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Friday, May 4, 2018

Luka Sulic ,Czardas (Csárdás)

Prelude and Fugue No. 1 in C major, BWV 846, Bach's Well-tempered C...

The Mandelbrot Set , fractals, patterns

Fibonacci Sequence , Nature

Meditation on Rain,Justin Rigamonti


I’ve decided to remind myself
that I’m going to die. It seems appropriate
given the fact I’m turning thirty this year
and my life still shows of continuity.
Like something that can end. Besides,
it’s been raining all morning, silver fits
that fall for twenty minutes
then blow away completely, and isn’t that
a little morbid? Light falls between.
Last night at dinner, three friends
spoke of consciousness over dumplings
and I kept silent, imagining a thin wire
roped around a rosy-cheeked version of myself
and spooling out through time and space.
It carried one particular wavelength,
one long, continuous note, like generations passing.
My grandfather wasn’t afraid of death.
He saw his mind extending into God’s light,
lifting up through perfect blue sky-
to all of us below it grew bright, then vaporized.

MeditationonRain

Itzhak Perlman , Mendelssohn, Sweet Remembrance

The Most of It , Robert Frost

The Most of It , Robert Frost

He thought he kept the universe alone;
For all the voice in answer he could wake
Was but the mocking echo of his own
From some tree–hidden cliff across the lake.
Some morning from the boulder–broken beach
He would cry out on life, that what it wants
Is not its own love back in copy speech,
But counter–love, original response.
And nothing ever came of what he cried
Unless it was the embodiment that crashed
In the cliff's talus on the other side,
And then in the far distant water splashed,
But after a time allowed for it to swim,
Instead of proving human when it neared
And someone else additional to him,
As a great buck it powerfully appeared,
Pushing the crumpled water up ahead,
And landed pouring like a waterfall,
And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread,
And forced the underbrush—and that was all. 

Ikkyu, Ridiculing Literature

Ridiculing Literature
Humans are endowed with 
                       the stupidity of horses and cattle. 
Poetry was originally a
                     work out of hell. 
Self-pride, false pride, 
                     suffering from the passions, 
We must sigh for those taking this path
                       to intimacy with demons.

Eivør Pálsdóttir , Krákan

Eivør, Kavin Kom

Jack In The Green, Jethro Tull