Seattle evening

Dungeness Spit, the longest natural sand spit in the US.

This taken on a flight up to the city of Victoria on Vancouver Island.  

Back in Seattle, rather late in the day, feeling a bit disgombobulated, A disgombobulatory picture:

Talking of languages, in this house I forgot my autochthonous tongue. 220 Rembrandt lane, Strathaven, Harare, Zimbabwe.

I am told the first language I ever spoke was Shona (or whatever form of it was used by the servants and their children who worked around the house on the farm). The time in this house is a wall in my mind beyond which I cannot see.

My aptitude for other languages is miserable to non-existent, nonetheless I am endlessly fascinated by other literatures (especially Spanish and French, for whatever reason). One of my favorites in the French realm is the Oulipo movement. This is a wonderful example of what has come out of it.

I'm surprised there isn't an iPhone app. The picture, by the way, has a decidedly Oulipian aspect to it, quite apart from, the subject, consider what they're all looking at.

In honor of Microsoft being superseded by Apple in the large company stakes, a little quote from Edsgar Dijkstra (the 'dsg' is not a typo):

Many companies that have made themselves dependent on IBM-equipment (and in doing so have sold their soul to the devil) will collapse under the sheer weight of the unmastered complexity of their data processing systems.

One has to ask, "Is Microsoft the new IBM?" (by the by, it does say "Redmond" on the back of the ambulance)

Lilies, a favorite flower of many Joans. I think women see them rather differently from men.

 Touchy ground here I know, but true all the same. Consider D.H. Lawrence on the subject::

Dear Adelaida, she is irreproachable. In every age, in every clime, she is dear, at any rate to the masculine soul, this soft, tear-blenched,blonde, ill-used thing. She must be ill-used and unfortunate. Dear Gretchen, dear Desdemona, dear Iphigenia, dear Dame aux Camélias, dear Lucy of Lammermoor, dear Mary Magdalene, dear, pathetic, unfortunate soul, in all ages and lands, how we love you. In the theatre she blossoms forth, she is the lily of the stage. Young and inexperienced as I am, I have broken my heart over her several times. I could write a sonnet-sequence to her, yes, the fair, pale, tear-stained thing, white-robed, with her hair down her back; I could call her by a hundred names, in a hundred languages, Melisande, Elizabeth, Juliet, Butterfly, Phèdre, Minnehaha, etc. Each new time I hear her voice, with its faint clang of tears, my heart grows big and hot, and my bones melt. I detest her, but it is no good. My heart begins to swell like a bud under the plangent rain. (From Twilight in Italy)

Then again, Lawrence probably deserves gender all on his own.

Bananas (Banahnahs as I would say)

Brings to mind Blake's fearful symmetry -

Banaaanaaa, Banaaanaa burning bright

though perhaps it only resonates in my fearfully asymmetric mind.

Just loved the High School Jazz Band - not sure if they were local or not, but they were a lot of fun to listen to.

This one made me laugh - bin there, done that - "As well as making me late, couldn't you drop me off somewhere I didn't have to walk in front of the whole band? While they were playing?" Never mind, the dog didn't take a blind bit of notice.

There are so many beautiful things around us, though rarely do they stand on their own, rather place, time, light and shadow, a coincidence of ideas make something that catches my eye. There are, there should be, limits on how far something can be pursued. I am content to be constrained in how I see things, in fact I welcome it.

We not only steal from others but also from ourselves when we insist on making things how we want them or on going  where some inadvertent profanity leads us. Maybe that's the key to the humanist perspective, there is beauty in the sacredness of the other, and endless ugliness in defiling it.

There are something like 250 names mentioned in this one astonishing passage from the Mabinogion (please, don't even try and read it - I have just provided the text to give you a feel for what it looks like). One can only marvel to think that the Celtic bards used to learn this (and all the rest of the Mabinogion) by heart and have to repeat it flawlessly before being considered qualified. I have to wonder, what messages are there hidden in the text, why just those names and in that order?

And Arthur took a golden comb, and scissors, whereof the loops were of silver, and he combed his hair.  And Arthur inquired of him who he was.  “For my heart warms unto thee, and I know that thou art come of my blood.  Tell me, therefore, who thou art.”  “I will tell thee,” said the youth.  “I am Kilhwch, the son of Kilydd, the son of Prince Kelyddon, by Goleuddydd, my mother, the daughter of Prince Anlawdd.”  “That is true,” said Arthur; “thou art my cousin.  Whatsoever boon thou mayest ask, thou shalt receive, be it what it may that thy tongue shall name.”  “Pledge the truth of Heaven and the faith of thy kingdom thereof.”  “I pledge it thee, gladly.”  “I crave of thee then, that thou obtain for me Olwen, the daughter of Yspaddaden Penkawr; and this boon I likewise seek at the hands of thy warriors.  I seek it from Kai, and Bedwyr, and Greidawl Galldonyd, and Gwythyr the son of Greidawl, and Greid the son of Eri, and Kynddelig Kyvarwydd, and Tathal Twyll Goleu, and Maelwys the son of Baeddan, and Crychwr the son of Nes, and Cubert the son of Daere, and Percos the son of Poch, and Lluber Beuthach, and Corvil Bervach, and Gwynn the son of Nudd, and Edeyrn the son of Nudd, and Gadwy the son of Geraint, and Prince Fflewddur Fflam, and Ruawn Pebyr the son of Dorath, and Bradwen the son of Moren Mynawc, and Moren Mynawc himself, and Dalldav the son of Kimin Côv, and the son of Alun Dyved, and the son of Saidi, and the son of Gwryon, and Uchtryd Ardywad Kad, and Kynwas Curvagyl, and Gwrhyr Gwarthegvras, and Isperyr Ewingath, and Gallcoyt Govynynat, and Duach, and Grathach, and Nerthach, the sons of Gwawrddur Kyrvach (these men came forth from the confines of hell), and Kilydd Canhastyr, and Canastyr Kanllaw, and Cors Cant-Ewin, and Esgeir Gulhwch Govynkawn, and Drustwrn Hayarn, and Glewlwyd Gavaelvawr, and Lloch Llawwynnyawc, and Aunwas Adeiniawc, and Sinnoch the son of Seithved, and Gwennwynwyn the son of Naw, and Bedyw the son of Seithved, and Gobrwy the son of Echel Vorddwyttwll, and Echel Vorddwyttwll himself, and Mael the son of Roycol, and Dadweir Dallpenn, and Garwyli the son of Gwythawc Gwyr, and Gwythawc Gwyr himself, and Gormant the son of Ricca, and Menw the son of Teirgwaedd, and Digon the son of Alar, and Selyf the son of Smoit, and Gusg the son of Atheu, and Nerth the son of Kedarn, and Drudwas the son of Tryffin, and Twrch the son of Perif, and Twrch the son of Annwas, and Iona king of France, and Sel the son of Selgi, and Teregud the son of Iaen, and Sulyen the son of Iaen, and Bradwen the son of Iaen, and Moren the son of Iaen, and Siawn the son of Iaen, and Cradawc the son of Iaen.  (They were men of Caerdathal, of Arthur’s kindred on his father’s side.)  Dirmyg the son of Kaw, and Justic the son of Kaw, and Etmic the son of Kaw, and Anghawd the son of Kaw, and Ovan the son of Kaw, and Kelin the son of Kaw, and Connyn the son of Kaw, and Mabsant the son of Kaw, and Gwyngad the son of Kaw, and Llwybyr the son of Kaw, and Coth the son of Kaw, and Meilic the son of Kaw, and Kynwas the son of Kaw, and Ardwyad the son of Kaw, and Ergyryad the son of Kaw, and Neb the son of Kaw, and Gilda the son of Kaw, and Calcas the son of Kaw, and Hueil the son of Kaw (he never yet made a request at the hand of any Lord).  And Samson Vinsych, and Taliesin the chief of the bards, and Manawyddan the son of Llyr, and Llary the son of Prince Kasnar, and Ysperni the son of Fflergant king of Armorica, and Saranhon the son of Glythwyr, and Llawr Eilerw, and Annyanniawc the son of Menw the son of Teirgwaedd, and Gwynn the son of Nwyvre, and Fflam the son of Nwyvre, and Geraint the son of Erbin, and Ermid the son of Erbin, and Dyvel the son of Erbin, and Gwynn the son of Ermid, and Kyndrwyn the son of Ermid, and Hyveidd Unllenn, and Eiddon Vawr Vrydic, and Reidwn Arwy, and Gormant the son of Ricca (Arthur’s brother by his mother’s side; the Penhynev of Cornwall was his father), and Llawnrodded Varvawc, and Nodawl Varyf Twrch, and Berth the son of Kado, and Rheidwn the son of Beli, and Iscovan Hael, and Iscawin the son of Panon, and Morvran the son of Tegid (no one struck him in the battle of Camlan by reason of his ugliness; all thought he was an auxiliary devil.  Hair had he upon him like the hair of a stag).  And Sandde Bryd Angel (no one touched him with a spear in the battle of Camlan because of his beauty; all thought he was a ministering angel).  And Kynwyl Sant (the third man that escaped from the battle of Camlan, and he was the last who parted from Arthur on Hengroen his horse).  And Uchtryd the son of Erim, and Eus the son of Erim, and Henwas Adeinawg the son of Erim, and Henbedestyr the son of Erim, and Sgilti Yscawndroed the son of Erim. (Unto these three men belonged these three qualities, - With Henbedestyr there was not any one who could keep pace, either on horseback or on foot; with Henwas Adeinawg, no four-footed beast could run the distance of an acre, much less could it go beyond it; and as to Sgilti Yscawndroed, when he intended to go upon a message for his Lord, he never sought to find a path, but knowing whither he was to go, if his way lay through a wood he went along the tops of the trees.  During his whole life, a blade of reed grass bent not beneath his feet, much less did one ever break, so lightly did he tread.)  Teithi Hên the son of Gwynhan (his dominions were swallowed up by the sea, and he himself hardly escaped, and he came to Arthur; and his knife had this peculiarity, that from the time that he came there no haft would ever remain upon it, and owing to this a sickness came over him, and he pined away during the remainder of his life, and of this he died).  And Carneddyr the son of Govynyon Hên, and Gwenwynwyn the son of Nav Gyssevin, Arthur’s champion, and Llysgadrudd Emys, and Gwrbothu Hên (uncles unto Arthur were they, his mother’s brothers).  Kulvanawyd the son of Goryon, and Llenlleawg Wyddel from the headland of Ganion, and Dyvynwal Moel, and Dunard king of the North, Teirnon Twryf Bliant, and Tegvan Gloff, and Tegyr Talgellawg, Gwrdinal the son of Ebrei, and Morgant Hael, Gwystyl the son of Rhun the son of Nwython, and Llwyddeu the son of Nwython, and Gwydre the son of Llwyddeu (Gwenabwy the daughter of [Kaw] was his mother, Hueil his uncle stabbed him, and hatred was between Hueil and Arthur because of the wound).  Drem the son of Dremidyd (when the gnat arose in the morning with the sun, he could see it from Gelli Wic in Cornwall, as far off as Pen Blathaon in North Britain).  And Eidyol the son of Ner, and Glwyddyn Saer (who constructed Ehangwen, Arthur’s Hall).  Kynyr Keinvarvawc (when he was told he had a son born he said to his wife, ‘Damsel, if thy son be mine, his heart will be always cold, and there will be no warmth in his hands; and he will have another peculiarity, if he is my son he will always be stubborn; and he will have another peculiarity, when he carries a burden, whether it be large or small, no one will be able to see it, either before him or at his back; and he will have another peculiarity, no one will be able to resist fire and water so well as he will; and he will have another peculiarity, there will never be a servant or an officer equal to him’).  Henwas, and Henwyneb (an old companion to Arthur).  Gwallgoyc (another; when he came to a town, though there were three hundred houses in it, if he wanted anything, he would not let sleep come to the eyes of any one whilst he remained there).  Berwyn the son of Gerenhir, and Paris king of France, and Osla Gyllellvawr (who bore a short broad dagger.  When Arthur and his hosts came before a torrent, they would seek for a narrow place where they might pass the water, and would lay the sheathed dagger across the torrent, and it would form a bridge sufficient for the armies of the three Islands of Britain, and of the three islands adjacent, with their spoil).  Gwyddawg the son of Menestyr (who slew Kai, and whom Arthur slew, together with his brothers, to revenge Kai).  Garanwyn the son of Kai, and Amren the son of Bedwyr, and Ely Amyr,and Rheu Rhwyd Dyrys, and Rhun Rhudwern, and Eli, and Trachmyr (Arthur’s chief huntsmen).  And Llwyddeu the son of Kelcoed, and Hunabwy the son of Gwryon, and Gwynn Godyvron, and Gweir Datharwenniddawg, and Gweir the son of Cadell the son of Talaryant, and Gweir Gwrhyd Ennwir, and Gweir Paladyr Hir (the uncles of Arthur, the brothers of his mother).  The sons of Llwch Llawwynnyawg (from beyond the raging sea).  Llenlleawg Wyddel, and Ardderchawg Prydain.  Cas the son of Saidi, Gwrvan Gwallt Avwyn, and Gwyllennhin the king of France, and Gwittart the son of Oedd king of Ireland.  Garselit Wyddel, Panawr Pen Bagad, and Ffleudor the son of Nav, Gwynnhyvar mayor of Cornwall and Devon (the ninth man that rallied the battle of Camlan).  Keli and Kueli, and Gilla Coes Hydd (he would clear three hundred acres at one bound: the chief leaper of Ireland was he).  Sol, and Gwadyn Ossol, and Gwadyn Odyeith.  (Sol could stand all day upon one foot.  Gwadyn Ossol, if he stood upon the top of the highest mountain in the world, it would become a level plain under his feet.  Gwadyn Odyeith, the soles of his feet emitted sparks of fire when they struck upon things hard, like the heated mass when drawn out of the forge.  He cleared the way for Arthur when he came to any stoppage.)  Hirerwm and Hiratrwm.  (The day they went on a visit three Cantrevs provided for their entertainment, and they feasted until noon and drank until night, when they went to sleep.  And then they devoured the heads of the vermin through hunger, as if they had never eaten anything.  When they made a visit they left neither the fat nor the lean, neither the hot nor the cold, the sour nor the sweet, the fresh nor the salt, the boiled nor the raw.)  Huarwar the son of Aflawn (who asked Arthur such a boon as would satisfy him.  It was the third great plague of Cornwall when he received it.  None could get a smile from him but when he was satisfied).  Gware Gwallt Euryn.  The two cubs of Gast Rhymi, Gwyddrud and Gwyddneu Astrus.  Sugyn the son of Sugnedydd (who would suck up the sea on which were three hundred ships so as to leave nothing but a dry strand.  He was broad-chested).  Rhacymwri, the attendant of Arthur (whatever barn he was shown, were there the produce of thirty ploughs within it, he would strike it with an iron flail until the rafters, the beams, and the boards were no better than the small oats in the mow upon the floor of the barn).  Dygyflwng and Anoeth Veidawg.  And Hir Eiddyl, and Hir Amreu (they were two attendants of Arthur).  And Gwevyl the son of Gwestad (on the day that he was sad, he would let one of his lips drop below his waist, while he turned up the other like a cap upon his head).  Uchtryd Varyf Draws (who spread his red untrimmed beard over the eight-and-forty rafters which were in Arthur’s Hall).  Elidyr Gyvarwydd.  Yskyrdav and Yscudydd (two attendants of Gwenhwyvar were they.  Their feet were swift as their thoughts when bearing a message).  Brys the son of Bryssethach (from the Hill of the Black Fernbrake in North Britain).  And Grudlwyn Gorr.  Bwlch, and Kyfwlch, and Sefwlch, the sons of Cleddyf Kyfwlch, the grandsons of Cleddyf Difwlch.  (Their three shields were three gleaming glitterers; their three spears were three pointed piercers; their three swords were three grinding gashers; Glas, Glessic, and Gleisad.  Their three dogs, Call, Cuall, and Cavall.  Their three horses, Hwyrdyddwd, and Drwgdyddwd, and Llwyrdyddwg.  Their three wives, Och, and Garym, and Diaspad.  Their three grandchildren, Lluched, and Neved, and Eissiwed.  Their three daughters, Drwg, and Gwaeth, and Gwaethav Oll.  Their three hand-maids, Eheubryd the daughter of Kyfwlch, Gorascwrn the daughter of Nerth, Ewaedan the daughter of Kynvelyn Keudawd Pwyll the half-man.)  Dwnn Diessic Unbenn, Eiladyr the son of Pen Llarcau, Kynedyr Wyllt the son of Hettwn Talaryant, Sawyl Ben Uchel, Gwalchmai the son of Gwyar, Gwalhaved the son of Gwyar, Gwrhyr Gwastawd Ieithoedd (to whom all tongues were known), and Kethcrwm the Priest.  Clust the son of Clustveinad (though he were buried seven cubits beneath the earth, he would hear the ant fifty miles off rise from her nest in the morning).  Medyr the son of Methredydd (from Gelli Wic he could, in a twinkling, shoot the wren through the two legs upon Esgeir Oervel in Ireland).  Gwiawn Llygad Cath (who could cut a haw from the eye of the gnat without hurting him).  Ol the son of Olwydd (seven years before he was born his father’s swine were carried off, and when he grew up a man he tracked the swine, and brought them back in seven herds).  Bedwini the Bishop (who blessed Arthur’s meat and drink).  For the sake of the golden-chained daughters of this island.  For the sake of Gwenhwyvar its chief lady, and Gwennhwyach her sister, and Rathtyeu the only daughter of Clemenhill, and Rhelemon the daughter of Kai, and Tannwen the daughter of Gweir Datharwenîddawg.  Gwenn Alarch the daughter of Kynwyl Canbwch.  Eurneid the daughter of Clydno Eiddin.  Eneuawc the daughter of Bedwyr.  Enrydreg the daughter of Tudvathar.  Gwennwledyr the daughter of Gwaledyr Kyrvach.  Erddudnid the daughter of Tryffin.  Eurolwen the daughter of Gwdolwyn Gorr.  Teleri the daughter of Peul.  Indeg the daughter of Garwy Hir.  Morvudd the daughter of Urien Rheged.  Gwenllian Deg the majestic maiden.  Creiddylad the daughter of Lludd Llaw Ereint.  (She was the most splendid maiden in the three Islands of the mighty, and in the three Islands adjacent, and for her Gwythyr the son of Greidawl and Gwynn the son of Nudd fight every first of May until the day of doom.)  Ellylw the daughter of Neol Kynn-Crog (she lived three ages).  Essyllt Vinwen and Essyllt Vingul.”  And all these did Kilhwch the son of Kilydd adjure to obtain his boon.

Another  image from the garden.

"...if life and mind have arisen in and from matter, then the universe ceases to be a purely physical mechanism, and the system which results must provide a real place for the factors of life and mind."  From Holism and Evolution by J.C. Smuts, South African soldier, statesman and philosopher.

No doubt many of the things we see around us are anthropomorphisms and apparent contradictions. Smuts is a case in point, he fought the British in the Boer War, but somewhere found the time to make a significant contribution to contemporary thinking on evolution. He was a South African and a soldier, and a philosopher and a statesman; he fought with the British in the both the First and Second World Wars and in the end opposed segregation.

Red road

A gesture in the ground, made by our comings and goings. Roads are so embedded in our view of ourselves and our relationship to the world. An example, taken at random, Olive Schreiner, The Story of an African Farm:

"We do not yet know that in the soul's search for truth the bitterness lies here, the striving cannot always hide itself among the thoughts; sooner or later it will clothe itself in outward action; then it steps in and divides between the soul and what it loves. All things on earth have their price; and for truth we pay the dearest. We barter it for love and sympathy. The road to honour is paved with thorns; but on the path to truth, at every step you set your foot down on your own heart. "

Bok Tower again. This is a stone block from the tower's footing.

The stone is quite large, maybe 3 feet by four, the whole footing around the tower is made of the same stuff. I find the grain of the stone is so compelling I could almost believe you could feel it if you ran your hands over it, but it is perfectly smooth.

A detail from the Bok Tower. It really is the strangest building. Dedicated by Calvin Coolidge in 1929.

It has a sort of harsh, hard-edged generosity to it, maybe a harbinger of the New Deal.  An angular Aubrey Beardsley, without the questionable bits, perhaps. An odd building warrants an odd Kipling poem:


L'ENVOI

When Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,
When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it -- lie down for an ]aeon or two,
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew!

And those that were good shall be happy:  they shall sit in a golden chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets' hair;
They shall find real saints to draw from -- Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame,
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are!

Hibiscus - Practically the entire plant is edible.

I remember eating the leaves as a child. Probably a refuge from mushy peas (my mother came from Yorkshire and firmly believed that the only decent vegetable was a thoroughly dead one).

This picture is from the Bok Tower Gardens in Lake Wales, a little south of Orlando. Lovely place, beautiful light this afternoon with a huge thunderstorm on the way. The tower itself is quite extraordinary, like something out of Lord of the Rings. More pictures later, no doubt.

Dancing with fire

The appeal is obvious. I'm just surprised more of us don't worship it.

A seat at the table.

A nice convivial image after yesterdays (un)timely abstractions. Almost a way to manipulate time; a way to make time stand still.

Rudolf Carnap, in an appendix to his Introduction to Symbolic Logic, sets out various different models of time. He describes them in terms of different languages for describing and reasoning about time. I clearly remember my delight when I first came across his account of the subject, as I had never really thought much about different ways of describing time.

Different models of time:

• Continuous flow models
• Discrete event models
• Intermittent events - time is when something happens
• Regular events - time is when the clock (atom, quark whatever) ticks
• Cyclical models (the Buddhist approach), bounded models (the Judeo-Christian approach), open ended models (big bang followed by a descent into entropy) 

I often look at an image and wonder, what model of time does it represent? 

You may (or may not) be interested to know that there have been approximately 12,918,272,375,533,807,200 nanoseconds since 1st Jan 1601. I think I prefer a continuous model.

Continuing the bird theme.

Notice how virtually the entire flock is on the same wing beat - there are just three individuals on the extreme right that are a little off. The sound is amazing, a hundred pairs of wings, all beating in unison.

A Bishop Berkeley Bird quote:

"Can there be a pleasanter time of the day, or a more delightful season of the year? That purple sky, those wild but sweet notes of birds, the fragrant bloom upon the trees and flowers, the gentle influence of the rising sun, these and a thousand nameless beauties of nature inspire the soul with secret transports; its faculties too being at this time fresh and lively, are fit for those meditations, which the solitude of a garden and tranquillity of the morning naturally dispose us to."

This from his Three Dialogues Between Hylas And Philonous. But, as Sydney Smith famously remarked,

"Bishop Berkeley destroyed this world in one volume octavo; and nothing remained, after his time, but mind; which experienced a similar fate from the hand of Mr. Hume in 1737."

There is still, undeniably, the sound of the birds.

Evening in Celebration, bird on a cross.

A bird picture deserves a bird quote - one of my favorite Borgisms - Argmentum Ornithologicum

"I close my eyes and watch some birds. This vision lasts only a second, maybe less; I don’t know how many birds I saw. Was their number defined or not? This problem also includes inside it the problem of the existence of God. If there is a God, the number is determined, as God knows how many birds I saw. If God does not exist, this number is not determined, as no one could count them. In this case, I saw, let’s say, less than ten birds and more than one, but I didn’t see nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three or two birds. I saw a number of birds between ten and one, which is neither nine, nor eight, nor seven, nor six, nor five etc. This integer is inconceivable; therefore, God exists. " (there is a very nice parallel text here)

Did you notice the other bird?

Leaving Seattle.

I'm back in Orlando for a few weeks. This is someone singing at Folk Life, at the Seattle Center. It's hard to say what makes a beautiful face, whatever it is, she has it in abundance. Perhaps another part of the labyrinth.

Mother's day biscuits.

Not a landscape, a view of the Puget Sound, a piece of the labyrinth.

Borges speaks:  "I imagined it inviolate and perfect at the secret crest of a mountain; I imagined it erased by rice fields or beneath the water; I imagined it infinite, no longer composed of octagonal kiosks and returning paths, but of rivers and provinces and kingdoms . . . I thought of a labyrinth of labyrinths, of one sinuous spreading labyrinth that would encompass the past and the future and in some way involve the stars." from The Garden of Forking Paths.

Dark interiors

I suppose it's a half-full, half-empty phenomenon. What matters more, the dark or the light? Both I suppose; we wouldn't have one without the other. Brings to mind a favorite medieval hymn, Adam Lay ybounden:

Adam lay ybounden,

Bounden in a bond;

Four thousand winter,

Thought he not too long.

And all was for an apple,

An apple that he took.

As clerkes finden,

Written in their book.

Ne had the apple taken been,

The apple taken been,

Ne had never our ladie,

Abeen heav'ne queen.

Blessed be the time

That apple taken was,

Therefore we moun singen.

Deo gracias!

St. Mark's again. A west facing window in the late afternoon.

See what I mean about the abandoned warehouse? I just love it.

The great organ in St Mark's Cathedral.

One of my favorite places in Seattle. In some ways St Mark's looks like an abandoned warehouse, stuff dribbling down the walls, steel frame, grubby windows. The existing building is just the transept (the bit in the middle where the north, south, east and west parts of the building meet). The building was never finished, there is this sense of huge scale about the place, as though the spirit of the rest of the building, the part that isn't there, just goes on forever. I sometimes fantasize that if I had the money, I'd give it to St Mark's so they could finish the building. It would be a mistake; it could never be bigger than it is now.

Figure and ground

Spring, Seattle style. We will all bloom, in due course, though summer really only starts on the 4th of July.

I fly in from Florida and admire the grey aesthetic; really quite beautiful, so long as you haven't had to live with it for the last 90 days.

School gate - just across the road from last night's church.

I believe some local notables sent their kids to the school - certainly the place seems to have money to burn. The question I ask myself is "How do they stop the kids from climbing on it?" I know mine, in their early middle school years, would have been all over it. I bet there's some great stories there - perhaps its electrified.

Dancing angel - I attended a concert of Spanish and English Renaissance music last evening at the Blessed Sacrament Church in Seattle's University District. The church is known locally as Green Spires because of the copper roof on its spire. It's a lovely building, along the same lines as Seattle's Saint Mark's cathedral; the finish to the building's interior is very rough making the liturgical art it contains stand out by contrast.

A wonderful place to take photographs.

A lattice and its shadow.

 The perception of any regular structure is likely to be misleading as it encourages us to extrapolate beyond the substance. Our eyes add another layer of misdirection (another beyond that of our minds). I find it hard to look at this image and see the shadow as 2 dimensional.  It's because of that line running through the middle of the picture. It's a real line and lends its reality to the shadow, even to the extent of hiding on the shadows edge, while it is visibly evident in the body of the shadow.