Spinozablue: An Eclectic Journal of the Arts

Posted on: March 30, 2008

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Harold Bloom talks about the importance of the reading life in the formation of character. For him, this is done through a lifetime of internal dialogue with oneself, with the characters, ideas, situations and conflicts in novels, plays, poems, short stories and so on. This lifetime of dialogue builds character, broadens horizons, exercises the mind, expands it. It is a key in the formation of our ability to listen to ourselves, listening to others, analyzing that data, looping it back into the ongoing conversation of a lifetime. For him, it is not the slant of the work that does this. It’s the quality. His is an apolitical ideal of the unique power of internal conversation with as diverse a reading life as is possible.

Art, music, crafts, etc.. all have this synergy, but words on the page and in our minds coincide with the structure of our communication vehicle most immediately. Language.…

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Posted on: March 29, 2008

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Am reading about the Middle Ages again. Has me thinking about a lot of things, but this comes to mind in a striking way:

Our sense today of “patriotism” and love of country. How little it’s evolved since the Middle Ages, and how we have no excuses for that lack of evolution.

An evolved form of patriotism would be one that desires the bluest skies, the purest water, the cleanest, most beautiful rivers, lakes, oceans, mountains, valleys. That evolved form of patriotism would want to work toward improving and enhancing that country’s environment, virtual and physical infrastructure, educational system, arts, parks, farms, main streets, heath care system, and so on. In short, a modern, logical, rational, common sense form of patriotism would be one that sought to make life better in that nation for all, not just for the rich, not just for a select few. For everyone.

A primitive, illogical, irrational and bizarre…

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Posted on: March 24, 2008

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Recently watched two films by the French director, Cédric Klapisch. ‘L’Auberge Espagnole’ and ‘The Russian Dolls’, the latter being the sequel. They tell the story of a young writer, Xavier, his year in Barcelona, and subsequent relationships growing out of that year, primarily back in France. I enjoyed them both, but liked the first one better. Nothing deep, but an interesting salad of nationalities, quirks, and eccentricities, mixed together and presented with a touch of French seasoning that reminded me a lot of ‘Amelie’. Klapisch uses the camera well, uses modern techniques to splice and dice the story, shift perspectives, speed up and slow down time, distance, longing. He knows how to employ beautiful women to good effect, like Audrey Tautou, Judith Godrèche, and Cécile De France, among others. But, most importantly, he realizes the necessity of getting the audience to like the characters, despite their flaws, care about them,…

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Posted on: March 20, 2008

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Selected aphorisms, from Signposts to Elsewhere:

Miracles are proud creatures; they will not reveal themselves to those who do not Believe.

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If Love, as they say, is blind then, Lust must be deaf, dumb and blind.

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Temptation: seeds we are forbidden to water, that are showered with rain.

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In life, as in love, graceful leave-taking is the epitome of gratitude.

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Myths are history, too; the history of the human imagination.

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History does not repeat itself, human nature does.

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Our wisdom always mocks us, since it knows more than we can.

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The thoughts we choose to act upon define us to others, the ones we do not define us to ourselves.

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It is wise to know oneself, if only to add to the sum of human knowledge.

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Impulses we attempt to strangle only develop stronger muscles.

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The biographer’s art is that of confessing through the mask of another’s personality.

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In life, as in love, graceful leave-taking is the epitome of gratitude.

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To better appreciate…

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Posted on: March 19, 2008

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At Lucia’s

After the rain has ceased,
the timber boards and stools are back
right away in the middle of the farmyard.
Kittens and chickens play tag
among the legs of the regulars.

Careful hands relay tablecloths and tableware,
there it is again—my dear bottle of fizzy lambrusco!
Then just-toasted polenta e ciccioli turns up,
straight from the plate of the wood stove.

The sky opens,
discloses the plain beauty of the Lombard campagna.
Boscage and lea are slowly unmisted in the distance,
toward the laggard sunset.
The air is just bracing,
not bleak or ungentle.

It so happens at times the only difference
between the half-full and half-empty glass
is a radiant but guarded smile behind it,
traced around fleshy lips and red cheeks,
seeming to whisper bentornato!

The eyes meet time and again
like furtive accomplices,
more smiles slip out in the lamplight shadow,
more wine gurgles down into the scodella—
alla salute!

What more should one ask of life?
When no patron is left inside the osteria,
and none is outside—
tonight will tell.

First published in Poetry Nottingham…

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Posted on: March 18, 2008

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We have some new poetry, this time from Sheema Kalbasi, an excellent poet I had the pleasure to meet last year at a book festival. There is something unique, exquisite and dreamy in her work, something that informs and amplifies the images of war and peace, tragedy and freedom, family, love and laughter she depicts. She is intrepid.

* * * * *

Have added yet more new poetry and some aphorisms to the Spinozablue mix. An Italian poet and an Egyptian-American aphorist, both of whom bring something truly out of the ordinary to these pages. Alessio Zanelli and Yahia Lababidi are young poets, already with an international following and deserve wider recognition.

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Posted on: March 18, 2008

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Necessity

I wear your perfume on my skin
Don’t be unkind
Like wild flowers shy under the sun

Don’t seek the truth,
I tell you none exists
Everything has an expiration date
Love, life, identity, even abnormality.

We are travelers,
Some of us just leave the suitcase at home
So that our hands won’t suffer the weight of our guilt.

___________________________

New England

Children are playing next to the ocean coast
and sand castles are built with their digging
hands symphonized with their joyous laughter.
Near the beach, sea rocks are thirsty to move
from sitting next to the New England attic rooms.

The air is cooling down and the little kids
are now nesting on the rocks, trying to get away
from the cool summer breeze, chilled afternoon winds
and the dancing waves.

My little girl is one of the children, and with dreamy eyes
she is pretending to be waving at the Beluga Whales,
the wave makers of the sea … from coast to coast.

The beach and the people are getting ready for
today’s…

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Posted on: March 17, 2008

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In honor of Saint Patty’s Day, I thought it a good thing to watch “Once”, once again. Its simple beauty held up, the emotional power remained, and I came away from it with more joy in me heart than I had before rewatching it. It’s just quite nearly a perfect film. No pretense. No artifice. Just golden, raw, innocent emotion, but never naive. True. The movie rings true, like guitars around a campfire. Like guitars in the streets of Dublin. And those streets came back to me and took me back to my trip there in 2003. A trip I can’t and won’t ever forget, for the depth of love I felt for my ancestral home, for the sights and sounds along the Ring of Kerry, the Cliffs of Moher, the Aran Islands, the castles, the mountains, the sea.

Yes, it’s green. But Ireland is much more than that. It’s…

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Posted on: March 15, 2008

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We have a new essay/journal entry by acclaimed author, Christopher Bram, who I’m proud to say is a part of mi familia. Cousin Chris takes a close look at Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s wonderful novel from 1985.

Christopher Bram is the author of Father of Frankenstein (along with eight other novels), which was made into the Oscar-winning movie, “Gods and Monsters”.

*For those of you who have not yet read Love in the Time of Cholera, Chris’s review includes spoilers.

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Posted on: March 15, 2008

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(Photo by the Douglas Brothers; Copyright HarperPerennial)

November 12, 2007

I am rereading Love in the Time of Cholera, in part because of Draper’s recent pleasure in the book, in part to feed my new novel, and because I’m afraid that if I see the upcoming Mike Newell movie I will never be able to read the book again without seeing his images.

I first read the book five years ago. I see it more whole this time. The class issues read more clearly. Two people from the lower classes, Fermina and Florentino, fall in love, but Fermina marries up in the world with Dr. Urbino. Yet she’s not consciously ambitious. And one of many fine twists is that Garcia Marquez gives her a happy marriage while Florentino pines from afar. (In fact, he gives both protagonists good lives while we wait for love to be requited.)

The book is constructed out of endless shaggy dog…

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Posted on: March 13, 2008

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Finished Nada, by Carmen Laforet. A brilliant novel, especially for one so young. Set in Barcelona, it’s the story of Andrea’s 18th year, which she lives with her uncles, aunt, grandmother, and assorted other members of her extended family. A very eccentric, at times dangerous family.

The novel starts slowly, almost as if the author, like her main character Andrea, were feeling out the surroundings, taking tentative, uncertain steps. But it soon picks up steam, the prose becomes more assured and vibrant, and before long, the reader is thoroughly involved in the story, the setting, and hoping for the best, though the signs are often dark and more than sordid.

I especially like the relationship that developed between Andrea and Ena, the beautiful, blond, almost princess-like character who constantly surprises both the reader and Andrea. Surprises us because she breaks the stereotypes she should adhere to. Breaks them because she seems to…

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Posted on: March 11, 2008

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In what may have been a blink
The zone was erased
Forgotten or confused

To take part in the play
A real part
With the creation the stages
Walking with the debris
The charge into morning from last nightӳ dance
The concealment

A grotto is used again and again
But this time no one is lost
They all find the steps through the air
The hums begin then the chant
And now songs rise and swirl

Each place is a place first then threshold
Walk exactly in rhythm
Exactly in defeat of dis-traction!
Pass the first stage and the second
Arms and spears the drums and echoes
Water pours
Seven

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