Music of the Day: I finished with the Beastie Boys the other day, so had Ben Folds last night, which I finished this afternoon. I just loaded Besh o droM, which I’ll recommend to anyone who will listen …
Today’s Artist: Alex Maleev — he does comics, among other things. His run with Bendis on “Daredevil” (vol. 2) is highly regarded.
Another Artist: James R. Bingahm — as covered in a blog post elsewhere.
The story is nearly two years old, but it doesn’t get any less interesting or amusing: Russian Man Grows Penis on Arm: “Russian doctors have conducted an 11-hour operation to replace a patient’s deformed penis with one grown on his forearm, the Moskovskiy Komsomolets daily reports.”
I got up late but not too late. No energy, even after a shower, tea, and cereal. Just no desire to do anything. For another blog I was writing about Goethe’s West-Eastern Divan (a large, beautiful, cycle of poems inspired by the Persian poet Hafiz) but I found it difficult to muster enthusiasm or words.
… In an octopus’s garden.
I wanted a translation of Lenau’s short (7 stanza, 4 lines per stanza) poem “Die drei Zigeuner” (The Three Gypsies), so I searched 4M, which houses the German literature collection (see the PT area, in particular PT2000-ish), and in addition to Winthrop Root’s Poems and Letters of Nikolaus Lenau (New York: Frederick Ungar, 1964) I ran across a few Goethe translations that caught my eye (due to an interest in his poem “Zigeunerlied” [Gypsy Song]):
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, Erotic Poems. The World’s Classics. Translated by David Luke. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1997.
Or should the series title come after the translator? I’ll look in my MLA handbook later.
Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, Poems of the West and East. Translated by John Whaley. Frankfurt a/M: Peter Lang, 1998.
Taken from this volume one finds the lines: “But Goethe only absorbed from the Oriental world what he found congenial; he omitted everything which was discordant to his own nature.” (viii)
There is little more fascinating than a Geostationary Banana Over Texas.
12+(22×6)=144 episodes.
7 seasons.
40 DVDs.
That is a lot of Buffy, let me tell you.
I continue to work my way alphabetically by artist through my mp3 and ogg collection; I am now about half way through Apocalyptica. Earlier in the evening I ended up with “Hall of the Mountain King,” a Grieg cover from Cult. As kitschy as the whole Apocalyptica schtick has become (or became, given that all these albums are old now), there are gems, and that would be one of them. It was unexpected.
Aretha Franklin and Arlo Guthrie are next.
You can always read Atlanta Nights (Travis Tea) if this MySpace-iary isn’t doing it for you. You might also want to read about more sordid publishing industry misbehavior.
Spontaneous combustion of manure starts 200-acre blaze and Man Pays Library $171, 47-Year Late Fee. Conventional wisdom says that these events are unrelated, but conventional wisdom would be wrong.
I finished season 6 of Buffy last night. Rather, this morning. As a result I stayed in bed until noon, and after I got up and showered Jen called, asking whether I wanted to go along for a TJ Maxx trip (Westgate). Twice in one week for me (that part of town; last week it was Westgate to watch “Babel,” which was excellent), so a bit after three they showed up and off we (Jen, Christoph, yours truly) went in a wobbly ol’ Hyundai that’s missing one headlight.
Another Gottfriend Benn poem, this time from the collection Statische Gedichte (Static Poems), which originally came out in 1948 or so, after his publishing ban was lifted.
Wer allein ist —
Wer allein ist, ist auch im Geheimnis,
immer steht er in der Bilder Flut,
ihrer Zeugnung, ihrer Keimnis,
selbst die Schatten tragen ihre Glut.Trächtig ist er jeder Schichtung
denkerisch erfüllt und aufgespeart,
mächtig ist er der Vernichtung
allem Menschlichen, das nährt und paart.Ohne Rührung sieht er, wie die Erde
eine andere ward, als ihm begann,
nicht mehr Stirb und nicht mehr Werde:
formstill sieht ihn die Vollendung an.
I
“Mein blaues Klavier”
Ich habe zu Hause ein blaues Klavier
Und kenne doch keine Note.Es steht im Dunkel der Kellertür
seitdem die Welt verrohte.Es spielen Sternenhände vier
— Die Mondfrau sang im Boote —
Nun tanzen die Ratten im Geklirr.Zerbrochen ist die Klaviertür …
Ich beweine die blaue Tote.Ach liebe Engel öffnet mir
— Ich aß vom bitteren Brote —
Mir lebend schon die Himmelstür —
Auch wider dem Verbote.
