Sunset Rubdown, You Go On Ahead (Trumpet Trumpet II)
you go on ahead for awhile
I would like to just follow you awhile
and I’d like to watch the white flash of your heels as they take turns breaking the desert heat to beckon me in languages I’ve never learned
and I’d like to have you navigate two hills where no musicians live and on the way decide what mendings of your will you’re willing to forgive
The remains of Towanroath engine house at Wheal Coates on the north Cornish coast, captured amongst the flowering shrubs of late summer (mainly gorse and heather). Nothing spectacular about the composition, just a pleasing palette of vibrant colours.
Colourful Coates by snowyturner
Aaron Dessner + Justin Vernon
"Big Red Machine"
CEMENT ECLIPSES @ CHIAPAS MEXICO
Artist Isaac Cordal (tumblr / facebook) - “With the simple act of miniaturization and thoughtful placement, Isaac Cordal magically expands the imagination of pedestrians finding his sculptures on the street. Cement Eclipses is a critical definition of our behavior as a social mass. The art work intends to catch the attention on our devalued relation with the nature through a critical look to the collateral effects of our evolution. With the master touch of a stage director, the figures are placed in locations that quickly open doors to other worlds. The scenes zoom in the routine tasks of the contemporary human being”.
On Tuesday, a bonsai tree boldly went where no bonsai tree has gone before.
Azuma Makoto, a 38-year-old artist based in Tokyo, launched two botanical arrangements into orbit: “Shiki 1,” a Japanese white pine bonsai tree suspended from a metal frame, and an untitled arrangement of orchids, lilies, hydrangeas, and irises.
(The sun is hammered to a band of gold. Pine-needles, like mazda, are brilliantly aglow. No rain has come to take the rustle from the falling sweet-gum leaves. Over in the forest, across the swamp, a sawmill blows its closing whistle. Smoke curls up. Marvelous web spun by the spider sawdust pile. Curls up and spreads itself pine-high above the branches, a single silver band along the eastern valley. A black boy… you are the most sleepiest man I ever seed, Sleeping Beauty… cradled on a gray mule, guided by the hollow sound of cowbells, heads for them through a rusty cotton field. From down the railroad track, the chug-chug of a gas engine announces that the repair gang is coming home. A girl in the yard of a whitewashed shack not much larger than the stack of worn ties piled before it, sings. Her voice is loud. Echoes, like rain, sweep the valley. Dusk takes the polish from the rails. Lights twinkle in scattered houses. From far away, a sad strong song. Pungent and composite, the smell of farmyards is the frangrance of the woman. She does not sing; her body is a song. She is in the forest, dancing. Torches flare.. juju men, greegree, witch-doctors.. torches go out.. The Dixie Pike has grown from a goat path in Africa.
Foxie, the bitch, slicks back her ears and barks at the rising moon.)
-Jean Toomer, Cane
The sky, lazily disdaining to pursue
The setting sun, too indolent to hold
A lengthened tournament for flashing gold,
Passively darkens for night’s barbecue,
A feast of moon and men and barking hounds,
An orgy for some genius of the South
With blood-hot eyes and cane-lipped scented mouth,
Surprised in making folk-songs from soul sounds.
The sawmill blows its whistle, buzz-saws stop,
And silence breaks the bud of knoll and hill,
Soft settling pollen where plowed lands fulfill
Their early promise of a bumper crop.
Smoke from the pyramidal sawdust pile
Curls up, blue ghosts of trees, tarrying low
Where only chips and stumps are left to show
The solid proof of former domicile.
Meanwhile, the men, with vestiges of pomp,
Race memories of king and caravan,
High-priests, an ostrich, and a juju-man,
Go singing through the footpaths of the swamp.
Their voices rise.. the pines trees are guitars
Strumming, pine-needles fall like sheets of rain..
Their voices rise.. the chorus of the cane
Is caroling a vesper to the stars..
O singers, resinous and soft your songs
Above the sacred whisper of the pines,
Give virgin lips to cornfield concubines,
Bring dreams of Christ to dusky cane-lipped throngs.
-Jean Toomer, Cane