Monday
So may the sun, rise being hope where it once was forgotten.
I used to love this song to the point of not knowing what to do with myself when listening to it. It's such a melodic...beautiful...wholesome...cover.
Sunday
Saturday
Monday
Broken Social Scene - World Sick
We got a minefield of crippled affection
All for the borrowed mirror connection
That's why I'm leaving this spoken detention
I'm a romance addict so that I can confess that
I get world sick every time I take a stand
Well, I get world sick, my love is for my man
We got a lady who's wanting to dance
Men with the maybe looking for endings
I'm sick of the self-love, losing the "bless me"
The exit the roof of the rule of what we'll be
And all the destroyers that never wore dresses
They live for the older, well I'll confess this
Sharing the soul.
I always kept the greatest gems of songs and beauty in secrecy. I feel like I'm giving away my soul. But here, this place, this is the best kept secret. I shall not to reserve anymore since I feel like my blog is my friend; over time, it came to live as a soul flourishing through my sharings.
Sunday
The way literature is meant to be taken.
Overlooking words in writing is a horrendous act as I see it. How can you begin a work, a book, a novel, a story, become enveloped in the perhaps intagible plot, and skip lines as if the writer did not take his or her time to think of that word, convert it into written word and ultimately paper which will be read by the eyes of another...? Nothing is of lesser significance. Literature is meant to be taken as a whole. Only the weak and meager take their shortcuts in reading.
The Creator.
"The people had come to witness a sensational case, to see celebrities, to get material for conversation, to be seen, to kill time. They would return to unwanted jobs, unloved families, unchosen friends, to drawing rooms, evening clothes, cocktail glasses and movies, to unadmitted pain, murdered hope, desire left unreached, left hanging silently over a path on which no step was taken, to days of effort not to think, not to say, to forget and give in and give up. But each of them had known an unforgotten moment--a morning when nothing had happened, a piece of music heard suddenly and never heard in the same way again, a stranger's face seen in a bus--a moment when each had known a different sense of living. And each remembered other moments, on a sleepless night, on a afternoon of steady rain, in a church, in an empty street at sunset, when each wondered why there was so much suffering and ugliness in the world. They had not tried to find the answer and they had not gone on living as if no answer was necessary. But each had known a moment when, in lonely, naked honesty, he had felt the need of an answer."
"But the mind is an attribute of the individual. There is no such thing as a collective brain. There is no such thing as a collective thought. An agreement reached by a group of men is only a compromise or an average drawn upon many individual thoughts. It is a secondary consequence. There primary act--the process of reason--must be performed by each man alone. We can divide a meal among many men. We cannot digest it in a collective stomach. No man can use his lungs to breathe for another man. No man can use his brain to think for another. All the functions of the body and spirit are private. They cannot be shared or transferred."
"The creator originates. The parasite borrows. The creator faces nature alone. The parasite faces nature through an intermediary. The creator's concern is the conquest of nature. The parasites concern is the conquest of man."
"Men have been taught that is a virtue to agree with others. But the creator is the man who disagrees. Men have been taught that is a virtue to swim the current. But the creator is the man who goes against the current. Man have been taught that is a virtue to stand together. But the creator is the man who stands alone."
"Men have been taught that the ego is the synonym of evil, and selflessness the ideal of virtue. But the creator is the egotist in the absolute sense, and the selfess man is the one who does not think, feel, or act. These are the functions of the self."
--Excerpts from Howard Roark's speech at the trial during which he was acquitted of all charges.
"I often think that he's the only one of us who's achieved immortality. I don't mean in the sense of fame or that he won't die someday. But he's living it. I think he is the conception of what it really means, Howard Roark. You know, how people long to be eternal. But they die with they every day that passes. When you meet them, they are not what you met last. In every given hour, they will kill a part of themselves. They change, they deny, they contradict--and they call it growth. At the end there's nothing left, not reversed and nothing unbetrayed; as if there had never been an entity, only a succession of adjectives fading in and out on an unformed mass. How do they expect a permanence which they had never held for a single moment? But Howard--one can imagine him existing forever." - Steven Mallory in regard to Roark's egotist and immortality.
"They stood at the rail and looked at the black void. Space was not to be seen, only felt but the quality of the air against their faces. A few stars gave reality to the empty sky. A few sparks of white fire in the water gave life to the ocean."
-D. Francon and Gail Wynand on his yacht, as he was understanding and surprisingly discovered their similarities.
"He slouched casually against the glass pane of his bedroom; the weight of the gun on his palm. Today, he thought; was toda? Did anything happen that would help me now and give meaning to this moment?" --The moment when Gail Wynand found no reason, no excitement, no fear in potentially taking his own life. And so, he didn't.
"They did not speak about their work. Mallory told outrageous stores and Francon laughed like a child. They talked about nothing in particular, sentences that only had meaning only in the sound of the voices, in the warm gaiety, in the ease of complete relaxation. They were simply four people who liked being there together. The wall rizing in the darkness beyond the open door gave sanction to the rest, gave them toe right to lightness, the building on which they had all worked together, the building that was like a low, audible harmony to the sound of their voices. Roark laughed as Francon had never seen him laugh anywhere else, his mouth loose and young."
--As the Stoddard Temple was rising, Francon, Steve, Roark and Mallory flourished in total harmony that did not need words to clarify. It was unsaid. They were there for one goal; to built a temple, a shrine, not to a God or some false deity, but to nature and man together--their eternally intertwined nature and impossibility of separation. They were there for their own goals, which happen to be the same. It was the common man would call it; real.
"He went to the quarry and worked that day as usual. She did not come to the quarry and he did not expect her to come. But the thought of her remained. He watched it with curiousity. It was strange to be conscious of another person's existence, to feel it as a close, urgent necessity; a necessity without qualifications, neither pleasant nor painful, merely final like an ultimatum. It was important to know that she existed in the world, how she awakened in the morning, of how she moved, with her body still his, now his forever."
--After finding Francon, Roark's life took the path he wanted it to without her ever leaving his thoughts. She was there, whether in reality or in memory which never dimmed. Their lives ran close. They tortured one another, tore another apart with reason to lose all fear of a world not known to either of them only to ultimately have each other. When they met, there was no greet, there was no introduction, it was merely known that it had to be; they had to be. And it was.
"But the mind is an attribute of the individual. There is no such thing as a collective brain. There is no such thing as a collective thought. An agreement reached by a group of men is only a compromise or an average drawn upon many individual thoughts. It is a secondary consequence. There primary act--the process of reason--must be performed by each man alone. We can divide a meal among many men. We cannot digest it in a collective stomach. No man can use his lungs to breathe for another man. No man can use his brain to think for another. All the functions of the body and spirit are private. They cannot be shared or transferred."
"The creator originates. The parasite borrows. The creator faces nature alone. The parasite faces nature through an intermediary. The creator's concern is the conquest of nature. The parasites concern is the conquest of man."
"Men have been taught that is a virtue to agree with others. But the creator is the man who disagrees. Men have been taught that is a virtue to swim the current. But the creator is the man who goes against the current. Man have been taught that is a virtue to stand together. But the creator is the man who stands alone."
"Men have been taught that the ego is the synonym of evil, and selflessness the ideal of virtue. But the creator is the egotist in the absolute sense, and the selfess man is the one who does not think, feel, or act. These are the functions of the self."
--Excerpts from Howard Roark's speech at the trial during which he was acquitted of all charges.
"I often think that he's the only one of us who's achieved immortality. I don't mean in the sense of fame or that he won't die someday. But he's living it. I think he is the conception of what it really means, Howard Roark. You know, how people long to be eternal. But they die with they every day that passes. When you meet them, they are not what you met last. In every given hour, they will kill a part of themselves. They change, they deny, they contradict--and they call it growth. At the end there's nothing left, not reversed and nothing unbetrayed; as if there had never been an entity, only a succession of adjectives fading in and out on an unformed mass. How do they expect a permanence which they had never held for a single moment? But Howard--one can imagine him existing forever." - Steven Mallory in regard to Roark's egotist and immortality.
"They stood at the rail and looked at the black void. Space was not to be seen, only felt but the quality of the air against their faces. A few stars gave reality to the empty sky. A few sparks of white fire in the water gave life to the ocean."
-D. Francon and Gail Wynand on his yacht, as he was understanding and surprisingly discovered their similarities.
"He slouched casually against the glass pane of his bedroom; the weight of the gun on his palm. Today, he thought; was toda? Did anything happen that would help me now and give meaning to this moment?" --The moment when Gail Wynand found no reason, no excitement, no fear in potentially taking his own life. And so, he didn't.
"They did not speak about their work. Mallory told outrageous stores and Francon laughed like a child. They talked about nothing in particular, sentences that only had meaning only in the sound of the voices, in the warm gaiety, in the ease of complete relaxation. They were simply four people who liked being there together. The wall rizing in the darkness beyond the open door gave sanction to the rest, gave them toe right to lightness, the building on which they had all worked together, the building that was like a low, audible harmony to the sound of their voices. Roark laughed as Francon had never seen him laugh anywhere else, his mouth loose and young."
--As the Stoddard Temple was rising, Francon, Steve, Roark and Mallory flourished in total harmony that did not need words to clarify. It was unsaid. They were there for one goal; to built a temple, a shrine, not to a God or some false deity, but to nature and man together--their eternally intertwined nature and impossibility of separation. They were there for their own goals, which happen to be the same. It was the common man would call it; real.
"He went to the quarry and worked that day as usual. She did not come to the quarry and he did not expect her to come. But the thought of her remained. He watched it with curiousity. It was strange to be conscious of another person's existence, to feel it as a close, urgent necessity; a necessity without qualifications, neither pleasant nor painful, merely final like an ultimatum. It was important to know that she existed in the world, how she awakened in the morning, of how she moved, with her body still his, now his forever."
--After finding Francon, Roark's life took the path he wanted it to without her ever leaving his thoughts. She was there, whether in reality or in memory which never dimmed. Their lives ran close. They tortured one another, tore another apart with reason to lose all fear of a world not known to either of them only to ultimately have each other. When they met, there was no greet, there was no introduction, it was merely known that it had to be; they had to be. And it was.
Friday
Architecture.
The most brilliant writing I have ever read is undoubtedly by Ayn Rand -- The Fountainhead. I have always hated reiterating one single thing over another since I like my horizons expanded in terms of knowledge however, I cannot seem to distance myself from this book.
When I walk the streets of New York, I think of how the characters walked the same pavements, they drank coffee in the same corner shop etc...
It makes me remember how the small the city can really be.
It makes me think how beautiful words, when put together correctly, can really be.
It makes me remember how every living creature has their own microcosm, how they all live their lives in their own little worlds and how everything that matters is applicable to just them.
D. Francon, Howard, Roark, Gail Wynand, Elsworth Toohey, Peter Keating...all these characters lives overlap, intertwine and run parallel to each other. It's so beautiful and terrifying all at once. It all centers around Francon and Howard. They are the center. It's incredible how just those two people can affect so many aspects of society and how everyone outside that little world is so oblivious to the fact they they are the core of everything.
I love how Ayn Rand brought in the Depression, the Roaring 20's, actual facts and events are intertwined with a genuinely beautiful story.
It is beautiful beyond any description I could every provide.
When I walk the streets of New York, I think of how the characters walked the same pavements, they drank coffee in the same corner shop etc...
It makes me remember how the small the city can really be.
It makes me think how beautiful words, when put together correctly, can really be.
It makes me remember how every living creature has their own microcosm, how they all live their lives in their own little worlds and how everything that matters is applicable to just them.
D. Francon, Howard, Roark, Gail Wynand, Elsworth Toohey, Peter Keating...all these characters lives overlap, intertwine and run parallel to each other. It's so beautiful and terrifying all at once. It all centers around Francon and Howard. They are the center. It's incredible how just those two people can affect so many aspects of society and how everyone outside that little world is so oblivious to the fact they they are the core of everything.
I love how Ayn Rand brought in the Depression, the Roaring 20's, actual facts and events are intertwined with a genuinely beautiful story.
It is beautiful beyond any description I could every provide.
Sunday
Art is relative.
There was one work I recently saw at the MoMA that caught my attention instantly: "Ray Gun Virus" by Paul Sharits.
In the corner of a room hung 2 long velvety black curtains to signify that once inside, you will enter darkness.Inside was only a projector displaying slides of flickering colors and grainy patterns. I glared at the screen but I couldn't seem to look away. I was drawn, pulled and caught in the endless change of slides. My peripheral vision seemed to forget that the rest of the room was pitch black; the colors began to multiply and bleed into the walls which soon resulted in me forgetting where I am. I'm absolutely sure I was alone in that room for at least twenty minutes which in fact felt like 1 minute. The only thing I heard was the amplified sound of the projector endlessly changing slides which farther pushed my lack of connection with reality at the moment. The second somebody walked in I was obviously quite startled at the unexpected intrusion which clearly signified I was fully absorbed in this work. Very rarely do I ever feel so incredibly drawn to a piece. Of course, I am attracted to art more than the common person but this, this is a feeling like no other. It was terrifying and beautiful all at once. Whatever the artist intended, words will never suffice to give justice towards its affect of me.
Here's a video of it.
There is another particular artist who fascinates me beyond an accepted level of curiosity: Edward Hopper.
To the untrained eye, he could very well be defined as flat out boring however, that's where the common human fallacy comes in; looking but not seeing.
Hopper takes the most obscure scenes such as a boarded up street corner, the lonely store-front bar, a woman just waking up while looking out into a terribly dead city...everything and nothing you would expect.
He shows you commonality. He shows you every day life. He shows you the persistent loneliness that plagues man. He takes the uneventful and makes it an event.
Find a Hopper painting and just stay focused on it. Undoubtedly, you'll project yourself onto the canvas, you'll understand, you'll feel what is meant to be felt.
Remember to not only look, but see.
Here's some of his work.
In the corner of a room hung 2 long velvety black curtains to signify that once inside, you will enter darkness.Inside was only a projector displaying slides of flickering colors and grainy patterns. I glared at the screen but I couldn't seem to look away. I was drawn, pulled and caught in the endless change of slides. My peripheral vision seemed to forget that the rest of the room was pitch black; the colors began to multiply and bleed into the walls which soon resulted in me forgetting where I am. I'm absolutely sure I was alone in that room for at least twenty minutes which in fact felt like 1 minute. The only thing I heard was the amplified sound of the projector endlessly changing slides which farther pushed my lack of connection with reality at the moment. The second somebody walked in I was obviously quite startled at the unexpected intrusion which clearly signified I was fully absorbed in this work. Very rarely do I ever feel so incredibly drawn to a piece. Of course, I am attracted to art more than the common person but this, this is a feeling like no other. It was terrifying and beautiful all at once. Whatever the artist intended, words will never suffice to give justice towards its affect of me.
Here's a video of it.
There is another particular artist who fascinates me beyond an accepted level of curiosity: Edward Hopper.
To the untrained eye, he could very well be defined as flat out boring however, that's where the common human fallacy comes in; looking but not seeing.
Hopper takes the most obscure scenes such as a boarded up street corner, the lonely store-front bar, a woman just waking up while looking out into a terribly dead city...everything and nothing you would expect.
He shows you commonality. He shows you every day life. He shows you the persistent loneliness that plagues man. He takes the uneventful and makes it an event.
Find a Hopper painting and just stay focused on it. Undoubtedly, you'll project yourself onto the canvas, you'll understand, you'll feel what is meant to be felt.
Remember to not only look, but see.
Here's some of his work.
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