“What would an ocean be without a monster lurking in the dark? It would be like sleep without dreams.” ~ Werner Herzog

Dreamscapes: Pop-up art installation in Salt Lake City, Utah (sponsored by the Utah Arts Alliance)

“It was that sort of sleep in which you wake every hour and think to yourself that you have not been sleeping at all; you can remember dreams that are like reflections, daytime thinking slightly warped.” ~ Kim Stanley Robinson, from Icehenge

Monday afternoon, partly cloudy and slightly cooler, 83 degrees.

Last night’s dream:

Lots of numbers and colors. Five people on a team, myself, the leader, and three other men. The three men married, one for 36 years. A woman with a scar down the back of her head. Five jewels: emerald, diamond, ruby, garnet and topaz. Three witches. One feather. Wind blowing in two different directions, one side red, one side green. Three SUVs, one police car. Three bicycles. A mall, meeting four other women at 7:30. Makeup from three stores. A purple file folder on sale for $4.07.  Half a xanax and $100 someone owed me. Fried green beans, a deli pickle served on a bed of sprouts. Five pans of food on a circular stove. One glass of bourbon. A spiral staircase. Eamonn as a toddler reaching for the five pans of food.

Woke up to the sound of barking. Exhausted.

Corey dreams I was married to a man named Andrew . . .


Music by Dustin Kensrue, “This Good Night is Still Everywhere”

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Monday . . . bleh . . .

Monday afternoon, partly cloudy, 72 degrees.

It’s beautiful outside today, and I had planned to take a walk with the dogs, but in looking for my other shoe, I began going through boxes, which is never a good idea if you’re trying to do something else. So . . . no walk.

Anyway, still not in a great frame of mind. Easter is always hard for me because of too many memories of Caitlin. In that vein, I’m sharing a video from “The Magicians” because it’s actually a perfect companion to my thoughts at the moment.


The cast of “The Magicians” singing “Take on Me” for Quentin:

“Each face, each stone of the venerable monument, is a page not only of the history of the country, but of the history of science and art as well.” ~ Victor Hugo, from Notre-Dame de Paris (The Hunchback of Notre Dame)

The steeple of the Notre Dame Cathedral in central Paris collapses on April 15, 2019
(AFP/ Getty Images)

“—all are mingled, combined, amalgamated in Notre-Dame. This central mother church is, among the ancient churches of Paris, a sort of chimera; it has the head of one, the limbs of another, the haunches of another, something of all.” ~ Victor Hugo

Monday night, clear and cold, 39 degrees.

Rather than a regular post, I feel the need to share some key passages from Victor Hugo’s
Notre-Dame de Paris (1831), better known as The Hunchback of Notre Dame.* The burning of this historical masterpiece just breaks my soul, and as news images around the world depict, countless individuals are mourning the loss. The world has lost far too many architectural wonders—to time, but more so, to the ravages of war and genocidal myopia—far too many to list here.

Fans of the Disney movie and/or the novel may be unaware that Hugo originally wrote his book because he was so dismayed by the state of disrepair in which the great cathedral sat in the 1800’s. Hugo wanted to preserve the Gothic architecture he believed was tied so directly to France’s history, rather than see it succumb to renovation or destruction in favor of Baroque buildings. Quasimodo, the hunchback, represents all of the deformities bestowed upon such architecture by subsequent generations, and Hugo bestowed in Quasimodo a pure love for the cathedral and all of its many statuary: “the cathedral was not only society for him, but the universe, and all nature beside.”

Hugo and his endearing creation helped to lead to the massive 1844 restoration of Notre-Dame. The following passages are taken from Chapter 1 of the third book:

The church of Notre-Dame de Paris is still no doubt, a majestic and sublime edifice. But, beautiful as it has been preserved in growing old, it is difficult not to sigh, not to wax indignant, before the numberless degradations and mutilations which time and men have both caused the venerable monument to suffer, without respect for Charlemagne, who laid its first stone, or for Philip Augustus, who laid the last.

On the face of this aged queen of our cathedrals, by the side of a wrinkle, one always finds a scar. Tempus edax, homo edacior; which I should be glad to translate thus: Time is a devourer; man, more so.

If we had leisure to examine with the reader, one by one, the diverse traces of destruction imprinted upon the old church, time’s share would be the least, the share of men the most . . .

. . . the tranquil grandeur of the whole; a vast symphony in stone, so to speak; the colossal work of one man and one people, all together one and complex, like the Iliads and the Romanceros, whose sister it is; prodigious product of the grouping together of all the forces of an epoch, upon each stone, one sees the fancy of the workman disciplined by the genius of the artist start forth in a hundred fashions; a sort of human creation, in a word, powerful and fecund as the divine creation of which it seems to have stolen the double character,—variety, eternity.

. . . these hybrid constructions are not the least interesting for the artist, for the antiquarian, for the historian. They make one feel to what a degree architecture is a primitive thing, by demonstrating (what is also demonstrated by the cyclopean vestiges, the pyramids of Egypt, the gigantic Hindoo pagodas) that the greatest products of architecture are less the works of individuals than of society; rather the offspring of a nation’s effort, than the inspired flash of a man of genius; the deposit left by a whole people; the heaps accumulated by centuries; the residue of successive evaporations of human society,—in a word, species of formations. Each wave of time contributes its alluvium, each race deposits its layer on the monument, each individual brings his stone. Thus do the beavers, thus do the bees, thus do men. The great symbol of architecture, Babel, is a hive.

Great edifices, like great mountains, are the work of centuries. Art often undergoes a transformation while they are pending, pendent opera interrupta; they proceed quietly in accordance with the transformed art. The new art takes the monument where it finds it, incrusts itself there, assimilates it to itself, develops it according to its fancy, and finishes it if it can. The thing is accomplished without trouble, without effort, without reaction,—following a natural and tranquil law. It is a graft which shoots up, a sap which circulates, a vegetation which starts forth anew. Certainly there is matter here for many large volumes, and often the universal history of humanity in the successive engrafting of many arts at many levels, upon the same monument. The man, the artist, the individual, is effaced in these great masses, which lack the name of their author; human intelligence is there summed up and totalized. Time is the architect, the nation is the builder.

. . . architecture does what she pleases. Statues, stained glass, rose windows, arabesques, denticulations, capitals, bas-reliefs,—she combines all these imaginings according to the arrangement which best suits her. Hence, the prodigious exterior variety of these edifices, at whose foundation dwells so much order and unity. The trunk of a tree is immovable; the foliage is capricious.

*You can find an online copy of the complete novel here, thanks to Project Gutenberg.


Music by Gabriel Fauré, “Pie Jesu Requiem, Op. 48”

 

“I am a jumble of passions, misgivings, and wants. It seems that I am always in a state of wishing and rarely in a state of contentment.”~ Libba Bray, from The Far Sweet Thing

“Our doubts are traitors
And make us lose the good we oft might win
By fearing to attempt.” ~ William Shakespeare, from Measure for Measure (I,iv)

Monday afternoon, partly cloudy, 55 degrees.

Monday misgivings . . .

I was so eager for the internet to be restored, and then when it was, I think that I froze internally. I stared at the posts that I had written on Word, and then realized that I didn’t have images or poems or songs, and I immediately became dismayed, and then distracted, and then I ended up playing hours of spider solitaire.

Later, I was so angry with myself that I decided I would post everything today, with or without images. I compromised with that perfection side of myself and settled for adding an image at the top of Friday’s and Saturday’s posts, even though it makes me view them as being incomplete, somehow. I tend to think that since I’m so heavy on verbiage that the inclusion of images helps to break up everything and make it easier to read. (Does it?)

But I did have a good idea about which music to include, and the poems were actually easy as I keep a collection of them for future posts; it’s just a matter of marrying themes, if possible.

Anyway, that’s what happened to my big plans for back posting yesterday. Whatever . . . . . . . . . . .

Monday misgivings

Apropos of nothing: Sean Bean as Richard Sharpe in 1993 ITV Show (loosely based on novels by Bernard Cornnwell; when a CD was later released with theme music from the show, it was called “Over the Hills and Far Away”—no idea as to why)

“Far from the mountains and the seas,
back in her arms again he’ll be.” ~ Gary Moore, lyrics from “Over the Hills and Far Away”

Monday afternoon, a dusting of snow, cold.

Out of sorts today. I’ve been thinking about posting these very different versions of an old folk song, “Over the Hills and Far Away” (not to be confused with the Led Zeppelin song of the same name), and today seems like a good day for that. In researching this tune, I found lots of different versions based on the 17th century ballad, but the ones below are all based on the lyrics by Gary Moore.

Enjoy.


Gurdy version:

Nightwish version:

And if you’re interested in the 1987 version by Gary Moore, here it is: