 — lived his entire adult life, and it served as his greatest muse. New York was the generative force for his other inspirations, from modern art, to friendships with artists, to urbane parties and conversations, to sybaritic pleasures, to living in relative freedom as a gay man at a repressive time.

He led a lively love life, and published a poem entitled Homosexuality in 1954 — not long after the American Psychiatric Association listed homosexuality as a sociopathic personality disturbance, and President Dwight Eisenhower signed an executive order banning homosexuals from working for the federal government or any of its private contractors. Yet O’Hara seemed to wear his sexuality with a radical lightness, writing poems that reveled in love and sex with the same joie de vivre that he used to write about movie stars, friends, art and artists, booze and cigarettes.


Under a lamp made by artist Larry Rivers are, standing from left to right, Patsy Southgate, Bill Berkson and John Ashbery; sitting are O’Hara, left, and Kenneth Koch.
For his exuberance, and exuberant love of New York City, and love of men, he is often compared to Walt Whitman, born more than a century earlier, and blessed with a more timely death at the age of 72 (although Whitman was nowhere near as “out” as O’Hara, thus scholars disagree on the exact nature of his sexuality).

O’Hara’s several residences downtown included an apartment in the tenement at 441 East Ninth Street, just west of Tompkins Square Park. He lived there with his on-and-off lover, Joe LeSueur, who later published the memoir Digressions on Some Poems by Frank O’Hara and died in Easthampton in 2001. Next Tuesday, June 10, GVSHP joins with Two Boots and the Poetry Project to host a celebration of O’Hara at which we will unveil a commemorative plaque on the building. Poets Tony Towle, who knew O’Hara, and Edmund Berrigan will read from his poetry. All are invited — please join us.

In this way, O’Hara’s joyful, romantic spirit is brought more fully into the East Village, as other plaques in the neighborhood do for anarchist Emma Goldman on East Thirteenth Street, Argentine composer Astor Piazzolla on East Ninth Street, and radical saloonkeeper Justus Schwab on East First Street — the latter being the first plaque dedicated in the two-year-old program co-sponsored by GVSHP and Two Boots.


“Back Table at the Five Spot,” by Burt Glinn, shows in the back corner O’Hara left, Larry Rivers center and painter Grace Hartigan right.
As he states above, O’Hara indeed puts “what is happening to me” in his poems. From his window on East Ninth Street he could see the Church of St. Brigid (which he called St. Bridget’s) across Tompkins Square Park on Avenue B at East Eighth Street, and mentioned it in several poems. Here’s part of “Early on Sunday,” 1961:

…how sad the lower East Side is on Sunday morning in May
eating yellow eggs
eating St. Bridget’s benediction
washing the world down with rye and Coca-Cola and the news
Joe stumbles home
pots and pans crash to the floor
everyone’s happy again

“Poem” from 1957 begins:

I live above a dyke bar and I’m happy.
The police car is always near the door
in case they cry
or the key doesn’t work in the lock. …

In “Rhapsody,” 1959, in-between dropping names from Elizabeth Taylor to Jane (usually Jane Freilicher, the Village painter) and landmarks from the Empire State Building to the Menemsha Bar, there’s this bit of the local:

I am getting into a cab at 9th Street and 1st Avenue
and the Negro driver tells me about a $120 apartment
“where you can’t walk across the floor after 10 at night
not even to pee, cause it keeps them awake downstairs”
no, I don’t like that “well, I didn’t take it”
perfect in the hot humid morning on my way to work
a little supper-club conversation for the mill of the gods

Here at GVSHP, working on the plaque project — obtaining permission from the building’s owner (now Icon Realty, in a recent transfer), getting the plaque fabricated, connecting with some of O’Hara’s supporters then and now — has given us the wonderful opportunity to delve more deeply into the man’s life and work. Now we hear and feel Frank in the local streets, in the moonrise and hangover, in “the purple roar of the torn-down Third Avenue El.” We hope you will take the opportunity and feel his echo, too.

Frank O’Hara's Poem


For Her
When I am feeling depressed and anxious sullen
all you have to do is take off your clothes
and all is wiped away revealing life’s tenderness
that we are flesh and breathe and are near us
as you are really as you are I become as I
really am alive and knowing vaguely what is
and what is important to me above the intrusions
of incidental and accidental relationships
which have nothing to do with my life
when I am in your presence I feel life is strong
and will defeat all its enemies and all of mine
and all of yours and yours in you and mine in me
sick logic and feeble reasoning are cured
by the perfect symmetry of your arms and legs
spread out making an eternal circle together
creating a golden pillar beside the Atlantic
the faint line of hair dividing your torso
gives my mind rest and emotions their release
into the infinite air where since once we are
together we always will be in this life come what may.

  by Frank O’Hara

The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter

The Heart Is A Lonely Hunter


The Ballad of the Sad Café and Other Stories, by Carson McCullers


 * * *
First of all, love is a joint experience between two persons — but the fact that it is a joint experience does not mean that it is a similar experience to the two people involved. There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries. Often the beloved is only a stimulus for all the stored-up love which had lain quiet within the lover for a long time hitherto. And somehow every lover knows this. He feels in his soul that his love is a solitary thing. He comes to know a new, strange loneliness and it is this knowledge which makes him suffer. So there is only one thing for the lover to do. He must house his love within himself as best he can; he must create for himself a whole new inward world — a world intense and strange, complete in himself. Let it be added here that this lover about whom we speak need not necessarily be a young man saving for a wedding ring — this lover can be man, woman, child, or indeed any human creature on this earth.

Now, the beloved can also be of any description. The most outlandish people can be the stimulus for love. A man may be a doddering great-grandfather and still love only a strange girl he saw in the streets of Cheehaw one afternoon two decades past. The preacher may love a fallen woman. The beloved may be treacherous, greasy-headed, and given to evil habits. Yes, and the lover may see this as clearly as anyone else — but that does not affect the evolution of his love one whit. A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lilies of the swamp. A good man may be the stimulus for a love both violent and debased, or a jabbering madman may bring about in the soul of someone a tender and simple idyll. Therefore, the value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.

It is for this reason that most of us would rather love than be loved. Almost everyone wants to be the lover. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved. The lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain.

'First of all, love is a joint experience between two persons — but the fact that it is a joint experience does not mean that it is a similar experience to the two people involved. There are the lover and the beloved, but these two come from different countries. Often the beloved is only a stimulus for all the stored-up love which had lain quiet within the lover for a long time hitherto. And somehow every lover knows this. He feels in his soul that his love is a solitary thing. He comes to know a new, strange loneliness and it is this knowledge which makes him suffer. So there is only one thing for the lover to do. He must house his love within himself as best he can; he must create for himself a whole new inward world — a world intense and strange, complete in himself. Let it be added here that this lover about whom we speak need not necessarily be a young man saving for a wedding ring — this lover can be man, woman, child, or indeed any human creature on this earth.
Now, the beloved can also be of any description. The most outlandish people can be the stimulus for love. A man may be a doddering great-grandfather and still love only a strange girl he saw in the streets of Cheehaw one afternoon two decades past. The preacher may love a fallen woman. The beloved may be treacherous, greasy-headed, and given to evil habits. Yes, and the lover may see this as clearly as anyone else — but that does not affect the evolution of his love one whit. A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lilies of the swamp. A good man may be the stimulus for a love both violent and debased, or a jabbering madman may bring about in the soul of someone a tender and simple idyll. Therefore, the value and quality of any love is determined solely by the lover himself.

It is for this reason that most of us would rather love than be loved. Almost everyone wants to be the lover. And the curt truth is that, in a deep secret way, the state of being beloved is intolerable to many. The beloved fears and hates the lover, and with the best of reasons. For the lover is forever trying to strip bare his beloved. The lover craves any possible relation with the beloved, even if this experience can cause him only pain.

Carson McCullers
From; The Ballad of the Sad Café and Other Stories
(  McCullers (1917 – 1967) was an American writer/poet))

Carson McCullers, Poem by Charles Bukowski.


 'Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.'


Wednesday, 23 July 2014

Charlotte Perkins Gilman


Charlotte Perkins Gilman 
 Charlotte Perkins Gilman  (1860–1935) was American feminist, sociologist, novelist, writer and social reformer. 
 While she is best known for her fiction, Gilman was also a successful lecturer and intellectual. One of her greatest works of nonfiction, Women and Economics, was published in 1898. A feminist, she called for women to gain economic independence,  

Along with writing books, Charlotte Perkins Gilman established The Forerunner, a magazine that allowed her to express her ideas on women's issues and on social reform. It was published from 1909 to 1916 and included essays, opinion pieces, fiction, poetry and excerpts from novels.
 Charlotte Perkins Gilman committed suicide on August 17, 1935.


* Eternity is not something that begins after you're dead. It is going on all the time. We are in it now.
* To swallow and follow, whether old doctrine or new propaganda, is a weakness still dominating the human mind.
* There is no female mind. The brain is not an organ of sex. As well speak of a female liver.

     Charlotte Perkins Gilman
(I love her story ' The Yellow Wall-paper".. I thought i wrote it and i thought this story was about me....  K. Shiuka)

Liberte, by Paul Eluard


Liberte
by  Paul Eluard

On my school notebooks
On my desk and on the trees
On the sands of snow
I write your name

On the pages I have read
On all the white pages
Stone, blood, paper or ash
I write your name

On the images of gold
On the weapons of the warriors
On the crown of the king
I write your name

On the jungle and the desert
On the nest and on the brier
On the echo of my childhood
I write your name

On all my scarves of blue
On the moist sunlit swamps
On the living lake of moonlight
I write your name

On the fields, on the horizon
On the birds’ wings
And on the mill of shadows
I write your name

On each whiff of daybreak
On the sea, on the boats
On the demented mountaintop
I write your name

On the froth of the cloud
On the sweat of the storm
On the dense rain and the flat
I write your name

On the flickering figures
On the bells of colors
On the natural truth
I write your name

On the high paths
On the deployed routes
On the crowd-thronged square
I write your name

On the lamp which is lit
On the lamp which isn’t
On my reunited thoughts
I write your name

On a fruit cut in two
Of my mirror and my chamber
On my bed, an empty shell
I write your name

On my dog, greathearted and greedy
On his pricked-up ears
On his blundering paws
I write your name

On the latch of my door
On those familiar objects
On the torrents of a good fire
I write your name

On the harmony of the flesh
On the faces of my friends
On each outstretched hand
I write your name

On the window of surprises
On a pair of expectant lips
In a state far deeper than silence
I write your name

On my crumbled hiding-places
On my sunken lighthouses
On my walls and my ennui
I write your name

On abstraction without desire
On naked solitude
On the marches of death
I write your name

And for the want of a word
I renew my life
For I was born to know you
To name you - Liberty.


Ecstasy
 I am in front of this feminine land
Like a child in front of the fire
Smiling vaguely with tears in my eyes
In front of this land where all moves in me
Where mirrors mist where mirrors clear
Reflecting two nude bodies season on season

I’ve so many reasons to lose myself
On this road-less earth under horizon-less skies
Good reasons I ignored yesterday
And I’ll never ever forget
Good keys of gazes keys their own daughters
in front of this land where nature is mine

In front of the fire the first fire
Good mistress reason
Identified star
On earth under sky in and out of my heart
Second bud first green leaf
That the sea covers with sails
And the sun finally coming to us

I am in front of this feminine land
Like a branch in the fire.

  ..............

Exploring the Surreal

 Unlock Art  is Tate's new short film series.
(Photo; Andre Breton )

'London's Tate Gallery has been delivering online art lessons;  Unlock Art Series. Its latest film taps actor Peter Capaldi, who recently became the twelfth Dr. Who, to deliver a fun primer on Surrealist art. The actor, as well as the film's far out visuals, entertain as they show how how artists like Breton, Miro and Dali created their work based on the studies of Freud, who later went on to disapprove of their work'..


Tuesday, 22 July 2014

Twiggy by khatia Shiuka

Twiggy
by khatia Shiuka



THE WOMAN'S ROSE


British writer Olive Schreiner was born in 1855 (- !920) by the age 17 she was an atheist. a socialist, a pacifist, and a feminist.   
The Woman's Rose is  my favorite short story by Schreiner, which is about women's friendship.
K. S
 THE WOMAN'S ROSE
by Olive Schreiner's

I have an old, brown carved box; the lid is broken and tied with a string. In it I keep little squares of paper, with hair inside, and a little picture which hung over my brother's bed when we were children, and other things as small. I have in it a rose. Other women also have such boxes where they keep such trifles, but no one has my rose.
When my eye is dim, and my heart grows faint, and my faith in woman flickers, and her present is an agony to me, and her future a despair, the scent of that dead rose, withered for twelve years, comes back to me. I know there will be spring; as surely as the birds know it when they see above the snow two tiny, quivering green leaves. Spring cannot fail us.
There were other flowers in the box once; a bunch of white acacia flowers, gathered by the strong hand of a man, as we passed down a village street on a sultry afternoon, when it had rained, and the drops fell on us from the leaves of the acacia trees. The flowers were damp; they made mildew marks on the paper I folded them in. After many years I threw them away. There is nothing of them left in the box now, but a faint, strong smell of dried acacia, that recalls that sultry summer afternoon; but the rose is in the box still.

It is many years ago now; I was a girl of fifteen, and I went to visit in a small up-country town. It was young in those days, and two days' journey from the nearest village; the population consisted mainly of men. A few were married, and had their wives and children, but most were single. There was only one young girl there when I came. She was about seventeen, fair, and rather fully-fleshed; she had large dreamy blue eyes, and wavy light hair; full, rather heavy lips, until she smiled; then her face broke into dimples, and all her white teeth shone. The hotel-keeper may have had a daughter, and the farmer in the outskirts had two, but we never saw them. She reigned alone. All the men worshipped her. She was the only woman they had to think of. They talked of her on the stoep, at the market, at the hotel; they watched for her at street corners; they hated the man she bowed to or walked with down the street. They brought flowers to the front door; they offered her their horses; they begged her to marry them when they dared. Partly, there was something noble and heroic in this devotion of men to the best woman they knew; partly there was something natural in it, that these men, shut off from the world, should pour at the feet of one woman the worship that otherwise would have been given to twenty; and partly there was something mean in their envy of one another. If she had raised her little finger, I suppose, she might have married any one out of twenty of them.
Then I came. I do not think I was prettier; I do not think I was so pretty as she was. I was certainly not as handsome. But I was vital, and I was new, and she was old–they all forsook her and followed me. They worshipped me. It was to my door that the flowers came; it was I had twenty horses offered me when I could only ride one; it was for me they waited at street corners; it was what I said and did that they talked of. Partly I liked it. I had lived alone all my life; no one ever had told me I was beautiful and a woman. I believed them. I did not know it was simply a fashion, which one man had set and the rest followed unreasoningly. I liked them to ask me to marry them, and to say, No. I despised them. The mother heart had not swelled in me yet; I did not know all men were my children, as the large woman knows when her heart is grown. I was too small to be tender. I liked my power. I was like a child with a new whip, which it goes about cracking everywhere, not caring against what. I could not wind it up and put it away. Men were curious creatures, who liked me, I could never tell why. Only one thing took from my pleasure; I could not bear that they had deserted her for me. I liked her great dreamy blue eyes, I liked her slow walk and drawl; when I saw her sitting among men, she seemed to me much too good to be among them; I would have given all their compliments if she would once have smiled at me as she smiled at them, with all her face breaking into radiance, with her dimples and flashing teeth. But I knew it never could be; I felt sure she hated me; that she wished I was dead; that she wished I had never come to the village. She did not know, when we went out riding, and a man who had always ridden beside her came to ride beside me, that I sent him away; that once when a man thought to win my favour by ridiculing her slow drawl before me I turned on him so fiercely that he never dared come before me again. I knew she knew that at the hotel men had made a bet as to which was the prettier, she or I, and had asked each man who came in, and that the one who had staked on me won. I hated them for it, but I would not let her see that I cared about what she felt towards me.

She and I never spoke to each other.

If we met in the village street we bowed and passed on; when we shook hands we did so silently, and did not look at each other. But I thought she felt my presence in a room just as I felt hers.

At last the time for my going came. I was to leave the next day. Some one I knew gave a party in my honour, to which all the village was invited.

It was midwinter. There was nothing in the gardens but a few dahlias and chrysanthemums, and I suppose that for two hundred miles round there was not a rose to be bought for love or money. Only in the garden of a friend of mine, in a sunny corner between the oven and the brick wall, there was a rose tree growing which had on it one bud. It was white, and it had been promised to the fair haired girl to wear at the party.


The evening came; when I arrived and went to the waiting-room, to take off my mantle, I found the girl there already. She was dressed in pure white, with her great white arms and shoulders showing, and her bright hair glittering in the candle-light, and the white rose fastened at her breast. She looked like a queen. I said "Good-evening," and turned away quickly to the glass to arrange my old black scarf across my old black dress.

Then I felt a hand touch my hair.

"Stand still," she said.

I looked in the glass. She had taken the white rose from her breast, and was fastening it in my hair.

"How nice dark hair is; it sets off flowers so." She stepped back and looked at me. "It looks much better there!"
I turned round.

"You are so beautiful to me," I said.

"Y-e-s," she said, with her slow Colonial drawl; "I'm so glad."

We stood looking at each other.

Then they came in and swept us away to dance. All the evening we did not come near to each other. Only once, as she passed, she smiled at me.
The next morning I left the town.

I never saw her again.
Years afterwards I heard she had married and gone to America; it may or may not be so–but the rose–the rose is in the box still! When my faith in woman grows dim, and it seems that for want of love and magnanimity she can play no part in any future heaven; then the scent of that small withered thing comes back:–spring cannot fail us.

Nick Cave & The Dirty Three

It's me in Classroom :)

 It's me in Classroom :)

TEEN IDLE

Friday, 18 July 2014

Keep your gods inside you

What's going on? I'm speechless , now!;(( Without free speech life is a hell to me....
Keep your gods inside you - holy and leave free people - thinkers ALONE.
I hope someday Love Conquers Hate and Religious..
K. S


  What Happens When You Criticize Israel

Tuesday, 15 July 2014

Gordon Brown - Whose idea was that?


"Whose idea was that?."...:)))))
   
 And where is ordinary people's voice, almost nowhere!;(( It was just unsuccessful 'idea', bad idea and others are successful or most successful ideas for former government, but not from ordinary people.


Gordon Brown & 'Bigoted Woman''s full conversation.. 
It's so bitter -funny.;DDD

American 'Wandering Poet' Naomi Shihab Nye

Naomi Shihab Nye
 Burning the Old Year

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.
So much of any year is flammable,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.
Orange swirling flame of days,
so little is a stone.


Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.
I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
only the things I didn’t do
crackle after the blazing dies.

Friday, 11 July 2014

EINSTEIN & CHAPLIN


 ALBERT EINSTEIN; - What I admire most about your art, is its universality. You do not say a word, and yet … the world understands you.
CHARLIE CHAPLIN; - It’s true, but your fame is even greater the world admires you, when nobody understands you.

Tuesday, 8 July 2014

Pink Floyd

  Pink Floyd The Wall -   The Trial


Pink Floyd - The Division Bell (1994)

Sunday, 6 July 2014

Adrian Henri - British Poet and Artist


 Love is

Love is feeling cold in the back of vans

Love is a fanclub with only two fans

Love is walking holding paintstained hands

Love is.

Love is fish and chips on winter nights

Love is blankets full of strange delights

Love is when you don't put out the light

Love is

Love is the presents in Christmas shops

Love is when you're feeling Top of the Pops

Love is what happens when the music stops

Love is

Love is white panties lying all forlorn

Love is pink nightdresses still slightly warm

Love is when you have to leave at dawn

Love is

Love is you and love is me

Love is prison and love is free

Love's what's there when you are away from me

Love is...



We'll All Be Spacemen Before We Die
 Poetry rock - Liverpool Scene.



Friday, 4 July 2014

The Liverpool Biennial 2014

Today was The Liverpool Biennial 2014's opening day in the Everyman Theatre,The Liverpool Biennial is  the largest international contemporary art festival in the United Kingdom.  Biennial hosts an extensive range of artworks, projects, and a programme of events.


Thursday, 3 July 2014

Gerard Malanga

 Gerard Malanga  is a  an American poet, photographer, filmmaker and archivist..:)


Days Of Rome 
Days of nothingness
Days of clear skies the temperature descending
Days of no telephone calls or all the wrong ones
Days of complete boredom and nothing
is happening
Days of 1967 coming to a close in the frigid condition of chest
cold and cough
drops
Days of afternoons in the life of a young girl
not being on time
Days of daydreams exploding
Days of utter frustration
Days of my film being cursed and myself
with the curse never lifting
Days of closed windows to keep the cold
out the livingroom warm
Days of avoiding lunch for a phone-call
with change of plans for the day
Days of posting letters
Days of no mail today
Days of fatigue and amphetamine highs
Days of Charles Edward Ives
Days of the 4:00 pm doldrums
Days of wonder drugs to challenge the common cold
Days of utter frustration
Days of forgetting..


Gerard Malanga  and The Velvet Underground

Kiss.........Kiss (1963) is an experimental film directed by Andy Warhol.The film features;
Naomi Levine, Gerard Malanga, Rufus Collins, and Ed Sanders........