Tennis umpires reportedly considering boycott of Serena Williams’ matches

serena

I recently had a conversation about works of art that stick with you. At different times in my life I have been absorbed by various sculptures, compositions or images.

Once it was a stone lakshmi sculpture in a museum (I can’t remember which one) in Pasadena. I was strolling around looking at stuff in the museum, and had to stop and stare at it. I stood there for at least half an hour, sketching the ancient sculpture.

Once I walked into the Museum of Art History in Vienna and was gobsmacked by Rubens’ ‘The Little Fur Coat’ hanging on the wall.

Or Bach’s cello suites.

Anyway right now it is this photograph. Together with the title, which I have used as the title of this post and which is also the headline of the article the photograph is originally from, it strikes me as no different in any important way from, say, Renaissance paintings along the lines of ‘Bacchus and Ariadne’ by Titian or maybe Jan Steen’s ‘Argument over a card game’.

‘Tennis umpires reportedly considering boycott of Serena Williams’ matches’ by Julian Finney (Getty Images) is currently hanging right at the front of my mental museum. I can’t look away. It’s perfect.

Cultural criticism

Which onea you fuckers
peed on my phone
on the kitchen table last night?
When I picked it up this morning
it swished not swiped
It’s a miracle it still works
I don’t wanna know who it was
Just don’t let it happen again
or I’ll i don’t know what.
not that I’ll forget so quick,
whenever I pick it up to
check likes on Instagram
it smells like betrayal

As weak as possible

George R.R. Martin is quoted as saying, “The more people you love, the weaker you are.”
But thanks to the power of the Internet, I — and now you — now know it was in fact Cersei Lannister.
Question everything, kids.
When I was a kid, I read the bible and a part that impressed me was the statement, “…God is love…”
(1 John 4:7-21 — FYI to put it in context here is a longer bit containing that “Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God. Anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love.”)
Anyway, “God is love” stuck with me and although I have been very bad at loving in general I do believe deeply that we are here to love everything, and that everything is beautiful and loveable in one way or another, from the right angle, perhaps with certain exceptions that you are probably already thinking about, and that there is beauty in everything, and that this world is abundant and generous and that the point is to do everything in a loving way from a position of love and generosity and gratitude and wonder. That the point is to love as much as possible, which is to say, to be as weak and vulnerable as possible.
Not to seek strength out of fear, but to abandon strength; not to seek dominion over nature or others, by bowing down to an authority figure or authoritarian system but to open your heart.
And above all, not to waste a single dime on a fucking dumbshit Space Force WTF people seriously.

Twitter chat with Stormy Daniel

A Stormy bot contacted me recently on Twitter, here is a picture of our interaction. Apologies in advance for the long image, I hope it doesn’t break whatever doodad you are using to read it.

stormychatfull

Following a fox into darkness

Morning, so early the only light is along the eastern horizon, and fog like the ground is breathing, the grass and pavement, warm earth breath condensing and a fox flashes across the street and I follow it as it flits from ivy into shadow along shrubs into darkness and I follow it into the dark.
In this neighborhood of mansions, it must have its den in one of the parks, the Sternwartepark is the most likely, it grows wild behind high brick walls, the other parks in the area are manicured.
The fox’s tail flashes one last time and it is gone and the darkness seems darker as if it’s not morning at all, or was morning but turned around and I wander through this odd night, Mercedes parked on the edges of the streets houses dark but it can’t be a blackout I hear music.
But then I don’t hear music.
This building is vacant.
This building has been gutted for renovation, outside walls, roof, load-bearing walls, stairs and floors. Windows out, everything out. Wiring gone plumbing gone. A crow watches from a window sill in back.
Someone rich lived here once, the place is huge and it will be grand again but first, insulation, paneling, wiring, plumbing, tile and floors, ceilings, doors, lights all that stuff.
Right now it’s just, who is the ghost here?
The ghost never thinks he’s the ghost, right crow?
Crow flies off to report back somewhere.
Still foggy out, no moon.
Still foggy out.

The creature of the brilliant day

The creature walks, the ghost, the spirit from the vacant house that youngsters see at dusk, over their shoulder or their father’s arm, watching from a cracked window, a curtain moving slightly in the breeze; it walks in autumn cold, clear autumn sun in a new winter coat and realizes, this is what color was made for, a crisp fall day – gold, orange and yellow against a sky of jigsaw-puzzle-blue, birch trees knitting it together with white and black and children in red jackets. The creature is eating lunch, cookies that are not what they promised and something with penne and curry and chicken and it walks a different street, past the artist’s mansion, where the crows do not know its face, not to avoid sharing, but to avoid interacting, and not out of some misanthropy (or miscoronisy) but because this afternoon demands one’s full attention. Pavement, dead leaves, brown grass, hand rails, green grass, tree bark, tar, a scrap of paper, apartment house facades, a mother speaking on a mobile telephone in a back yard while a small bundled toddler plays, facing away from her at an angle of 45 degrees, staring at something. One crow says something to another crow in a friendly voice, not a warning voice. A black limousine tailgates a black SUV. A man jogs past wearing a light summer jogging outfit – shorts and a white t-shirt. The creature walks.

Musical Interlude

Up while it’s still quiet, my tinnitus this morning is like an orchestra of wasps tuning their instruments.