How would old Rockefeller lurch to learn that the Palisades view he purchased for his Cloisters transported from Saint-Michel-de-Cuxa, Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert, Bonnefont-en-Comminges, Trie-en-Bigorre, and Froville to frame serves also as stageset to the “quiet-zoned” spectacle of bellic muscle for the next century?
Just as climate change had become less “hot” in the news cycle, as poet/journalist Jules Boykoff points out, the question of the relation between global warming and seismic activity rerears its head, demanding to be addressed as the fossil-fuel club gets ready to lambast anyone suggesting we’ve tipped any balance whatever.
What it means for the rhythm of every season to have been permanently reprogrammed by self-estranging years in a city on the opposite end of the earth—having been looking at plum blossoms popping that day because of it—I’m writing this out of step with the actual, having been paralyzed on the 11th—and for the trauma […]
white cherries, and shadows write with better clarity than any ii at a certain hour over the Aurelian wall—to emerge from the rustic house & let them do it, as Ruskin did, casting agency with bliss into light unelectric.
& let the awake cling to every chill in this becoming-autumn-quick (Japanese-style) of a languid dream.