Song

Song

T. S. Eliot, 18881965

If space and time, as sages say,
Are things which cannot be,
The fly that lives a single day
Has lived as long as we.
But let us live while yet we may,
While love and life are free,
For time is time, and runs away,
Though sages disagree.

The flowers I sent thee when the dew
Was trembling on the vine,
Were withered ere the wild bee flew
To suck the eglantine.
But let us haste to pluck anew
Nor mourn to see them pine,
And though the flowers of love be few
Yet let them be divine.

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It’s not what you think

The First Ten Words by Rich Larson

Chris Cornell, 1964-2017

Chris Cornell died early Thursday morning. His band Soundgarden played a show on Wednesday night at the Fox Theater in Detroit. Two hours after the show ended, he was gone.

For two days, I’ve been working on a piece to pay tribute to him, and it’s been a struggle. Usually when I have a problem like this it’s because I’m staring at a blank screen trying to figure out what I want to say. That’s not the problem this time. The problem is I have way too much to say.

I’m not going to sit here and claim to have been a huge fan of Soundgarden. I didn’t dislike them, I just had to take them in small doses. I was a fan of Cornell. I love “Seasons,” the solo song he had on Cameron Crowe’s movie, Singles. It’s a droning acoustic song about isolation and the…

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Artist Economics

It just sounded interesting. I had to explore.

Adapting a Studio to a Changing Economy

Trending items seem to be going toward the more delicate, minimalist, and refined. I’ve branched out beyond Etsy because I believe one should expand horizons and keep options open. To that end, I’ve made accounts at both DaWanda and Zibbet.

Hearts to god (copy)

I much prefer handstitching to other forms of needlework. It serves the dual purpose of occupying my mind and my hands and is therefore a creative therapy as well as producing something useful and hopefully lovely to look at. The economics of this is pretty obvious.

Creative pursuits are easier when one has a touchstone for inspiration. Mine has to do with rivulets, creeks, waterways hidden among verdant vegetation, which is why I incorporate willows and rivers into my online presence. These images help to calm turbulent thoughts and evoke a kind of quiet anarchy. There’s a duality at work, as nature knows no bounds, and this reminds me that as water travels over rocks, rough places eventually become smooth. This demonstrates that persistence and consistence result in desired change. And all work results in something transformative, even if we do not know exactly where it is leading, or how things will all turn out.

Nature does not know extinction. All it knows is transformation. Nothing disappears without a trace. Werner von Braun

But back to economics. In its purest sense, economics is the science of choice. It is also a science of change. As is creativity. Art is not the sole claimant here. Art and science are both involved. The synapses and neurons in my brain create and react to choices and direct my actions in creative pursuits. When we separate choice from action all that results is a mindless muddle. Creativity reveals the world behind our choices. We should strive to select those things that reflect meaning in our lives.

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Willow Run, by J. Melberg

Originally posted at Susannah’s Heirloom

The Snow by Emily Dickinson

Snow flakes
by Emily Dickinson
I counted till they danced so
Their slippers leaped the town –
And then I took a pencil
To note the rebels down –
And then they grew so jolly
I did resign the prig –
And ten of my once stately toes
Are marshalled for a jig!

Source: The Poems of Emily Dickinson Edited by R. W. Franklin (Harvard University Press, 1999)

The Bard on the Hill


The Snow

It sifts from leaden sieves,
It powders all the wood,
It fills with alabaster wool
The wrinkles of the road.

It makes an even face
Of mountains and of plain, –
Unbroken forehead from the east
Unto the east again.

It reaches to the fence,
It wraps it, rail by rail,
Till it is lost in fleeces;
It flings a crystal veil

On stump and stack and stem, –
The summer’s empty room,
Acres of seams where harvest were,
Recordless, but for them.

It ruffles wrists of posts,
As ankles of a queen, –
Then stills its artisans like ghosts,
Denying they have been.

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