37th Law of Ma’at

February 13, 2012

I speak with good intent

If I
Should stay
I would only be in your way
So I’ll go
But I know
I’ll think of you every step of
the way

And I…
Will always
Love you, oohh
Will always
Love you
My darling you

That is all I’m taking with me
So good-bye
Please don’t cry
We both know I’m not what you
You need

And I…
Will always love you
Will always love you
You, ooh

I hope
life treats you kind
And I hope
you have all you’ve dreamed of
And I wish you joy
and happiness
But above all this
I wish you love

Will always love youuu
Will always love youuu

South Pole

February 10, 2012

The great Age of Exploration lead man around the globe, to explore the most remote parts of the earth seeking knowledge of Nature and of Self. Man is only limited by his imagination, and that’s what makes his work spellbinding: the possibility of going places we’ve never dreamed, of seeing the unseen.

What makes the Age of Exploration amazing is that cameras were available to document the adventures in details never before seen. The camera’s ability to provide a sense of not just fact but also of feeling is what makes the photographs featured in South Pole an extraordinary experience.

South Pole by Christine Dell’Amore (Assouline) is an extraordinary piece of history, documenting the Terra Nova Expedition of 1910-1913. Although it is a piece of history learned by every British student, to the rest of the globe, the adventures of Robert F. Scott and his five-man team are here to, for the first time, unfold….

Read the Full Story Here

Shelter Dogs by Traer Scott

February 8, 2012

As my files grew,
I realized that many of the dogs whose pictures I had in my archives,
never made it out alive.
—Traer Scott

Read the Story at La Lettre de la Photography

And You Can Bet Your Last Money, It’s Gonna Be A Stone Gas, Honey!

I figured as long as the music stayed hot and important and good,
that there would always be a reason for Soul Train.

We can’t make it important to anybody else.  … But it’s important to us.

It’s always a pleasure to find something that matters.

We wish you love, peace, and soul!

The Greatest Show on Earth

2012 ~ Enter the Dragon

January 29, 2012

The measure of the moral worth of a man is his happiness.
The better the man, the more happiness.
Happiness is the synonym of well-bring.

Do not have an attitude; open yourself and focus yourself and express yourself.
Reject external form that fails to express internal reality.

We can see through others only when we see through ourselves.

To understand your fear is the beginning of really seeing.

The question: I’m loved?

All quotes from Striking Thoughts by Bruce Lee

Fifteen Minutes Are Forever

January 17, 2012

It was early 2000. Sometime in the spring. The phone rang and I answered it. “Hello, powerHouse,” I said. I used to be a receptionist, so I played my part. Besides, we only had one line. I was new and I realized the best way to find out what was going down was to pick up the phone. Find out who was talking to who.

A voice grizzled and growled on the other line. “Who’s this?” a man asked. Well, well now, I wasn’t expecting that.

“It’s Sara,” I said.

“Hello Sara,” the man said, now sweetness and light. “You’re new there. What are you, an intern?”

Aww hell no, I seethed to myself, full of pride. Ahem. “I am the Marketing Director,” I replied, though I really didn’t know what that meant at all.

“Just the person I want to speak to,” the man went on. “I am Nat Finkelstein. Author of The Factory Years.”

Yea, I knew who he was. I had written catalogue copy for his book. In fact, it was his book that I used for sample copy to request permission to write all entries for the catalogue. You see, I wanted to write. More than anything else. So on a Friday I asked, “Can I write the catalogue?” I was bold.

“Can you?” I was asked.

I considered that. “I’ll write an entry over the weekend and if you like it, I will do the rest.”

I was so excited. I can’t even tell you. It was my shot at the big time, to be the voice of the company. I looked at the list and I felt lost. Until I came across The Factory Years. Then I was home. I sat in my apartment and the first sentence came to me: New York City, the 1960s: Inside a ramshackle studio known as The Factory, the post-war art world encountered the industrial revolution.

I loved that line. That’s the kind of writer I wanted to be. I submitted the copy, and it had passed muster. I was given the assignment for writing all copy from there forward.

So it came to pass that the first author I had spoken to was the one who inspired me to go for what I wanted most. Ahh, Nat, he loved the ladies and he loved to talk. He could not or would not be stopped. He loved it so much he suggested we meet up. Sure, sounds great.

And so we met. I don’t remember what it is we did. All I remember was this one moment in a taxi cab. “So what was Warhol like,” I asked curiously, only to be met with a howl from hell that I did not expect.


I know he said more but when his yelled, I went into shock. I didn’t understand at that time what I did wrong. But as I came to know Nat, as the years went by and we established a friendship that transcended the author/publisher vibe, I discovered that the issue was more complex. First, there was the way everyone had been feeding off The Factory.

It’s a strange thing, to have your life’s work defined by someone else’s success. I can imagine that for someone like Nat, there was absolutely no appeal—other than the cash—to that. Then there was the truth about The Factory, which Nat had written in the book, a dark place of vampirical energy, evidenced by the corpses it spit up. And lastly, there was Nat, his life so much greater than the time he spent with Warhol, though I always wondered about that—what was this Coney Island original doing in that vortex of gay males?

As I got to know Nat, I understood what it was. “You know why Warhol had you around?” I asked Nat one night, having that stoned revelation.

Nat looked at me with a mixture of doubt and curiosity, wanting to know what I would say, yet thinking, What the fuck is she talking about?

With the utmost confidence, I continued. “He had you around because you were that powerful, strong, heterosexual male energy. You were the straight guy, the No man, so to speak. You were the only one who would call him on his bullshit.”

Nat said nothing. I knew he liked this. Silence was agreement, that much I learned.

And so in honor of this, Nat’s 79th birthday, I want to send all of my love to the old man from the sea. There’s so much more I could say, ha, I could write a book. Nat is (I can’t say was, because even though he is dead, he is not gone) the real thing. He is strong, powerful, reliable. He is smart, funny, sensitive. He is deep, sophisticated, vulgar. He is the man I love. He is the man who taught me that life is for the fearless. He is the spirit that has taught me death is not the end but a new beginning. Nat Finkelstein is eternal. His magic lives forever.

oh yea, and you can thank Nat for the Fifteen Minutes line.
It was his.
Read the book and find out.




The don’t make ‘em like Claire de Rouen. They only made one. Never has publishing known such a woman. The thing about this industry is, everyone in it loves books. They love them so much they’re choking on them, corners caught in their throat. I’ve watched from the inside and the outside for well over a decade, gotten to know a few people here and there. But few have left an impression like that of Miss de Rouen. If only because there was never a bookseller quite so distinctive.

I’d only met Miss de Rouen a couple of times, at BEA and in London when Zwemmer’s was the finest spot for art books. I was immediately impressed by her knowledge, her verve, her intuitive understanding for the the medium, and her love. Love. It’s everything. It’s the only thing. It’s what makes the world go round. It is the reason people make books, sell books, buy books—especially now. Just looking at these photographs I feel a sense of comfort and joy. There is nothing quite as soothing as reading spines, flipping through pages, and thinking, “Which one of you will I be taking home?”

A great bookseller is one who reads on every level and understands how to translate the message to their audience. Because so much about books is a singular experience. We gravitate towards what we know, resistant to discovering the unknown. What is not understood is easily dismissed, and as I have learned during my years literacy is a precious gift. It is not merely the ability to read words, read pictures, read design. It is the expansion of our vocabulary and the exposure to new syntax that allows us to access ideas previously unconsidered.

The more fluent we become, the higher our standards, the greater our desire for that which challenges. We grow weary of the easy, bored by the obvious, numb to the masses. We want to feel something new, think something fresh, be inspired, enlightened, entertained, informed. A tall order that is not so easily filled, not unless there is a woman like Miss de Rouen to help guide the way. For the time she was here, the world was blessed for a true bookseller is slowly becoming a thing of the past…

Claire de Rouen Books

even in death there is no end

December 16, 2011

How do I know that loving life
isn’t simply a delusion?
How do I know
that when we’re afraid of death
we aren’t like someone
who left home as a young child
and has forgotten the way back?
How do I know that the dead
aren’t so happy that they wonder
why they once clung to life?

You may dream that you’re at a banquet
and wake up to find yourself miserable.
You may dream that you’re sobbing your heart out
and wake up to find yourself at ease.
How, in the middle of a dream,
can you know that you’re actually dreaming?
In the middle of a dream, you may even
try to interpret the dream;
only after you wake up
do you realize that you were dreaming.

Someday there will be
a great awakening, when we know
that all this was one big dream.

And when I say that we’re dreaming,
of course I am dreaming too.

Chapter 8
The Second Book of the Tao

the heart of the gospel

December 16, 2011

New Orleans: Thank you message in the grotto of Our Lady of Guadalupe Church; added by those for whom prayer or miracles were granted

como la bruja

December 13, 2011

The other night, I had a flashback. Is that the right word for a glimpse into a past life? I was lying in bed when I saw it, the witch and the warrior, my heart soared. I couldn’t see faces, only silhouettes. It was centuries ago, millenia I am sure. It was a different time and a different place. It was not understood but it was deeply ingrained.

Why this was happening, I cannot say. Much the same as the way the pathless path does not reveal itself. It is not a thing of the mind, though the mind provides access to it. It is channeling in its purest form, for the mind of the Universe is One, but because we are separate beings we think about about parts, rather than the whole.

I’ve never had a flashback. Doubt about the things that are non-ordinary forms of reality has been completely erased. And in its place has come Faith. Trust in my soul that what I experience does not need to be proven to anyone else.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the Shadow:
— Psalm of David.

Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long since gone my way into the region of shadows. For indeed strange things shall happen, and secret things be known, and many centuries shall pass away, ere these memorials be seen of men. And, when seen, there will be some to disbelieve, and some to doubt, and yet a few who will find much to ponder upon in the characters here graven with a stylus of iron.

The year had been a year of terror, and of feelings more intense than terror for which there is no name upon the earth. For many prodigies and signs had taken place, and far and wide, over sea and land, the black wings of the Pestilence were spread abroad. To those, nevertheless, cunning in the stars, it was not unknown that the heavens wore an aspect of ill; and to me, the Greek Oinos, among others, it was evident that now had arrived the alternation of that seven hundred and ninety-fourth year when, at the entrance of Aries, the planet Jupiter is conjoined with the red ring of the terrible Saturnus. The peculiar spirit of the skies, if I mistake not greatly, made itself manifest, not only in the physical orb of the earth, but in the souls, imaginations, and meditations of mankind.

Over some flasks of the red Chian wine, within the walls of a noble hall, in a dim city called Ptolemais, we sat, at night, a company of seven. And to our chamber there was no entrance save by a lofty door of brass: and the door was fashioned by the artisan Corinnos, and, being of rare workmanship, was fastened from within. Black draperies, likewise, in the gloomy room, shut out from our view the moon, the lurid stars, and the peopleless streets — but the boding and the memory of Evil they would not be so excluded. There were things around us and about of which I can render no distinct account — things material and spiritual — heaviness in the atmosphere — a sense of suffocation — anxiety — and, above all, that terrible state of existence which the nervous experience when the senses are keenly living and awake, and meanwhile the powers of thought lie dormant. A dead weight hung upon us. It hung upon our limbs — upon the household furniture — upon the goblets from which we drank; and all things were depressed, and borne down thereby — all things save only the flames of the seven lamps which illumined our revel. Uprearing themselves in tall slender lines of light, they thus remained burning all pallid and motionless; and in the mirror which their lustre formed upon the round table of ebony at which we sat, each of us there assembled beheld the pallor of his own countenance, and the unquiet glare in the downcast eyes of his companions.

Yet we laughed and were merry in our proper way — which was hysterical; and sang the songs of Anacreon — which are madness; and drank deeply — although the purple wine reminded us of blood. For there was yet another tenant of our chamber in the person of young Zoilus. Dead, and at full length he lay, enshrouded; the genius and the demon of the scene. Alas! he bore no portion in our mirth, save that his countenance, distorted with the plague, and his eyes, in which Death had but half extinguished the fire of the pestilence, seemed to take such interest in our merriment as the dead may haply take in the merriment of those who are to die. But although I, Oinos, felt that the eyes of the departed were upon me, still I forced myself not to perceive the bitterness of their expression, and gazing down steadily into the depths of the ebony mirror, sang with a loud and sonorous voice the songs of the son of Teios. But gradually my songs they ceased, and their echoes, rolling afar off among the sable draperies of the chamber, became weak, and undistinguishable, and so faded away. And lo! from among those sable draperies where the sounds of the song departed, there came forth a dark and undefined shadow — a shadow such as the moon, when low in heaven, might fashion from the figure of a man: but it was the shadow neither of man nor of God, nor of any familiar thing. And quivering awhile among the draperies of the room, it at length rested in full view upon the surface of the door of brass. But the shadow was vague, and formless, and indefinite, and was the shadow neither of man nor of God — neither God of Greece, nor God of Chaldaea, nor any Egyptian God. And the shadow rested upon the brazen doorway, and under the arch of the entablature of the door, and moved not, nor spoke any word, but there became stationary and remained. And the door whereupon the shadow rested was, if I remember aright, over against the feet of the young Zoilus enshrouded. But we, the seven there assembled, having seen the shadow as it came out from among the draperies, dared not steadily behold it, but cast down our eyes, and gazed continually into the depths of the mirror of ebony. And at length I, Oinos, speaking some low words, demanded of the shadow its dwelling and its appellation.

And the shadow answered, “I am Shadow, and my dwelling is near to the Catacombs of Ptolemais, and hard by those dim plains of Helusion which border upon the foul Charonian canal.” And then did we, the seven, start from our seats in horror, and stand trembling, and shuddering, and aghast, for the tones in the voice of the shadow were not the tones of any one being, but of a multitude of beings, and, varying in their cadences from syllable to syllable fell duskly upon our ears in the well-remembered and familiar accents of many thousand departed friends.

Fallen Angel

November 26, 2011


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