Spoiler Alert! MacArthur Park from Beetlejuice^2

Spring was never waiting for us, girl

It ran one step ahead

As we followed in the dance

Between the parted pages and were pressed

In love's hot, fevered iron

Like a striped pair of pants

MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark

All the sweet, green icing flowing down

Someone left the cake out in the rain

I don't think that I can take it

'Cause it took so long to bake it

And I'll never have that recipe again

Oh no!

I recall the yellow cotton dress

Foaming like a wave

On the ground around your knees

The birds, like tender babies in your hands

And the old men playing checkers by the trees

MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark

All the sweet, green icing flowing down

Someone left the cake out in the rain

I don't think that I can take it

'Cause it took so long to bake it

And I'll never have that recipe again

Oh no!

There will be another song for me

For I will sing it

There will be another dream for me

Someone will bring it

I will drink the wine while it is warm

And never let you catch me looking at the sun

And after all the loves of my life

After all the loves of my life

You'll still be the one

I will take my life into my hands and I will use it

I will win the worship in their eyes and I will lose it

I will have the things that I desire

And my passion flow like rivers through the sky

And after all the loves of my life

Oh, after all the loves of my life

I'll be thinking of you

And wondering why

MacArthur's Park is melting in the dark

All the sweet, green icing flowing down

Someone left the cake out in the rain

I don't think that I can take it

'Cause it took so long to bake it

And I'll never have that recipe again

Oh no!

Oh no

No

Oh no!

Fresh Madeleines

More on the Lies we Live...

...from Franz Kafka

Ichigo Ichie

On the Lie We Tell Ourselves...

On the Life Inside the Bubble...

White Balloons

I'm holding on to white balloons, up against a sky of doom

Tell me you see them

'Cause what's inside of me is invisible to most

Even in clear view

I'm sending out a signal to the possibility of you

'Cause right at this moment

I know you are connected to a part of me

That I don't even know myself

The changes in me are likely to be like the weather

Stormy and clear, strength into fear bound together

But I'll break my silence

If I believe that you and me could ever be more than just

What's been behind us

I tried and left, they came and went

I got rejected out again

But no one believes me

I've worn a hundred faces

Of the character replacements and now

Nobody sees me

The changes in me are likely to be like the weather

Cloudy at best

Angels, lift me

Are you, with me

I'm holding on to you like I'm holding on to white balloons

Carry me away, I hope that you don't break

Angels, lift me

Are you, with me

I'm holding on to you like I'm holding on to white balloons

Carry me away, I hope that you don't break

I hope that you don't break, yeah, don't break

'Cause what's inside of me is invisible to most

Even in clear view

Dancin'

Autumn Breeze

None the Richer...

When a parrot can't talk...

Failed Narratives

Turn up the Signal... and Wipe OUT the Noise!

Colouring Meaning...

Pointilism... inventing the RGB CRT?

Identitarian Universalism

Baba O'Riley Reprised - Music to Exalt One's-Self!?

Source

Now, this isn't to say that language doesn't communicate information, but as Sloterdijk puts it, that is not the primary function. In other words, the more fundamental advantage of language use is to establish that framework of mutual recognition. And perhaps, the argument for this, from the evolutionary standpoint would be that you know, animals that vocalize typically do it to recognize one another. That's primarily what the birds are doing. It's usually at a later point of complexity when vocalizing organisms begin to communicate information.

...I don't know that Sloterdijk would quite put the argument like this, but we might say it's the most natural use of language. So, even though our use of language is far more complex than say, the language of birds or bonobos, the fundamental meaning of language, for us too, is still to exalt ourselves. To recognize ourselves, celebrate ourselves and the group that we are in. Quote, "For the most part, people are not concerned to draw each other's attention to states of affairs, but instead to incorporate states of affairs into a glory. The different speaker groups of History, all the various tribes and peoples, are self-praising entities that avail themselves of their own inimitable idiom as part of a psychological content played to gain advantage for themselves. In this sense, before it becomes technical, all speaking serves to enhance and venerate the speaker. And even technical discourses are committed, albeit indirectly, to glorifying techniques," end quote.

Violating the Pauline Inversion of Morality?

...unless to praise Meher Baba!

...the Silent Avatar

Who refused to exalt himself!

These Lies

Your Unreliable Narrator...

Why Do It?

Tweet Tweet!

Paul Klee, Twittering Machine (1922)

Bright Lights

Some Dreams...

Get Behind the Mule...

The Ones who Walk Away from Omelas

The time may be coming.

Calibration

Talk...

...for later

Kiwilands

Puccini, "Turandot"

I always found Nessun Dorma so beautiful... and now I have the context!

Diamond's Swan Songs?

Paranoid

Куда летишь, кукушечка?

Where are you flying, cuckoo?

Spousal Devotion

The Bet

Patterns...

Lynchean Tunes

The Answers to the Questions

“When he was here / She thought they had a bond / An unshakable bond / But was it too good to be true? / She fell into a dark dream of despair.”

Buried Gold (Gilt/ Guilt)

 

"Man can do what he wills but he cannot will what he wills." 

- Arthur Schopenhauer

Por que sera?

Why Will it Be?  Why it WILL Be!

Glimpsing Beauty and Sublimity Amidst an Ever-Pervasive Background of Publicly Enforced Technological or Cultural, Harassment Averse, Self-Isolation

I long ago lost a hound, a bay horse, and a turtle-dove, and am still on their trail. Many are the travelers I have spoken concerning them, describing their tracks and what calls they answered to. I have met one or two who have heard the hound, and the tramp of the horse, and even seen the dove disappear behind a cloud, and they seemed as anxious to recover them as if they had lost them themselves.

~ Henry David Thoreau, Walden; or, Life in the Woods (1854).

EMILE DEWEAVER, "Profile"

You see me swagger to a stop

at the crosswalk, chin bobbing on

the currents of my playlist, and the Nike

Swoosh on my sleeveless says

I hold my shape after washing.

I look upstreet, presenting you

the question curving along my cheek.

What a nice man you’re thinking,

his Afro is nonthreatening

like a light bulb invented by Thomas Edison.

You’re having ideas, right? Weighing

myths and elongating for answers.

I’m walking your way, broad as day,

and you have to choose. Do

you relax your shoulders and step

into the street or clench your toes

and face your faith in the human

race: all men are created

sequals, every black

man is not a syllable.

---

...nor every man/ woman his/ her profile,

unless we all so genuinely pretend

So in the music video, we see two behaviourally different profiles of a young woman, one commuting/ blending into an "urban normie" profile version, the other at the beach, establishing a fitness/ beauty profile version.  Gone is authenticity.  Gone is sincerity.  All we see is the genuine pretending of her adapting her profile to suit second order observational positions of "profilicity" through the self-isolation technology of music and headphones, she dances, alone.  All opportunities for presenting a dance card to a like-minded individualist on a comparable derive, technologically foreclosed. 

Object-relations mediating the social.  Cultural-relations mediating the social.  Will human-relations ever restore or establish a new social without such intervening and foreclosing intermediaries?

Oh wait.  We have.  They're called "Digital Relations" and "Social Media" :(  New foreclosing intermediaries

Post-Punk

Mr Peeps

Salacious cat called Mr Peeps

who spent his hours fast asleep,

Would view his man with cool disdain

I guess one learns to live with pain.

His antics were a mite bizarre

He wore a suit and drove a car,

And rose when he was half asleep

then left the blankets in a heap.

The walk around the neighbourhood

would get him out and do him good,

A bowler hat was held aloft

and folk declared he was a toff.

It's said he would create a stir

his overcoat was classic fur,

With half-moon glasses on his nose,

he came up smelling like a rose.

- Tparry898

You are Now Entering Dyschronia...

Astrum. Closed city. Paradise.

[Music]

The nano machine collective, Kairos eliminates the population's dark thoughts during dreaming.

No crime is possible. But today, the founder of the city has been murdered. It's your duty, Supervisor HAL, to find the killer.

Explore your abilities as a variant. Use your memory dive manipulate the past...

[Music]

...and unveil the truth avoid the destruction of the last paradise of humanity. Bring the murderer to justice. But be careful, the past hides mysteries for a reason.

"Let's finish this. Shouldn't I be dead?"

[Music]

Dyskronia - Kronos alternate

MidSommar

Shakespeare, "A Midsummer Night's Dream" (Act I, sc i); Excerpt:

THESEUS: Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour
Draws on apace. Four happy days bring in
Another moon. But, O, methinks how slow
This old moon wanes! She lingers my desires
Like to a stepdame or a dowager
Long withering out a young man’s revenue. 

HIPPOLYTA: Four days will quickly steep themselves in night;
Four nights will quickly dream away the time;
And then the moon, like to a silver bow
New-bent in heaven, shall behold the night
Of our solemnities. 

THESEUS:  Go, Philostrate,
Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments.
Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth.
Turn melancholy forth to funerals;
The pale companion is not for our pomp.
[Philostrate exits.]
Hippolyta, I wooed thee with my sword
And won thy love doing thee injuries,
But I will wed thee in another key,
With pomp, with triumph, and with reveling.

The Wheel of the Year (Wiki): 

Sometimes Ya Jes' Gotta DANCE!

I sometimes forget

that I was created for Joy.

My mind is too busy.

My Heart is too heavy

for me to remember

that I have been

called to dance

the Sacred dance of life.

I was created to smile

To Love

To be lifted up

And to lift others up.

O’ Sacred One

Untangle my feet

from all that ensnares.

Free my soul.

That we might

Dance

and that our dancing

might be contagious.

~Hafiz

Che Vuoi? What does the Other want from Me?

On Sincerity in the Age of Sincerity: Me, being what the Other expects me to be, and me genuinely accepting that identity for myself.  

In an Age of Authenticity, THAT (Sincerity) is "atavism", In an Age of Authenticity, I'm now being an Identity that I choose and want to be, irregardless of the Other's wishes, and practicing "sincerity" only in my close family relationships. 

And in our current Age of Profilicity, YOU must recognize MY curated Identity concept of my own Authenticity, and validate my curated Profile.  And I will genuinely pretend that an approving "General Peer" is my family.   And I try and see myself as being unquestioningly loved and accepted by them, Walter Mitty-esque like.

 

???

 

The Original Secret Life of Walter Mitty

The Insatiable Desire for One's "Identity" to be Affirmed by Others

The Pervert's Dilemma (Che Vuoi?), "This is what I AM for You!"  "Use Me!"  "Make Me Feel 'Authentic'!"

Marcin

Asturias, my beloved Fatherland,

My loved one Asturias,

Ah, lucky he who could be in Asturias

For all times!

I have to climb the tree

I have to pick the flower

and give it to my brunette

so she may put it in her balcony

May she put it in her balcony

May she put it not

I have to climb the tree

and the flower I have to pick

Your Toll

I know it well.

It is better

not to desire anything,

it is better not to preserve

anything in our memory,

it is better not to have

homelands where to came back,

but in that case,

we will not understand

any poem.

I know it well.

All the good poems (like you)

have a price,

all the good poems are achieved

by paying the toll

of our melancholy.

- Xe M. Sanchez

Performative Profiles- "Fitting In" before TikTok: Mods & Rockers

Days of Fun

Walking, talking, sat in the sun

Perrys, parkas, ‘I Am One’

Friendship, mates, laugh and sing

Girls, music, clubs and dancing.

Loafers, shermans, button-downs,

All dressed up to go to town

Hanging out in cafs and shops,

The action then would never stop

The endless days at the beach

The beer you drunk, the food you ate

The people looked on and laughed

Just a craze to fade and pass

But then you didn’t really care

Just let the wind flow through your hair

Doing then what you wanted to do

With a sense of freedom to pull you through

A time when new friends were met

A time that you will never forget.

Anonymous - To all the late seventies and eighties mods

"Where there is no love, put love, and you will find love"

- St. John of the Cross

The Famous Blue Raincoat

More.

Fear

A Story of an Anchor and a Kite

'we run afloat', though, means 'we have a big hole in the hull' and is perfectly consequent to 'all hands on deck' as a serious alert.

All hands on deck, we'll run afloat I heard the captain cry "Explore the ship, replace the cook" "Let no one leave alive!" Across the straits, around the horn How far can sailors fly? A twisted path, our tortured course And no one left alive We sailed for parts unknown to man Where ships come home to die No lofty peak, nor fortress bold Could match our captain's eye Upon the seventh seasick day We made our port of call A sand so white, and sea so blue No mortal place at all We fired the guns, and burned the mast And rowed from ship to shore The captain cried, we sailors wept Our tears were tears of joy Now many moons and many Junes Have passed since we made land A salty dog, the seaman's log Your witness, my own hand 

S.O.S.  Save Our Ship... fail.

Franz Kafka,"The Silence of the Sirens" (Translated by Willa and Edwin Muir)

Proof that inadequate, even childish measures, may serve to rescue one from peril.

To protect himself from the Sirens Ulysses stopped his ears with wax and had himself bound to the mast of his ship. Naturally any and every traveller before him could have done the same, except those whom the Sirens allured even from a great distance; but it was known to all the world that such things were of no help whatever. The song of the Sirens could pierce through everything, and the longing of those they seduced would have broken far stronger bonds than chains and masts. But Ulysses did not think of that, although he had probably heard of it. He trusted absolutely to his handful of wax and his fathom of chain, and in innocent elation over his little stratagem sailed out to meet the Sirens.

Now the Sirens have a still more fatal weapon than their song, namely their silence. And though admittedly such a thing has never happened, still it is conceivable that someone might possibly have escaped from their singing; but from their silence certainly never. Against the feeling of having triumphed over them by one's own strength, and the consequent exaltation that bears down everything before it, no earthly powers could have remained intact.

And when Ulysses approached them the potent songstresses actually did not sing, whether because they thought that this enemy could be vanquished only by their silence, or because of the look of bliss on the face of Ulysses, who was thinking of nothing but his wax and his chains, made them forget their singing.

But Ulysses, if one may so express it, did not hear their silence; he thought they were singing and that he alone did not hear them. For a fleeting moment he saw their throats rising and falling, their breasts lifting, their eyes filled with tears, their lips half-parted, but believed that these were accompaniments to the airs which died unheard around him. Soon, however, all this faded from his sight as he fixed his gaze on the distance, the Sirens literally vanished before his resolution, and at the very moment when they were nearest to him he knew of them no longer. But they--lovelier than ever--stretched their necks and turned, let their cold hair flutter free in the wind, and forgetting everything clung with their claws to the rocks. They no longer had any desire to allure; all that they wanted was to hold as long as they could the radiance that fell from Ulysses' great eyes.

If the Sirens had possessed consciousness they would have been annihilated at that moment. But they remained as they had been; all that had happened was that Ulysses had escaped them.

A codicil to the foregoing has also been handed down. Ulysses, it is said, was so full of guile, was such a fox, that not even the goddess of fate could pierce his armour. Perhaps he had really noticed, although here the human understanding is beyond its depths, that the Sirens were silent, and opposed the afore-mentioned pretence to them and the gods merely as a sort of shield.

Kindred Souls

A life lived, not of Profilicity, not of Authenticity, but of Sincerity.  A life stretching back into Ancient times.  Of "being" exactly who you were raised to "be".  Of honouring one's Father and Mother.  A life lived by and of certain "values".

Pa' Nada...

Borges - Facing the Impossible

Two English Poems

                          I
   
   The useless dawn finds me in a deserted street-
      corner; I have outlived the night.
   Nights are proud waves; darkblue topheavy waves
      laden with all the hues of deep spoil, laden with
      things unlikely and desirable.
   Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals,
      of things half given away, half withheld,
      of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act
      that way, I tell you.
   The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds
      and odd ends: some hated friends to chat
      with, music for dreams, and the smoking of
      bitter ashes.  The things my hungry heart
      has no use for.
   The big wave brought you.
   Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily
      and incessantly beautiful.  We talked and you
      have forgotten the words.
   The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street
      of my city.
   Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to
      make your name, the lilt of your laughter:
      these are the illustrious toys you have left me.
   I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find
      them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and
      to the few stray stars of the dawn.
   Your dark rich life ... 
   I must get at you, somehow; I put away those 
      illustrious toys you have left me, I want your
      hidden look, your real smile -- that lonely,
      mocking smile your cool mirror knows.
   
                       II
   
   What can I hold you with?
   I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the
      moon of the jagged suburbs.
   I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked
      long and long at the lonely moon.
   I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts
      that living men have honoured in bronze:
      my father's father killed in the frontier of
      Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs,
      bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in
      the hide of a cow; my mother's grandfather
      --just twentyfour-- heading a charge of
      three hundred men in Peru, now ghosts on
      vanished horses.
   I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, 
      whatever manliness or humour my life.
   I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never
      been loyal.
   I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved,
      somehow --the central heart that deals not
      in words, traffics not with dreams, and is
      untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.
   I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at
      sunset, years before you were born.
   I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about
      yourself, authentic and surprising news of 
      yourself.
   I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the
      hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you 
      with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.
   
   
                     - Jorge Luis Borges (1934)

Joy Hotel - Black Balloon

Windmill Flashback

Mono

25

Hotel Fiction

Strangeness

Problems with Governments...

The By and By...

Runnin'

Ordinary

late Middle Engsh: the noun partly via Old French; the adjective from Latin ordinarius ‘orderly’ (reinforced by French ordinaire ), from ordo, ordin- ‘order’.li

Bewitched - Laufey

Bluebells for St. Tammany

The Floralia:

A Little Ennui...

...can often lead to something new

Dance DANCE!

h/t - Shaw Kenawe

Y'all Can!

I am the Walrus!

Lewis Carroll, "The Walrus and the Carpenter"

"The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright —
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done —
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun."

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead —
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
If this were only cleared away,'
They said, it would be grand!'

If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose,' the Walrus said,
That they could get it clear?'
I doubt it,' said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.

O Oysters, come and walk with us!'
The Walrus did beseech.
A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each.'

The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head —
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.

But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat —
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.

Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more —
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.

The time has come,' the Walrus said,
To talk of many things:
Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —
Of cabbages — and kings —
And why the sea is boiling hot —
And whether pigs have wings.'

But wait a bit,' the Oysters cried,
Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!'
No hurry!' said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

A loaf of bread,' the Walrus said,
Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed —
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed.'

But not on us!' the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!'
The night is fine,' the Walrus said.
Do you admire the view?

It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!'
The Carpenter said nothing but
Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf —
I've had to ask you twice!'

It seems a shame,' the Walrus said,
To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!'
The Carpenter said nothing but
The butter's spread too thick!'

I weep for you,' the Walrus said:
I deeply sympathize.'
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

O Oysters,' said the Carpenter,
You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none —
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one."

Time to Say Goodbye

Aura Photography....

Back in 1970, Guy Coggins built a camera that could capture people’s auras, otherwise known as the electromagnetic field surrounding the body. There are supposedly about 100 of these cameras in existence, and one now belongs to Christina Lonsdale of Radiant Human, who goes on tour with her mini geodesic dome, photographing people’s radiant energy on Polaroid film. The portraits are stunning, strange, and so cool—thanks to a double exposure that first takes a portrait and then the aura—and they happen thanks to silver-laced hand sensors that sit in your lap, sending a charge through the body. While Lonsdale has a permanent studio in Portland, Oregon, she lives a lot of her life on the road, popping up at events all over the country. “I grew up in a commune, and my parents were huge hippies,” she explains. “My mom actually paints auras. So I spent most of my life rebelling against it and working for a big corporation.” But last year, Lonsdale was laid off. “I’m so grateful that I was kicked out of the nest, because now I feel like I’ve come home.” We had to hear more about all of it, so we lured Lonsdale to goop HQ to show us how it works—and have her read our energy.

THE RADIANT HUMAN TAKE ON COLOR THEORY

RED

Strength, Will Power, New Beginnings, Leadership, Action, Practicality, Passion.

Reds are encouraged to get plenty of exercise and get into nature to achieve balance.

Heavy and dark typically indicates low energy.

ORANGE

Creative, Confident, Independent, Collaborative, Excellent People Skills, Loves Challenge.

Can be emotionally aloof, so to revive orange energy get into water, or visit a river or ocean.

Orange is usually found in entrepreneurs, successful sales people, or those who work with many people.

TAN

Detail Oriented, Cautious, Logical, Strategic, To-Do Lists, Highly Intelligent.

Tans make great planners and work well with structure. It is recommended that tans visit natural wonders or watch/read inspirational biographies to avoid getting stuck in a limited train of thought.

YELLOW

Optimistic, Enthusiastic, Open-Minded, Loves Variety and Freedom, Generous, Playful, Whimsical.

Yellows provide an atmosphere where people are comfortable being themselves.

GREEN

Growth, Goal-Oriented, Determined, Focused, Ambitious, Competitive, Perfectionist.

Greens worst enemy are themselves, often holding themselves back. They are encouraged to identify and be accountable for what they want: They should write it down, and go for it.

BLUE

Depth of Feeling, Trust, Devotion, Loyalty, Nurturing, Personal Relationships, Supportive, Intuitive, Sensitive.

Singing in a choir (one voice of many), attending or taking part in theater, or any water activity like sailing, paddle boarding, etc., will help this color feel more connected.

PURPLE

Visionary, Unconventional, Non-Judgmental, Playful, Loves to be Inspired and Delight Others.

To avoid feeling overwhelmed, purples must trust in their vision and share it with others. Keep a journal.

WHITE

Higher Consciousness, THE SOURCE, Destiny, Intense Energy, Cosmic Wisdom.

Congratulations you’ve made it! Now do it all over again.

JG Ballard's Paul Delvaux Reproductions by Brigid Marlin

J. G. Ballard in front of his two reproductions of Paul Delvaux’s “The Violation” and “The Mirror”, both of the originals were destroyed during WW2

I've always been a great admirer of the Belgium surrealist Paul Delvaux, and about six or seven years ago, thanks to Empire of the Sun [the film of Ballard's novel], I had a little spare cash. My first thought was to buy a Delvaux, but I discovered, sadly, that his prices had moved into the stratosphere. Anything up to a million pounds each.

So it then occurred to me that, rather than try to buy an existing Delvaux, what I would do was to pay an artist to reconstruct two Delvaux paintings which were destroyed during the Second World War, from the black-and-white photographs that exist of them. And that I did.

I heard of an American artist, Brigid Marlin, and I asked her, "Would you be prepared to accept a commission to paint these, to reconstruct these lost paintings?" She agreed, and they're now my proudest possession.

The originals of the two paintings were destroyed in London during the Blitz in 1940. Both were painted in 1936, and had obviously been brought to London by a British collector. Brigid, with a little interference from myself, had to choose the right colours for the paintings. Fortunately, Delvaux uses a limited palette - for instance, his buxom women tend to wear burgundy dresses - and we picked colours consonant with the colours in existing Delvaux paintings. So I think we've got it just about right.

One of the paintings is called The Violation and the other is called The Mirror. The Violation, I think, is my favourite. Its sort of a dream landscape populated by naked, or half-naked, women, who are beckoning towards the viewer, inviting him into their magical domain. Sitting in front of this painting, I feel that I am about to accept their invitation. I think that, in a way, I've already entered the painting and gone to live with these magnificent women.

Brigid Marlin was a very religious woman, and I think she thoroughly disapproved of the Surrealists and disapproved of my interest in them. I think she thought it was bad for my soul. So she offered to paint for me an exact copy of Leonardo da Vinci's Annunciation, which exists, of course, in the Uffizi art gallery in Florence. And Brigid said to me, "You could put it in your bedroom, Jim. You know, the first thing you see in the morning when you wake up."

I was tempted. Then, a few years ago, I visited Florence and went to see the Annunciation. I found that the painting is about nine feet long by four feet deep. I thought, well, it might be a bit intimidating.

I've thought of having one or two more Delvauxs - lost Delvauxs - because I think it's a nice idea to bring back to life paintings that have been destroyed. I would never sell my two Delvauxs, they're much too precious. They're probably more precious to me than a real Delvaux would be. In fact, I'm the sort of secondary creator of them. I mean, I almost feel that I painted them.

Get Smart!

Fenton Johnson, "The Lost Love" (from “Three Negro Spirituals”)

OH, where has my honey gone?

Fly away, my Jubal, fly away!

Oh where have they laid her bones?

Fly away, my Jubal, fly away!

Conjure woman shake her head,

Preacher dumb and master sad.

Nobody knows!

Nobody knows!

Why the tears that drop all night?

Fly away, my Jubal, fly away!

Why the heart that burns like fire?

Fly away, my Jubal, fly away!

Angel close the Book of Life,

Moon goes down and stars grow cold.

Nobody knows!

Nobody knows!

Stuckness...

The Dream...

What is Repressed in the Content, Returns in the Form

EDGAR ALLAN POE, "A Dream Within a Dream"

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow —

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand —

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep — while I weep!

O God! Can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?