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#71
General JFC / Re: Poetry Almanac
Last post by Sven2 - May 07, 2020, 10:11:57 PM * * *
Sometimes I sit quietly,
Listening to the sound of falling leaves.
Peaceful indeed is the life of a monk,
Cut off from all worldly matters.
Then why do I shed these tears?
I am so aware
That it's all unreal:
One by one, the things
Of this world pass on.
But why do I still grieve?
--Ryokan
Translated by John Stevens
Sometimes I sit quietly,
Listening to the sound of falling leaves.
Peaceful indeed is the life of a monk,
Cut off from all worldly matters.
Then why do I shed these tears?
I am so aware
That it's all unreal:
One by one, the things
Of this world pass on.
But why do I still grieve?
--Ryokan
Translated by John Stevens
#72
General JFC / Re: Poetry Almanac
Last post by Sven2 - April 23, 2020, 06:25:28 PM * * *
We are the children calling to their Mother
not knowing in this hour if she is the same
and will answer to the name we call her,
or if shot through with flames and metal
her limbs called Sicily, Flanders,
Normandy, Campagna, are all ablaze.
A handful or two of grass and air
is enough for prayer and compassion.
Put away the loaf, the wine, the fruit,
until the day of rejoicing and dancing
and arms wildly waving branches.
On this night, no table
bright with Falernian wine and poppies;
and no weeping; and no sleep.
--Gabriela Mistral
translated by Ursula K. Le Guin
We are the children calling to their Mother
not knowing in this hour if she is the same
and will answer to the name we call her,
or if shot through with flames and metal
her limbs called Sicily, Flanders,
Normandy, Campagna, are all ablaze.
A handful or two of grass and air
is enough for prayer and compassion.
Put away the loaf, the wine, the fruit,
until the day of rejoicing and dancing
and arms wildly waving branches.
On this night, no table
bright with Falernian wine and poppies;
and no weeping; and no sleep.
--Gabriela Mistral
translated by Ursula K. Le Guin
#73
General JFC / Re: Poetry Almanac
Last post by Sven2 - April 19, 2020, 05:15:20 PMCarmel Point
The extraordinary patience of things!
This beautiful place defaced with a crop of suburban houses --
How beautiful when we first beheld it --
Unbroken field of poppy and lupin walled with clean cliffs;
No intrusion but two or three horses pasturing,
Or a few milch cows rubbing their flanks on the outcrop rocksheads --
Now the spoiler has come: does it care?
Not faintly. It has all time. It knows the people are a tide
That swells and in time will ebb, and all
Their works dissolve. Meanwhile, the image of the pristine beauty
Lives in the very grain of the granite,
Safe as the endless ocean that climbs our cliff. -- As for us:
We must uncenter our minds from ourselves;
We must unhumanize our views a little, and become confident
As the rock and ocean we were made from.
--Robinson Jeffers
The extraordinary patience of things!
This beautiful place defaced with a crop of suburban houses --
How beautiful when we first beheld it --
Unbroken field of poppy and lupin walled with clean cliffs;
No intrusion but two or three horses pasturing,
Or a few milch cows rubbing their flanks on the outcrop rocksheads --
Now the spoiler has come: does it care?
Not faintly. It has all time. It knows the people are a tide
That swells and in time will ebb, and all
Their works dissolve. Meanwhile, the image of the pristine beauty
Lives in the very grain of the granite,
Safe as the endless ocean that climbs our cliff. -- As for us:
We must uncenter our minds from ourselves;
We must unhumanize our views a little, and become confident
As the rock and ocean we were made from.
--Robinson Jeffers
#74
General JFC / Re: Poetry Almanac
Last post by Sven2 - April 11, 2020, 03:34:53 PMTry To Praise The Mutilated World
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees going nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.
-- Adam Zagajewski
translated by Clare Cavanagh
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees going nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.
-- Adam Zagajewski
translated by Clare Cavanagh
#75
General JFC / Re: Poetry Almanac
Last post by Sven2 - March 20, 2020, 04:32:32 PMExcerpt from Solitude
II
I have been walking a while
on the frozen Swedish fields
and I have seen no one.
In other parts of the world
people are born, live, and die
in a constant human crash.
To be visible all the time - to live
in a swarm of eyes -
surely that leaves its mark on the face.
Features overlaid with clay.
The low voices rise and fall
as they divide up
heaven, shadows, grain of sand.
I have to be by myself
ten minutes every morning,
ten minutes every night,
- and nothing to be done!
We all line up to ask each other for help.
Millions.
One.
--Tomas Transtromer
Translated by Robert Bly
II
I have been walking a while
on the frozen Swedish fields
and I have seen no one.
In other parts of the world
people are born, live, and die
in a constant human crash.
To be visible all the time - to live
in a swarm of eyes -
surely that leaves its mark on the face.
Features overlaid with clay.
The low voices rise and fall
as they divide up
heaven, shadows, grain of sand.
I have to be by myself
ten minutes every morning,
ten minutes every night,
- and nothing to be done!
We all line up to ask each other for help.
Millions.
One.
--Tomas Transtromer
Translated by Robert Bly
#76
General JFC / Re: Write Your Own Scenes
Last post by Sven2 - March 12, 2020, 11:37:19 PMOpelxing,
With much respect, you being new visitor here in a long time, would you share some details of that debate?
A lot of spammers got an ax, you seem to be a human. Just a side note.
Conversation in the time of the cholera
With much respect, you being new visitor here in a long time, would you share some details of that debate?
A lot of spammers got an ax, you seem to be a human. Just a side note.
Conversation in the time of the cholera
#77
General JFC / Re: Write Your Own Scenes
Last post by Opelxing - March 12, 2020, 12:23:04 AMNot long ago I debated with a friend about the above.
#78
General JFC / Re: Mr.Milch In The News
Last post by Sven2 - March 09, 2020, 06:59:09 PM'Deadwood' and the Mortal Hope of "Sold Under Sin"
We're all going to die, so let's dance while we're alive.
Valerie Ettenhofer
March 9, 2020
The first time I watched Deadwood's "Sold Under Sin," I was acutely aware of the tenderness of my new tattoo, fresh but healing. During my latest watch-through, just this week, I found myself subconsciously focused on my own persistent cough, measuring the feeling in my chest against the news' incessant coronavirus outbreak warning signs.
It is impossible not to think about one's body when thinking of Deadwood, because more than controlling Cy Tolliver or ruthless George Hearst or any number of self-professed scoundrels, the unbeatable villain of David Milch's masterpiece Western series is the human body and all its vulnerabilities. Don't let the cowboy boots fool you; Deadwood has as much medical drama and body horror as it does Western ethos. Years before both Milch and his most beloved mouthpiece, Al Swearingen (Ian McShane), began grappling with dementia, the series was already preoccupied with the ways in which communities — even lawless ones like the real-life town the series is based on — must react to failings of mortality. To the inevitability of blood on the floor.
And blood there is. While Milch's series is most remembered for its eloquent, labyrinthine language — the series puts a near-Shakespearean spin on the foul-mouthed men of the wild west — the script of the first season finale is most often punctuated by terse threats and patent reminders of life's fragility. A throat is unceremoniously cut. A delicate white napkin is unfolded to reveal a handful of glistening, bloodied teeth. A beleaguered stranger interrupts a heroic military story to reveal that he and his fellow soldiers ate their horses to survive.
Episodes earlier, the settlement of Deadwood had a plague of its own, and while the town was overwhelmed by swiftly spreading sickness and scarce resources, it was a crisis that outed some men and women as cowards, others as helpers, and yet more as beholden to capitalistic self-interest. Deadwood's social microcosm, it's clear, has only become more relevant with age. As the first season comes to a close, post-plague and with the death of Wild Bill Hickok already far in the rearview, we as viewers know which townsfolk we're rooting for, but we've also learned that death in the West can be as unpredictable and dangerous as a drunken stranger at a card table.
Early on, Deadwood set itself up as a kind of Hobbesian period drama about a place where life could be, as the philosopher said, "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short." Yet almost immediately the show disrupts its rough exterior by introducing a cast of characters who are sympathetic, funny, and often outright loveable. Milch forgoes neither the hard reality nor the kind one, regularly allowing us glimpses of humanity — or at the very least good manners — from even the worst the town has to offer. "Sold Under Sin" is an episode rife with mud and blood, but it also lays bare the beating heart of the series with satisfying moments, like Seth and Alma's (Molly Parker) consummation and Seth's acceptance of the law badge, that reward our love for this burgeoning town.
Also in this episode, Al finally dispatches the local reverend (Ray McKinnon), who had been deteriorating as a result of a brain tumor for some time, his suffering a sort of unbearable yet steady background noise to the show's foregrounded local politics. To some, Al's act — the smothering of a man who was already gasping for breath in the throes of his pain — may appear to be a metaphorical extinguishing of innocence, a killing of the only god the camp knew. Yet it's also a twisted act of mercy, bringing tears to Al's and his henchman's eyes alike. Al's a stubborn man, unafraid of a fight, but he knows the body can't be bested.
Later on, Al himself will be beset by kidney stones and, petrified by the pain, will have to witness those around him unable to easily decide on the best course of action. Years after Deadwood aired, Cinemax's Steven Soderbergh-directed series The Knick would go on to address the terrors and moral dilemmas of developing healthcare systems more directly, often with an even bleaker approach. But in 2004, under the guise of a gunslinging Western, David Milch wouldn't let us forget the endless fragility of our lives, and the gutting decisions everyday people must make that could either save or end them.
If the hopeful heart of Deadwood is ever fully visible, it's during the short final scene of the first season finale. Doc Cochran is perhaps the series' best supporting character, carrying the throughline of logic during any emergency, woefully bearing witness to the existential pain of the sick, and keeping a sliver of fury-tinged optimism alive, all thanks to an indelible, lovely performance by Brad Dourif. Doc's constant commitment to his job often goes unnoticed by the more lofty-minded businessmen of Deadwood, as when Al makes an offhand joke about the reverend and Doc grounds him with a boldly shouted curse. No one makes an enemy of the doctor, because everyone needs him, and when it comes to beating that biological villain, he knows more than the rest of the town combined.
Meanwhile, Jewel (Geri Jewell), the Gem Saloon's disabled cleaning woman, is one of the series' most winning presences even as she's one of the town's least valued. People around the saloon often don't really see her, or if they do, they see her as less than others, but her emotions come easily and often skew toward happiness. To the audience, she's easily one of the characters most worth rooting for.
As Deadwood's major players argue and scheme and shoot one another dead in the streets, Doc makes Jewel a leg brace that will make her more comfortable. And as "Sold Under Sin" comes to a close, Jewel decides to dance. She gets Doc to join her, and their exchange closes out a near-perfect first season while others in the Gem look on. "Say I'm as nimble as a forest creature!" She commands Doc, not hesitant to move despite his warnings that her mobility may fail. "You're as nimble as a forest creature," he answers warmly. "No," she corrects him, "say it about yourself!" As the music plays us out, their bodies are working as well as they ever will. They're happy. In Deadwood, as in reality, death may be inevitable, but life is there, too, just waiting to be shared
.
from: https://filmschoolrejects.com/deadwood-sold-under-sin/
We're all going to die, so let's dance while we're alive.
Valerie Ettenhofer
March 9, 2020
The first time I watched Deadwood's "Sold Under Sin," I was acutely aware of the tenderness of my new tattoo, fresh but healing. During my latest watch-through, just this week, I found myself subconsciously focused on my own persistent cough, measuring the feeling in my chest against the news' incessant coronavirus outbreak warning signs.
It is impossible not to think about one's body when thinking of Deadwood, because more than controlling Cy Tolliver or ruthless George Hearst or any number of self-professed scoundrels, the unbeatable villain of David Milch's masterpiece Western series is the human body and all its vulnerabilities. Don't let the cowboy boots fool you; Deadwood has as much medical drama and body horror as it does Western ethos. Years before both Milch and his most beloved mouthpiece, Al Swearingen (Ian McShane), began grappling with dementia, the series was already preoccupied with the ways in which communities — even lawless ones like the real-life town the series is based on — must react to failings of mortality. To the inevitability of blood on the floor.
And blood there is. While Milch's series is most remembered for its eloquent, labyrinthine language — the series puts a near-Shakespearean spin on the foul-mouthed men of the wild west — the script of the first season finale is most often punctuated by terse threats and patent reminders of life's fragility. A throat is unceremoniously cut. A delicate white napkin is unfolded to reveal a handful of glistening, bloodied teeth. A beleaguered stranger interrupts a heroic military story to reveal that he and his fellow soldiers ate their horses to survive.
Episodes earlier, the settlement of Deadwood had a plague of its own, and while the town was overwhelmed by swiftly spreading sickness and scarce resources, it was a crisis that outed some men and women as cowards, others as helpers, and yet more as beholden to capitalistic self-interest. Deadwood's social microcosm, it's clear, has only become more relevant with age. As the first season comes to a close, post-plague and with the death of Wild Bill Hickok already far in the rearview, we as viewers know which townsfolk we're rooting for, but we've also learned that death in the West can be as unpredictable and dangerous as a drunken stranger at a card table.
Early on, Deadwood set itself up as a kind of Hobbesian period drama about a place where life could be, as the philosopher said, "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short." Yet almost immediately the show disrupts its rough exterior by introducing a cast of characters who are sympathetic, funny, and often outright loveable. Milch forgoes neither the hard reality nor the kind one, regularly allowing us glimpses of humanity — or at the very least good manners — from even the worst the town has to offer. "Sold Under Sin" is an episode rife with mud and blood, but it also lays bare the beating heart of the series with satisfying moments, like Seth and Alma's (Molly Parker) consummation and Seth's acceptance of the law badge, that reward our love for this burgeoning town.
Also in this episode, Al finally dispatches the local reverend (Ray McKinnon), who had been deteriorating as a result of a brain tumor for some time, his suffering a sort of unbearable yet steady background noise to the show's foregrounded local politics. To some, Al's act — the smothering of a man who was already gasping for breath in the throes of his pain — may appear to be a metaphorical extinguishing of innocence, a killing of the only god the camp knew. Yet it's also a twisted act of mercy, bringing tears to Al's and his henchman's eyes alike. Al's a stubborn man, unafraid of a fight, but he knows the body can't be bested.
Later on, Al himself will be beset by kidney stones and, petrified by the pain, will have to witness those around him unable to easily decide on the best course of action. Years after Deadwood aired, Cinemax's Steven Soderbergh-directed series The Knick would go on to address the terrors and moral dilemmas of developing healthcare systems more directly, often with an even bleaker approach. But in 2004, under the guise of a gunslinging Western, David Milch wouldn't let us forget the endless fragility of our lives, and the gutting decisions everyday people must make that could either save or end them.
If the hopeful heart of Deadwood is ever fully visible, it's during the short final scene of the first season finale. Doc Cochran is perhaps the series' best supporting character, carrying the throughline of logic during any emergency, woefully bearing witness to the existential pain of the sick, and keeping a sliver of fury-tinged optimism alive, all thanks to an indelible, lovely performance by Brad Dourif. Doc's constant commitment to his job often goes unnoticed by the more lofty-minded businessmen of Deadwood, as when Al makes an offhand joke about the reverend and Doc grounds him with a boldly shouted curse. No one makes an enemy of the doctor, because everyone needs him, and when it comes to beating that biological villain, he knows more than the rest of the town combined.
Meanwhile, Jewel (Geri Jewell), the Gem Saloon's disabled cleaning woman, is one of the series' most winning presences even as she's one of the town's least valued. People around the saloon often don't really see her, or if they do, they see her as less than others, but her emotions come easily and often skew toward happiness. To the audience, she's easily one of the characters most worth rooting for.
As Deadwood's major players argue and scheme and shoot one another dead in the streets, Doc makes Jewel a leg brace that will make her more comfortable. And as "Sold Under Sin" comes to a close, Jewel decides to dance. She gets Doc to join her, and their exchange closes out a near-perfect first season while others in the Gem look on. "Say I'm as nimble as a forest creature!" She commands Doc, not hesitant to move despite his warnings that her mobility may fail. "You're as nimble as a forest creature," he answers warmly. "No," she corrects him, "say it about yourself!" As the music plays us out, their bodies are working as well as they ever will. They're happy. In Deadwood, as in reality, death may be inevitable, but life is there, too, just waiting to be shared
.
from: https://filmschoolrejects.com/deadwood-sold-under-sin/
#79
General JFC / Re: DEADWOOD THE MOVIE
Last post by Sven2 - January 31, 2020, 04:09:03 PM* Deadwood will acquire the Heritage Award whereas its creator, David Milch, has been chosen for the Occupation Achievement honor at this Saturday's Television Critics Affiliation Awards, to be held in Beverly Hills.
#80
General JFC / Re: Poetry Almanac
Last post by Sven2 - January 11, 2020, 04:00:44 PMWe All Return to the Place We Were Born
What remains of my childhood
are the fragmentary visions
of large patios
extending
like an oceanic green mist over the afternoon.
Then, crickets would forge in the wind
their deep music of centuries
and the purple fragrances of Grandmother
always would receive without questions
our return home.
The hammock shivering in the breeze
like the trembling voice of light at dusk,
the unforeseeable future
that would never exist without Mother,
the Tall tales that filled
with their most engaging lunar weight our days
—all those unchangeable things—
were the morning constellations
that we would recognize daily without sadness.
In the tropical days we had no intuition of the winter
nor of autumn, that often returns with pain
in the shadows of this new territory
—like the cold moving through our shivering hands—
that I have learned to accept
in the same way you welcome
the uncertainty of a false and cordial smile.
Those were the days of the solstice
when the wind pushed the smoke from the clay ovens
through the zinc kitchens
and the ancient stone stoves
clearly spoke
of the secrets of our barefooted and wise Indian ancestors.
The beautiful, unformed rocks in our hands
that served as detailed toys
seemed to give us the illusion
of fantastic events
that invaded our joyful chants
with infinite color.
It was a life without seasonal pains,
a life without unredeemable time
a life without the somber dark shadows
that have intently translated my life
that slowly move today through my soul.
--Oscar Gonzales
What remains of my childhood
are the fragmentary visions
of large patios
extending
like an oceanic green mist over the afternoon.
Then, crickets would forge in the wind
their deep music of centuries
and the purple fragrances of Grandmother
always would receive without questions
our return home.
The hammock shivering in the breeze
like the trembling voice of light at dusk,
the unforeseeable future
that would never exist without Mother,
the Tall tales that filled
with their most engaging lunar weight our days
—all those unchangeable things—
were the morning constellations
that we would recognize daily without sadness.
In the tropical days we had no intuition of the winter
nor of autumn, that often returns with pain
in the shadows of this new territory
—like the cold moving through our shivering hands—
that I have learned to accept
in the same way you welcome
the uncertainty of a false and cordial smile.
Those were the days of the solstice
when the wind pushed the smoke from the clay ovens
through the zinc kitchens
and the ancient stone stoves
clearly spoke
of the secrets of our barefooted and wise Indian ancestors.
The beautiful, unformed rocks in our hands
that served as detailed toys
seemed to give us the illusion
of fantastic events
that invaded our joyful chants
with infinite color.
It was a life without seasonal pains,
a life without unredeemable time
a life without the somber dark shadows
that have intently translated my life
that slowly move today through my soul.
--Oscar Gonzales
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