the dinosaurs are rising
Jan. 13th, 2011 01:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
incandescensThe weather continues warmer, for which I am most grateful.
I've almost put my latest quilt cover attempt together. (This is the one with some dinosaur-pattern fabrics. Fear the eventual photographs. In a lattice pattern with some brown ferny fabric.) Now I just need to finish putting it together, get some wadding and backing fabric, pin it all together, sew it all together, and apply binding. A mere bagatelle.
But one does feel very accomplished when it's all done.
One would feel even more accomplished if one had not noticed multiple errors in patch location while putting it together this evening, resulting in some rapid work with a stitch-ripper and relocation of said patches. Ah well. The next one will be more accurate.
This week feels longer than it should do. I'm not sure why.
---
The Art of Poetry
To gaze at a river made of time and water
And remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.
To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.
To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.
To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadness--such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.
Sometimes at evening there's a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.
They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.
Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.
-- Jorge Luis Borges
I've almost put my latest quilt cover attempt together. (This is the one with some dinosaur-pattern fabrics. Fear the eventual photographs. In a lattice pattern with some brown ferny fabric.) Now I just need to finish putting it together, get some wadding and backing fabric, pin it all together, sew it all together, and apply binding. A mere bagatelle.
But one does feel very accomplished when it's all done.
One would feel even more accomplished if one had not noticed multiple errors in patch location while putting it together this evening, resulting in some rapid work with a stitch-ripper and relocation of said patches. Ah well. The next one will be more accurate.
This week feels longer than it should do. I'm not sure why.
---
The Art of Poetry
To gaze at a river made of time and water
And remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.
To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.
To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.
To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadness--such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.
Sometimes at evening there's a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.
They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.
Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.
-- Jorge Luis Borges
