[I blame Neo and warn all that viewing the following video will require “years of therapy” to expunge from your soul.]
![That Was the Whopper Weekend That Was [Illustrated]](https://americandigest.org/wp/wp-content/uploads/2021/05/welcometohell-150x150.jpg "That Was the Whopper Weekend That Was [Illustrated]")
![Allen Ginsberg: The Interview, <strong> ➡ 1972 ⬅ </strong> [Republished by unpopular demand]](https://americandigest.org/wp/wp-content/uploads/2022/05/ginsbergnirvana-150x150.jpg "Allen Ginsberg: The Interview, <strong> ➡ 1972 ⬅ </strong> [Republished by unpopular demand]")
Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.
Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice.
With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress.
In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountains start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
– – WH Auden
Sometimes it seems I had a dream, and, as a dreamer woke immersed in mineral baths closed within a cool, dark chamber fed by streams flowing in from the center of nowhere.
Hanging from the granite ceiling a kerosene lantern cast shards of light through the pale steam rising from the surface of the pools.
Ripples radiated outwards from the edges of my body and tapping faintly on the rock revealed the edges of the chamber.
Outside I could hear the wind slide across the spine of the mountains, speaking in a language that I remembered but could no longer understand.
Steam filled my nostrils and heat penetrated my bones until, after a time, I had no body, only a sense of silence and distance and calm.
As if I had just woken from all water into dream.
— Tassajara Zen Mountain Center, 1973
FSA/8d22000/8d224008d22491a.tif
The steel mill sky is alive.
The fire breaks white and zigzag
shot on a gun-metal gloaming.
Man is a long time coming.
Man will yet win.
Brother may yet line up with brother:
This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.
There are men who can’t be bought.
The fireborn are at home in fire.
The stars make no noise,
You can’t hinder the wind from blowing.
Time is a great teacher.
Who can live without hope?
In the darkness with a great bundle of grief
the people march.
In the night, and overhead a shovel of stars for keeps, the people
march:
“Where to? what next?”
— Carl Sandberg
Down valley a smoke haze
Three days heat, after five days rain
Pitch glows on the fir-cones
Across rocks and meadows
Swarms of new flies.
I cannot remember things I once read
A few friends, but they are in cities.
Drinking cold snow-water from a tin cup
Looking down for miles
Through high still air.
BY GARY SNYDER
Starry-eyed an’ laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended
As we listened one last time an’ we watched with one last look
Spellbound an’ swallowed ’til the tolling ended
Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an’ worse
An’ for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Van der Leun: The Normblog Bio of Your Host
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
– – W. B. Yeats, 1865 – 1939
Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated
Challengers of oblivion
Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,
The square-limbed Roman letters
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well
Builds his monument mockingly;
For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun
Die blind and blacken to the heart:
Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained
thoughts found
The honey of peace in old poems.
— Robinson Jeffers
Sometimes it seems I had a dream, and, as a dreamer woke immersed in mineral baths closed within a cool, dark chamber fed by streams flowing in from the center of nowhere.
Hanging from the granite ceiling a kerosene lantern cast shards of light through the pale steam rising from the surface of the pools.
Ripples radiated outwards from the edges of my body and tapping faintly on the rock revealed the edges of the chamber.
Outside I could hear the wind slide across the spine of the mountains, speaking in a language that I remembered but could no longer understand.
Steam filled my nostrils and heat penetrated my bones until, after a time, I had no body, only a sense of silence and distance and calm.
As if I had just woken from all water into dream.
— Tassajara Zen Mountain Center, 1973
Comments on this entry are closed.
Huh. She must have some extremely calloused hands.
I dunno… I find her strangely…attractive?
WTF??? What the serious F?????????????? Does she have parents? A husband, children, concerned neighbors, acquaintances? Anyone?
She must have a trainer. Otherwise how could she make those jumps.
I made it to the one minute mark. Even that took all the courage I could muster.
I can’t say I’m shocked.
Not much shocks me these days.
I will say that in all equestrian events that I’ve ever seen, the horse has a rider….and I’ll just leave it there.
Can they make glue out of her when it’s time to put her out to pasture?
They shoot horses, don’t they?
more to this then just romping about the yard…
Trans-speciesism is the logical next step after transgenderism. She may already be training for the next Shamlympics.
Little known fact:
“Horse play” is a real (and hideously weird) S/M type sex fetish: reins, bridle, and, of course, whips.
I’ve seen it, and it ain’t pretty.
(file under stuff I’d just as soon have expunged from the resume)
JWM
lost in the ozone again…
JWM
I’m wondering, is there more retardation now, or has there always been this amount but the innertoobz has made it available for all to see?
Glad I checked the comments first and hence, didn’t watch it.
Does she have parents? The guy holding the camera. Always some parent wanting to get attention by proxy. Are the Norwegians so far gone as to pay them all that attention?
Sometimes you just gotta go “WTF?!”
Big deal. Let’s see her fall off a bar stool while holding a beer.
[All-purpose comment.]
My Little Phony
If she were Japanese, I’d say ”not nuked enough”.
A fitting event for the Lame-O-limpics.
“Sir, Joe Biden speaking is like a woman galloping like a horse. It is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all.”
With apologies to Samuel Johnson
If wishes were horses, we’d all be cantering…
A horse? No.
A jackass? YES.
Waaay back in the early 1970s, after the famous British historian James Morris transitioned to become the female Jan Morris, there appeared in the New York Times Sunday Magazine a mocking article about a fictional young girl who so loved horses, that she arranged for the first inter-species re-assignment surgery. She woke up after the surgery to find that she was the most beautiful horse that she had ever imagined herself to be.
Does anyone remember that article? I’ve been looking for it to no avail. The author might have have been Joyce Carol Oates. Gerard, do you have any contacts in the literary world who could ask her?