September 14, 2008

Sunrise... midday beach-scape... moonrise hammock-scape.

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85 comments:

Ann Althouse said...

The hammock picture, taken by Chris, reminds me of Rousseau's "Sleeping Gypsy.

Ruth Anne Adams said...

S-cape.

Simon Kenton said...

Odalisque!

knox said...

Brace yourself: certain of your male commenters are going to go crazy for that one!

Anonymous said...

Simon K.

Odalisque!

Perfect call.

Unknown said...

Why is Ann wearing a swimsuit from the 1920s?

Ron said...

Can I pour you a julep, m'dear?

Peter Hoh said...

Interesting. I wonder if the photo would evoke "Sleeping Gypsy" if it weren't for the striped beach towel.

rhhardin said...

All the pics need frisbees.

Meade said...

yeah. and dobies.

Meade said...

knox said...
"Brace yourself: certain of your male commenters are going to go crazy for that one!"

Except it's a maternal I love you gaze, not a come hither I want you to see my other knee gaze.

To really bring out the crazy males she'll need to show mo toe.

Bob said...

Ann Althouse said...

The hammock picture, taken by Chris, reminds me of Rousseau's "Sleeping Gypsy.


I would have said La Maja Vestida by Goya.

zeek said...

Hey, Ann, wanna play a game of Quordy and only find the naughty words?

Roger J. said...

An althouses crazy reporting for duty--have some madeira, m'dear? I am so glad algore invented this internet thing.

Anonymous said...

Off-topic political rant from DeltaMinusLiberal coming in 5...4...3...2...1...

KCFleming said...

Simon is going to die.
Happy.

Anonymous said...

How's come no one ever asks how much 'foreign policy' experience Jimmy Carter had when he was governor of Georgia and running for president?

Or Bill Clinton had when he was governor of Arkansas and running for president?

Both men had a lack of experiencence and that seemed perfectly acceptable to Dems at the time.

Sarah Palin, of course is being held to a different standard, because she is a girl and doesn't care for unlimited abortions.

Love the hammock photo. Very nice. Lovely, in fact.

s1c said...

omg-Ann showed a knee!!! Looks like a nice hammock you have there but what are you drinking?

amba said...

Shades of Rousseau -- where's the gypsy with the lute? the lion?

amba said...

Holy gee, I wrote that before seeing your first comment. Swear to God.

amba said...

Off topic: can you figure out the new SiteMeter???

Roger J. said...

OK Amba--your turn--show us your toes and a pic of you lounging in a hammock. Inquiring minds are always seeking the truth :) We dont comment on this blog for ideas, you know. we want the pics, baby, the pics.

Paco Wové said...

Typical. Pseudo-neutral Althouse, stuporous and drunk on her chardonnay of LIES!

Roger J. said...

On cue, enter Paco with extraordinarily bad metaphors. Thank gaia for such twits as you.

Christy said...

Here I've been imagining you off on a romantic weekend. -- Long walks hand in hand along the beach, falling into one another laughing as you avoided the waves, those feet getting massaged by a new lover as he ....

Disappointed, I am.

George M. Spencer said...

I did not know they was any races at Darlington this time of the year.

But since you find yourself in the Palmetto State, make sure to get yourself some fireworks and reading literature and clothing apparel about the Confederacy. Ft. Sumter makes a very pleasant getaway this time of the year.

Get some patriotic decals for your car, too, and some pecan logs, and peaches are going out of season, so you better buy a basket of them, and some peanuts, too.

Alex said...

Wonderful! Good afternoon everyone!

Trooper York said...

Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year's horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

James Wright

Brad V said...

Art evoked...I'd go vaguely with Munch's 'Young Woman on the Beach: The Lonely One'

Trooper York said...

The Hammock's Complaint

Who thinks how desolate and strange
To me must seem the autumn's change,
When housed in attic or in chest,
A lonely and unwilling guest,
I lie through nights of bleak December,
And think in silence, and remember.

I think of hempen fields, where I
Once played with insects floating by,
And joyed alike in sun and rain,
Unconscious of approaching pain.
I dwell upon my later lot,
Where, swung in some secluded spot
Between two tried and trusted trees,
All summer long I wooed the breeze.
With song of bee and call of bird
And lover's secrets overheard,
And sight and scent of blooming flowers,
To fill the happy sunlight's hours.
When verdant fields grow bare and brown,
When forest leaves come raining down,
When frost has mated with the weather
And all the birds go south together,
When drying boats turn up their keels,
Who wonders how the hammock feels?

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

David said...

How to Ruin a Poem.

(from Thom Gunn, "Modes of Control," a review of The Branch Will Not Break in The Yale Review (1964), rep. in Peter Stitt and Frank Graziano, eds. James Wright: The Heart of the Light (Ann Arbor, U Michigan P, 1990), p. 160)

[Gunn notes that the poem has excited attention among British and American critics who have cited it and then stated that they have "been rendered speechless by the newness of what they quote." Gunn then cites the entire poem, but continues.]

First, maybe, one should discuss the question of newness, which I certainly don’t consider much of a virtue in itself. The technique in this poem is not really very new; Kenneth Rexroth has been using it for years with great accomplishment, and the critics so impressed with the novelty of Wright’s work should take a look at Rexroth’s selected poems, Natural Numbers, just issued by New Directions, and in particular at a poem like "The Great Nebula of Andromeda." In any case, though the poets of The Sixties [a semi-annual edited by Robert Bly that polemicized for a free verse of "deep imagery" that touched emotions beyond the rational mind] are very sensitive to the accusation of Imagism and rebut it with great heat, there is a clear similarity between the early practice of Pound and their tender descriptions of blades of grass, etc. Pound claimed that the image "presents an intellectual and emotional complex in an instant of time." This, I imagine, is the only conceivable justification for a poem like the above, from which the operation of the discursive reason is deliberately excluded. Even the feeling of inexplicability is similar to the feeling of some of Pound’s poems, for example "Fish and the Shadow" [see below for "Fish and the Shadow"].

We are presented in Wright’s poem with several images which are actually distinct, though they are loosely connected by situation, followed by a general observation that may well have occurred to the poet after he had perceived the images, but is for us connected with them by neither logic nor association. There is a form of juxtaposition here in which neither image nor general statement gains much from each other. We may imagine a connection between the two, or a contrast, if we wish, but it is entirely up to us, since neither connection nor contrast is present in the poem, and what we imagine is going to be arbitrary. The poem, therefore, must depend on the strength of the expression in the isolated parts. The bronze butterfly is maybe a bit pretentious (Wright, like Bly, is fond of metals and jewels), the image of the cowbells is admirably plain, and the image of the droppings is remarkably vivid and very beautiful in itself. The two following images also succeed very well in isolation. The final line is perhaps exciting because we are surprised to encounter something so different from the rest of the poem, but it is certainly meaningless. The more one searches for an explicit meaning in it, the vaguer it becomes. Other general statements of different import could well be substituted for it and the poem would neither gain nor lose strength.

… [H]is so emphasizing one aspect of the poem – the image – has led to a weakening of all the other elements. The canceling out of interest in morality has led to a kind of dilettantism of attitude that he shares with [Robert] Bly, in their preoccupation with the results of fantasy, dreaming, laziness, etc. [The Branch Will Not Break] seems to me, whatever its virtues, a lightweight compared with his two others.

vbspurs said...

Modigliani!

No, actually Simon K. got it right. Odalisque, in all her sensual incarnations.

Cheers,
Victoria

Chennaul said...

Trooper-

Calzaghe.

There-that's all the damn poetry you need.

Enough with the maudlin Irish corkers, gawd.

Oh by the way-

The bet.

Your sign off-should you lose-

One of two choices-

Sarah Jessica Parker is my Dream Girl.

{some birdie told me you would enjoy this...heh.}

or-

Have I told you lately that the Pittsburgh Steelers have won five Super Bowls.

{Pick your poison}

vbspurs said...

Does anyone else feel like the past 2 days have been the equivalent of a burlesque show?

First the foot, showing a bit of colour. Now the full body but hidden in dark light.

Next the balloons, I tell you.

Trooper York said...

I just thought it was purty.

Peter Hoh said...

It appears that our Simon (not Kenton) is not able to type today.

Christy said...

Ann, what lion is nibbling at your ear?

I'd go with John Singer Sargent's The Brook seeing as how you have a child at hand.

Trooper York said...

Hammock Reminiscing


I lie here in this hammock, which is, tied from tree to tree
Just like to lie here thinking things, things of you and me.

Let the gentle wind, loll past, do what it may please
It’s really rather pleasant here, a swinging in the breeze.

My thoughts do wander idly, down a passage of my life
That’s given many memories and, bought its share of strife.

The gentle rocking of the hammock, and the rustle of the leaves
Combines to form an image, like a’bringing in the sheaves.

More a steady pace of walking, done carefully up a track
With many days provisions, a fastened firmly to our back.

Of climbing up a rugged ridge, and the struggle down again
A suffering head down effort, bringing, an endless wave of pain.

A hissing spitting little stove, in yon lost and lonely valley
That brings a smile at our lips, and makes us want to dally.

Now civilisation far behind, for us, no longer thought
What cares and petty worries, they now amount to naught.

A mountain stream inviting, bitter cold, upon the skin
Sweat and clothes discarded, compelled to jump on in.

All aches and itchy patches, succumb, to the waters icy embrace
If we feeling out of sorts, the blues away will chase.

Lying, listening to the sounds of night, the bush, it never sleeps
A long way from where we work, and the bleating of the sheep.

A home was where we made it, or, where we found ourselves
Sometimes in huts of pioneer fame, with memories on the shelves.

Other times by a stream, covered, with a blanket made of star
The finest fabric ever wove was ours, the best by ever far.

Cold, dark and watery ways, a tunnel, springs to mind
Splashing ever onward in the darkness, what were we too find?

The bobbing lights was all, we had, to chase away the gloom
We never thought the sky was blue, deep in the mountain's womb.

And then with perseverance, persistence, suddenly we were out
Relief and laughter and smiles around, enough to give a shout.

A funny little hut, built no doubt, by government degrees
Is up a slope upon the ridge, takes us further among the trees.

Weary legs aching bad, gasping, and struggling under goad
No ones happier for indeed, we have found the mother load.

Yes my constant companions, we shall not weep
How can I ever thankyou, my weary aching feet.

Through it all, we as friends, the stress and burden shared
Just goes to show a friendship strong, very aptly paired.

Memory and me, and you make three
Let us rock here gently, tied from tree to tree.

Ivan Pine

Roger J. said...

The most fair lady Victoria--I suspect you have never seen a real burlesque show. There was a seedy theater on 79th street that featured strippers. They actually had a live band consisting of a saxophonist, drummer and keyboard guy. The girls came out, did the obligatory strip thing, which in those days required pasties, and would, if we lucky flash us most of the private parts---Ahhhhh---those were the days. Look up Blaze Storm; she might be mentioned on the internet. Oh to be young and horny again, rather than old and horny.

Chennaul said...

Na I'm talking about the terds of Seamus you were droppin' in a thread the other day.

Maybe morbid not maudlin is the word.

The drownin' cats stuff.


anyways off to do the exciting stuff laundry.

Roger J. said...

And by the way--what is all this poetry crap--I'd like to boink her.
Of course there is that fat big toe thing going on--but I can overlook small physical imperfections.

Trooper York said...

Sorry I just renewed my poetic license yesterday.

Anonymous said...

Roger J. said: "And by the way--what is all this poetry crap--I'd like to boink her."

I've seen that pose before. It's definitely post-boink.

Roger J. said...

And I suspect you had to stand in line all day

Trooper York said...

Plus I am a little sick of political troll turds littering the landscape.

That's why I thought of kittens drowing in a bucket, mewling and caterwhauling, trying to scratch their way out of the galvinized steel bucket of reality.

Hey but that's just me.

Trooper York said...

And the WORLD CHAMPION NEW YORK GIANTS ARE KICKING ASS.

They are poetry in motion.

Did I tell you lately that the Giants won the Super Bowl?

vbspurs said...

Michael_H. *polite clearing of throat*

Remember who is reading this thread, and who took the picture.

/clucking Victorian scold mode off

Roger J. said...

Trooper--not recently apparently--I always assumed it was the colts. but with no tv I didnt keep up. really the Giants? nahh couldnt be. They have been losers since the Colts beat them in overtime in 1958.

George M. Spencer said...

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

Mark Strand

Trooper York said...

It must have been a long time Roger. The Colts have sucked so bad for so long that they went out for a pack cigarettes one night and ran out on Baltimore. Sort of like Barry's dad. You do know that they are in Indy now. They are a pretty good team now that they have the lesser Manning brother.

Chennaul said...

Ok -gawd that makes sense I thought you were referring to she who shall not be named as the victim.

The trolls-that's a hell of a lot better.

Sheeze-they are kickin' ass but come on-it's St. Louis.

Man I gotta stop procrastinating at Althouse-I'm off to scrub toilets or somethin'.

Trooper York said...

Just wait till we rip apart the Steel Lace Curtain.

Anonymous said...

Vic - Is the explanation always 100% accurate? Or perhaps an artful misdirection?

Can't a boy wonder?

Trooper York said...

"Can't a boy wonder?"

That's what Bat girl said to Robin when he wouldn't get into the hammock and wanted to watch gladiator movies on the million dollar movie instead.

vbspurs said...

Can't a boy wonder?

This is a blog not Marvel Comics, Michael_H! Get a hold of yourself, man.

...a little further down. Almost there. Ahhh.

;)

Cheers,
Victoria

Trooper York said...

Vicy, you really don't understand. He already has a hold of himself. Jeeez.

vbspurs said...

I was reading the TalkLeft link suggested by an Althouse commenter.

It struck me that their comments, at once so on point but so earnest, create an atmosphere very unlike that of Althouse's. I felt rather sorry for them, at that moment. No toes. No Odalisques. Not even a vague promise of balloons.

Now, we all realise that possibly Ann Althouse is the new Ayn Rand.

We all might be along for her brand of pop culture-liberatian ride. Rand famously had her acolytes, who hung on her every Russian-accented word from free markets to Charlie's Angels.

But, I ask you, is that so wrong?

Are we too not human and therefore darling?

If you tickle our red-toes, do we not squeal like a pig with lipstick?

Must we always be so sombre when talking of the future of the free world, or can we not delight at hunting down a vista from a plane, confident that our answers are the bestest ones yet?

I say we can. Indeed, we must.

So bring it, Professor Althouse! And make it snappy.

Cheers,
Victoria

vbspurs said...

Vicy, you really don't understand. He already has a hold of himself. Jeeez.

This is what I get for not reading "For Boys Only: The Biggest, Baddest Book Ever".

Chapter 8: Reading blogs causes blindness.

rhhardin said...

Hurricane Ike passes over Central Ohio, with Doberman and frisbee. Video!

Let the MSM beat this for sensationalism. Waving trees! Wind sound!

Left-handed frisbee throw! I didn't know I could do that.

vbspurs said...

Awesome, RH. Nice yard, dude. :)

rhhardin said...

Rand famously had her acolytes, who hung on her every Russian-accented word from free markets to Charlie's Angels.

Shortly afterward, it became known that Rothbard's wife, Joey, was a devout Protestant, a practicing Christian who actually believed that faith and altruism had a positive moral value. When the last tremors caused by this revelation finally faded away, a pall of silence fell over the living room. There was a Christian in the house. Not a renegade Christian who acknowleged the sins of her past and was ready to make amends for them. Not an apostate Christian who had forever forsaken the principles to which she formerly adhered. But a real, live, breathing Protestant who admitted belief in the existence of a Supreme Being! A heretic such as this was occupying the armchair in Ayn Rand's living room. And was married to one of Rand's most gifted protigis, no less, who now sat beside her with a look of villainous unconcern on his face.

Well, if Murray Rothbard's wife was a Christian there could only be one logical explanation of it: she had obviously never read Ayn Rand's proof that a Supreme Being does not, did not, will not, and could not exist. Ever.

Branden hustled her into an adjoining room and sat her down at a desk with a handful of Rand's anti-God essays. Joey, relieved to be out of earshot of all this talk of second-handers and floating concepts, pored over the pamphlets while the meeting continued in the other room. When she completed her assignment and returned to the gathering, the drone of conversation suddenly stopped and she found herself skewered by some twenty pairs of drilling eyes.

Branden took the initiative. ``Well?''

``I found it all very interesting, Nathan.''

``She found it very interesting,'' Branden repeated the information to the others at no extra charge. ``Anything elze?''

``The arguments are very good, but I'm still not an atheist if that's what you're getting at.''

Rand decided to take over. This was unquestionably a matter that demanded her personal intervention. ``You haf read ze proofs?''

``They're all very good and throught-provoking, Ayn. But you don't shakes a lifetime of religious faith with a few articles. I'll have to think about it for a while.''

``You haf read ze proofs and you ztill inzist on wallowing in your mindless myztizizm? Faith is irrational which means ...''

``Which means zat faith is immoral,'' said Branden.

``Which means it is anti-life,'' said Peikoff.

``Which means it is anti-man,'' said Hessen.

``Which means it is anti...anti...'' said Barbara Branden, searching for a suitable phrase.

``Enof!'' said Rand, clapping her hands. ``Zere has been enoff zmall talk for vun night. Do you haf anymore questions to ask me?''

This was the signal that the meeting was adjourned for the night. No. No one had any questions. Ayn was getting a headache. It was time for everyone to go home.

_It Usually Begins with Ayn Rand_ Jerome Tuccille p.22-23

Anonymous said...

"Vicy, you really don't understand. He already has a hold of himself. Jeeez."

Not unlike Trooper when the NY Giants are frolicking on the big screen whilst wearing very tight-fitting pantalones.

Trooper York said...

Damn straight Baby.

WE AEE THE CHAMPIONS

Nothing is sweeter than defensive touchdowns.

Well except for the occasional toe.

Did I tell you lately that the Giants won the Super Bowl?

Trooper York said...

Thats

WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS

It's hard to type with one hand.

rhhardin said...

hard to type with one hand

Try with 2 hands:

in july, oh my killjoy johnny, i'll look in upon my jumpy polo pony up in hilly honolulu

amba said...

What's with the toe fetish??

amba said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Roger J. said...

Trooper--you are an insolent young pup--Johnny U and the colts---makes those turkeys you call world champions look like losers--Like to see your Giants go one platoon.. Get over it dude, one platoon football ruled.

Will Cate said...

re the Frisbee hurricane dog - That was almost as much fun as watching my TN Titans in Cincy today, in the Ike wind, beating the Bengals to a pulp.

With their backup quarterback.

But back to Ann.

Girl! You need to get down south more, is all I gots ta say...

section9 said...

Ann, do you do any work? Or do you just laze around in the hammock and blog all day?

Damn good lookin' woman, if I do say so myself, btw!

section9 said...

BTW, Anne, do you know, by any chance, if the Miami Dolphins left their team defense under your hammock?

I mean....worse than pathetic. The Cardinals feasted on them today.

ricpic said...

I have wasted my life.

"I have wasted my life," said the poet in the hammock,
Because what? because beauty abounds?

Let me tell you mister poet, it matters not to beauty --
Your agony that beauty freely bounds.

So get over yourself, get back to your word-crabbed duty,
Knowing full well catching beauty's out of bounds.

Mrs. Lillian Forkliss said...

Blonds don't belong in the sun, as the fair-skinned Althouses continue to destroy their complexions.

Too much sun exposure, and boredom, does not a memorable vacation make.

Chet said...

Maxine, and her delicate complexion, never sees the light of day.

She spends her time in her all-electric home admiring her Mark Cross pens.

Trooper York said...

It's pretty interesting that I posted 30 poems in the last two days and only one of them elicited any comments.

Good show RH.

Trooper York said...

The chickens have escaped

The chickens restless
their cage looms high
so they built a ladder
to reach the sky

The car dismantled
the engine dead
the farmer angry
demands their heads

He calls for the jump leads
'The chickens escaped'
but alas his cry
came far too late

They ran from oppression
and hid in a tree
now the search is over
the chickens roam free

Ivan Bellew

ricpic said...

I wish I had a Mark Cross pen. Then I'd be happy.


Hey, Troop! I responded to your James Wright poem with a-not-bad-if-I-do-say-so-myself-and-I-do counterpoem. Whatsamatta, I don't rate a mention?!

Simon said...

[Still chuckling at Pogo's comment]

Trooper York said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Trooper York said...

Ricpic, dude I asked where you were.
Of course I saw your poem. You are the poet laureate of Althouse.

I was holding the poetry corner down all by myself. It's not so easy to cut and paste ya know. My specialty is quasi-pornographic insanity.

Trooper York said...

Grusinskaya (bursts into their suite, with a vein pulsing in her neck): What have you done you pasty faced puta? You have published my secret photos for all the world to see. Now everyone is talking. How could you?
Miss Peggy Noonan (cowering on a settee, holding a whimpering dog, the marks and bruises of Grusinskaya attempted strangulation vivid on her alabaster skin).
But I thought you would be proud. Look at this languid pose in you black domatrix pajamas that I love so much. Your son young Werther did such a good job in the composition. He captured you sensuous nature without revealing too much of your cootch. Although the kneecaps are a little knobby. And your blouse looks like you stuffed a squirrel in there. But it is still most comely.
Grusinskaya: You fool! That was a private matter not to be bandied about in club house or tavern. Who knows what louts might pleasure themselves at the site of me in my dishabille.
Miss Peggy Noonan: Well what of this photo of your tender tootsies. Why did you take such a picture if not to taunt your many admirers? That young law student is always corresponding with you making his longing manifest like a starving man staring at an éclair. Or your other friend, the chicken fancier. Even he was moved to drop his squab and comment on your pulchritude.
Grusinskaya: My admirers are none of your nevermind. If you want to remain in my company you must shape up and bow down.
Miss Peggy Noonan: Well you did not say that last night when you were spanking me with your first edition of Blackstone and massaging my love button with you freakishly long toes.
Grusinskaya: You blowsy bitch, I told you that I control you. You must be punished! (She jumps across the table and begins to throttle the albino opinion maker)
Miss Peggy Noonan: Pllleeaasse sssttttoooopppp iiitttttt, IIIIIIIII wwwwwiiiiillll lllllleeeeeaaaaveeee hhhhhiissss ccccchhhhiiiiicccckkkkkeeennnn aaaaallllllooooonnnnneeeeeee!!!!!!
Grusinskaya: Shut up you pervert…you know you are enjoying this
Miss Peggy Noonan: Yooouu onlllly hurtttt meeee cccaaauuuse yoooouuu loooovvve meeeeee (She falls unconscious as her nipples come fully erect and her shift becomes damp).
Baron Felix von Geigern's dog; Woof!
(Grand Hotel, 1932)

Unknown said...

She basks in beauty.

Dactyl said...

Who's the hot blonde?

photoman said...

Just a small pointer. The middle picture of the beach has the horizon dead center. It should be at the top third of the picture. The color is great!

Unknown said...

good grief

they should come out with a camera
that has a gyroscopic option that wrestles
the photographer's grip, automatically
placing the horizon according to the kodak
book of etiquette

beautiful languid moment