Because I like fonts. Okay?
Next post: Demolition Man: Dinner at Taco Bell, San Angeles 2032
Previous post: The Fear
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.
I was liking on cooper black before hardly anybody knew what it was. In the 80’s I had pre-printed sheets (24″x36″ & 30″x42″) of Crystalene vellum and double matte mylar professionally printed with the company titleblocks and borders and cooper black was the font used for the primary lettering. The same with done with all the company paper products, invoices, envelopes, etc. When I transitioned to CAD in the late 90’s so did the lettering style, to Graphite because cooper black was looking too bulky. 20+ years later I am still using Graphite. Maybe it’s time for another change….
I have discovered new realms of joy with the fountain pen with a flex nib and a modified Spencerian script. But sometimes it’s La Ronde or Palmer Business hand. Bliss. The gods of the copybook headings must be smiling on me.
Cooper Black is a comforting blowback to the 80s…nice for headlines but please bring back a nice Souvenir Medium for copy. Like a fine wine. No one uses it anymore.
My career in doing graphic design bridged the Letraset/computer based medium. I started working by hand using various methods of applying text and led the process of moving my company over to computer based design environment. The hardware back then was in today’s terms, primitive, but managed to get the job done. Now, everything is computer based and we have access to thousands of fonts. Even so, there is a enduring quality to fonts like Cooper Bold that has not faded with time.
I do too.
I actually ran a linotype machine for a while 30 years ago, probably 30 years after their time. I am still enamored by those machines.
All mechanical! An arm would come down and grab the just used line of letters and punctuation (called matrices) and carry it up to the top of the machine. A rod would push the used matrices hanging over the canister (magazine) where a binary code would sort the recycled letters dropping them into the proper slot to be reused again and again automatically!
The ETAOIN SHURDLU keyboard arranged so the most common letters were all together was amazing. Just push a button and that matrix (letter or punctuation) would slide down a chute and take its place as the next letter in the line. Then there were the proportional spacing spaces that grew to fill up the line as needed. When you finished typing a line, every letter was in order forming a mold for that line of type. You pulled a lever and molten metal was pumped into the line filling every letter to form a line for printing.
If you didn’t put enough proportional spaces to fill up the line, then metal would squirt between a few letters and make a mess of things. But if the line was done right, the metal, just cool enough to be solid now, fell into a tray atop the previous line you made. The arm came down to take the spent letters back up to the top to be reused. Fascinating!
You could clearly see everything that was happening but it was still like magic. If there was a mistake in a line, you just pulled that line, a strip of metal, out of the group, and tossed it into the pot where it would melt and be reused. Then you just retyped the line to fix the mistake. I once tossed a line into the pot and it splashed a bit. A drop flew up and hit me in the eye, right at the tear duct. Didn’t do any damage, but I hate to think what would have happened if it had landed a quarter-inch to the left.
Excellent post, BroKen. And then there was the smell off the linotype. Machine oil and molten metal.
BroKen’s comment embodies one of the reasons for my nom-de-cyberspace. I miss analogue technology because most people could, after some quite straightforward, often quite elementary training, understand and apply it, and because analogue technology provided millions of jobs at which people found they made a useful contribution they could be proud of, and at which they earned a living wage with which they could afford the American Dream for themselves and their families.