Thursday, October 09, 2014
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
It's been five years Florstar. Where have the years gone my old friend? Somewhere you might know? I don’t doubt. Something you are privy to now but can't shout through the curtain can't make down the line. No sight, no reception just memories and the eternal eddy of dust that curls upon itself where you last trod and the dread waves that smashed upon that same floor and rolled out the door and in ever widening circles, till everyone knew...and diminishing returns. But enough of this writer feeling sorry for himself and say something in celebration Den. Well...Maxie's team got smashed last night and he had a reasonable shocker, as did his young colleague Dane. Typical Max, annoyed at being dead I suppose. Although I'm sure he'd be bigger than that now and admonish me for such small thinking, whilst patting me on the back for burning him for a joke and year of years of personal script, secret hidden meanings and private jokes that he tried to take mainstream, but never could wax the rubicon...you just weren’t meant for these times old son and yet you made them better and more fun whilst you were.
Monday, August 11, 2014
"The only happiness a brave man ever troubled himself with asking much about, was happiness enough to get his work done. Not "I can’t eat!" but, "I can’t work!"--that was the burden of all wise complaining among men. It is, after all, the one unhappiness of a man--that he cannot work,--that he cannot get his destiny as a man fulfilled. Behold, the day is passing swiftly over, our life is passing swiftly away, and the night cometh, wherein no man can work. The night once come, our happiness, our unhappiness,--it is all abolished, vanished, clean gone; a thing that has been: "not of the slightest consequence" whether we were happy as eupeptic Curtis, as the fattest pig of Epicurus, or unhappy as Job with potsherds, as musical Byron with Giaours and sensibilities of the heart; as the unmusical meat-jack with hard labour and rust. But our work,behold, that is not abolished, that has not vanished: our work, behold, it remains, or the want of it remains--for endless times and eternities, remains; and that is now the sole question with us for evermore! Brief brawling Day, with its noisy phantasms, its poor paper-crowns tinsel-light, is gone, and divine everlasting Night, with her star diadems, with her silence and her veracities, is come!
(With thanks to Sebastian Marshall)
Photo Copyright 2014 R.Denham Carr
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
A Klee painting named ‘Angelus Novus’ shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing in from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such a violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress.
Walter Benjamin -- "On the Concept of History"