Thursday, July 26, 2012

A Little Lacuna

All the Little Houses will be taking a brief hiatus for the next couple of weeks while I get my shit together for year two (!!!) of PhD-ing. In the meantime, you can visit my tumblr where, inevitably, I will be posting pretty pictures and delicious music.

See you soon!

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Poetry Wednesday

The Oranges

Our fingers are thick with citrus
and a grey face has risen high over the kitchen clock
and fallen low again.
We are celebratory         .
Crashing through the wet air, we
take off our blankets and celebrate again
our nakedness, thrown forward,
puzzling, and bright.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

by Bianca Stewart

Last time we went swimming
the sea stood up and hugged you
as though you were responsible
for keeping it blue

Thursday, July 19, 2012

A Little Tree Music

Bartholomäus Traubeck's Years piece tells us what trees sound like when they sing. Nature and technology and art and music meet and mix and make a haunting tune. Using a PlayStation Eye Camera and a stepper motor, a computer running Ableton Live reads the grain on the cross section of a tree trunk and converts it into music.

I love the idea of finding voices for those things around us we pretend are mute.

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Poetry Wednesday

Yellow Hair/Without List

I was a tree upon which moss and mushrooms had grown overnight
Something was sucking up my sunlight, and I was hungry
Every piece of hair that fell was a meal
I would pay no one to cut it
I hated it in July, and had not before
The ends first, which were yellow
And had grown furthest from the roots
My mother’s sisters were crying; I was the last yellow-haired child
I cut them away
And then cut away that which they were cut from.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

The Armadillo
by Elizabeth Bishop

This is the time of year 
when almost every night 
the frail, illegal fire balloons appear. 
Climbing the mountain height, 

rising toward a saint 
still honored in these parts, 
the paper chambers flush and fill with light 
that comes and goes, like hearts. 

Once up against the sky it's hard 
to tell them from the stars— 
planets, that is—the tinted ones: 
Venus going down, or Mars, 

or the pale green one. With a wind, 
they flare and falter, wobble and toss; 
but if it's still they steer between 
the kite sticks of the Southern Cross, 

receding, dwindling, solemnly 
and steadily forsaking us, 
or, in the downdraft from a peak, 
suddenly turning dangerous. 

Last night another big one fell. 
It splattered like an egg of fire 
against the cliff behind the house. 
The flame ran down. We saw the pair 

of owls who nest there flying up 
and up, their whirling black-and-white 
stained bright pink underneath, 
until they shrieked up out of sight. 

The ancient owls' nest must have burned. 
Hastily, all alone, 
a glistening armadillo left the scene, 
rose-flecked, head down, tail down, 

and then a baby rabbit jumped out, 
short-eared, to our surprise. 
So soft!—a handful of intangible ash 
with fixed, ignited eyes. 

Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry! 
O falling fire and piercing cry 
and panic, and a weak mailed fist 
clenched ignorant against the sky!