Posts Tagged ‘ light ’

Making Tea and Life at the 23.5 degree tilt of the Earth | FOP

digital camera obscura of summer solstice tea ceremony, 6:07am EDT, June 21, 002018, all images this post FOP 002018

On June 21, 002018 smudge studio held a tea ceremony at Head of the Meadow beach in Truro, Massachusetts. The ceremony coincided with the moment of summer solstice at 6:07 a.m. EDT, 5:07 a.m. “sun time.” Ceremonial tea (matcha) was whisked.

With significantly less use of electric lights and devices, other rhythms surfaced for us. We took special notice of how plants, light, temperature, other creatures are deeply attuned to the day/night cycle. The effects and interconnections of their different attunements are deep, evolutionary, material realities. Yet, we realized we’ve been missing most of this. By staying up long after dark, and waking up long after daylight arrives, the lived experience of the transition into and out of night, and all that it commands, is truncated. It’s typical for most humans to wake into and go to sleep out of a world/reality filled to the brim with human-centered concerns, awarenesses, and thoughts. The sense that human existence is the biggest force/reality at play easily takes center stage.

And yet, by exposing our bodies and minds to the transition of day into night, and night into day, spin after spin, we quickly realized that this daily transformation is actually much vaster and enduring than us. Over billions of years, lifeforms that led to we humans literally evolved out of and in response to the continuously moving, angled “line” of day/night. Its rhythms and effects are deeply embedded within us and play out as “us.” Our bodies and brains, eyes, cells, blood, gut bacteria, are ruled by circadian rhythms that we must live by, or else live out the consequences of futile attempts to deny them (see Foster and Krietzman’s 2005, Rhythms of Life: The Biological Clocks that Control the Daily Lives of Every Living Thing for details on the human illnesses that result from attempts to override a human body’s biological “clock”).  – FOP

Source: Making Tea and Life at the 23.5 degree tilt of the Earth | FOP

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Donna Fleischer ∞ two poems in Solitary Plover issue 27 Winter 2018

down
pour

my furious heart

*

the crow
first to rise, its
silent aubade

o dark,
dark nature

of light

 

Donna Fleischer

Solitary Plover Issue 27 Winter 2018

Time Intensive | FOP

bask in the light

and open medium

of time.

-from The Mastheads, 10.13.002107

Source: Time Intensive | FOP

Italy Makes Light Right

Italy is to contemporary lighting design as Detroit is to cars. While no country can claim total dominance of the field, Italy has long been at the forefront of lighting innovation.

Source: Italy Makes Light Right

高橋新吉 Takahashi Shinkichi (1901-1987)

Shell

Nothing, nothing at all
is born,
dies, the shell says again
and again
from the depth of hollowness.
Its body
swept off by tide—so what?
It sleeps
in sand, drying in sunlight,
bathing
in moonlight. Nothing to do
with sea
or anything else. Over
and over
it vanishes with the wave.

 

Afternoon

My hair’s falling fast—
this afternoon
I’m off to Asia Minor.

 

Sweet Potato

Of all things living
I’d be a sweet potato,
fresh dug up.

 

Moon

Moon shines while billions
of corpses rot
beneath earth’s crust.
I who rise from them,
soon to join them—all.
Where does moon float?
On the waves of my brain.

 

Explosion

I’m an unthinking dog,
a good-for-nothing cat,
a fog over gutter,
a blossom-swiping rain.

I close my eyes, breathe—
radioactive air! A billion years
and I’ll be shrunk to half,
pollution strikes my marrow.

So what—I’ll whoop at what
remains. Yet scant blood left,
reduced to emptiness by nuclear
fission, I’m running very fast.

 

Absence

Just say, “He’s out”—
back in
five billion years!

Gods

Gods are everywhere:
war between Koshi and Izumo
tribes still rages.

The all of All, the One
ends distinctions.

The three thousand worlds
are in that plum blossom.
The smell is God.

 

 

Cloud

I’m cheerful, whatever happens,
a puff in sky—
what splendor exists, I’m there.

 

Source: 高橋新吉 Takahashi Shinkichi (1901-1987)

A Longhouse Birdhouse: ALEJANDRA PIZARNIK ~

Alejandra Pizarnik

(1936-1972)

MORTAL TIES

     A single thought cast out words like lifelines at sea. Making love

inside our embrace implied a black light: a darkness that started

gleaming. A rediscovered light, twice extinguished already, yet more

vibrant than a thousand suns. The color of a mausoleum for infants,

the deadened hues of repressed desire, opened up in the savage

room. The rhythm of our bodies disguised the flight of the ravens.

The rhythm of our bodies carved out a space of light inside that light.

A Longhouse Birdhouse: ALEJANDRA PIZARNIK ~.

Mahmoud Darwish, from A River Dies of Thirst

I am jealous of my senses. The air is the colour of gardenias, your smell on my shoulders like laughter and triumphal arches. I am jealous of the peaceful daggers lying sheathed before you on the table, waiting for a sign from you to kill me. I am jealous of the vase, which has no need of its yellow roses because you give it the full benefit of your deep red lips, hungry for my hunger. I am jealous of the painting staring greedily at you: look longer at me, so I too have my fill of lakes and cherry orchards. I am envious of the foliage on the rug, straining upwards to see an anklet descending on it from above, and of the anklet when it rests on your knee, making the marble in the room as hot as my fantasies. I am envious of the bookshop that is out of sorts because it doesn’t carry an erotic book in praise of two small ivory hills, bared before it to a frenzy of guitars, then hidden by a wave of sighing silk. I am envious of my fingers catching the dialogue of darkness and light as it overflows from your hands, the movement of a spoon in your teacup, the salts stirred up in a body that yearns for a storm to spark the fire of song: gather me up, all of you, and hold me close so I can envy my memories of you in the future. I envy my tongue, which calls your name with as much care as someone carrying four crystal glasses in one hand. I taste the letters of your name one by one, like lyrical fruits. I do not add water to them, so as to preserve the taste of peaches and the thirst of my senses. I envy my imagination embracing you, silencing you, kissing you, caressing you, holding you tight and letting you go, bringing you near and pushing you away, lifting you up and putting you down, making you submit and submitting to you, and doing all the things I never do.

<>

Mahmoud Darwish, A River Dies of Thirst, Saqi Books, 2009.

Translated from the Arabic by Catherine Cobham.

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