Michael Finkel, Author
“It’s the ending, I believe, that Knight planned. He wasn’t going to leave behind a single recorded thought, not a photo, not an idea. No person would know of his experience. Nothing would ever be written about him. He would simply vanish, and no one on this teeming planet would notice. His end wouldn’t create so much as a ripple on North Pond. It would have been an existence, a life, of utter perfection.”
Found a can of this at C.A.N.:
It’s delicious, smoky, and hot, man! I’ve been adding it to spice up my fixin’s and I’ve learned to moderate it.
I can’t very easily put to words my regard for this man. I’m still reading, discovering, exalting in, and being astonished by his work. I’ll let some of the words of others that have experienced his thoughts live here:
Grass high under apple trees,
The bark of the trees rough and sexual,
the grass growing heavy and uneven.
We cannot bear disaster, like
We cannot know his legendary head
wide eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
Can there be beauty in math? I think so. I want to experiment with this idea for awhile. So, here goes a new series: The Beauty In Numbers. I’m going to off on a tangent (!) and study mathematics and art together.
"… it’s Ok for our hearts to be broken over the world. What else is a heart for? There’s a great intelligence there. We’ve been treating the earth as if it were a supply house and a sewer. We’ve been grabbing, extracting resources from it for our cars and our hair dryers and our bombs, and we’ve been pouring the waste into it until it’s overflowing, but our earth is not a supply house and a sewer. It is our larger body. We breathe it. We taste it. We are it, and it is time now that we venerate that incredible flowering of life that takes every aspect of our physicality."
Must … not … let … this … go!
I haven’t been working on learning the fretboard for months. Probably gone backward as a result.
*as my imagination strengthens, that I do not live in this world alone but in a thousand worlds. *(John Keats)
Work?
I don’t have to work.
I don’t have to do nothing
but eat, drink, stay black, and die.
This little old furnished room’s
