Sunday, May 05, 2013
Friday, November 09, 2012
Thursday, November 08, 2012
Step right up and get some art...and make a difference while you're at it!
Seth Apter of The Altered Page. I really hope you will consider making a bid - your ❤❤❤ will grow several sizes, I'm tellin' ya! If the bidding for Bundle #5, including the canvas pictured here, goes above $250, I promise I will include several exciting "extras" for the winner...Please support our efforts, and score some swell treats, for yourself or to pass on to your own lucky recipient. And thank you, from the bottom of my heart and the depths of my soul!
Sunday, August 26, 2012
More Trippin' - Sosúa, Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic July 2012
Friday, August 03, 2012
Trippin' - Sosúa, Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic July 2012
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
The Altered Page: Buried Treasure
MY TIME OF DAY
My time of day is the dark time
A couple of deals before dawn
When the street belongs to the cop
And the janitor with the mop
And the grocery clerks are all gone,When the smell of the rainwashed pavement
Comes up clean, and fresh, and cold
And the streetlamp light
Fills the gutter with gold
That's my time of day
My time of day.
Saturday, July 07, 2012
History is now and England
From Four Quartets: Little Gidding
T.S. Eliot 1942
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always--
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.