A selection of items and bite ’ems of linguistic interest found around the internet in recent weeks. Some are short, some long; all are good, or at any rate interesting. Three are from The Toast, because it’s toast . Nifty is a nifty word. The birth of a book cover. The linguistics of Black Lives […]
You’ve probably heard of the plight of the orang-utans and cries to “save the whales” but have you heard of Ixcatec or Tharkarri? They’re not cute and cuddly animals you can touch, but they’re still capable of living. They’re the vanishing mind-music of people: critically endangered languages. Ixcatec and Tharkarri are just two of the 2,465 languages […]
Art that heals being seen in places that too often forget that life is richest when science and art meet in service. Thank you, Pamela T.
A colorful mosaic at St.Joseph Mercy Oakland by Jacqui Ridley and Morrine Maltzman.
“Original art done with a healing intention is transformative. It can shape shift the hospital environment; it changes the energy.” ~Annette Ridenour
Annette Ridenour is the president of Aesthetics Inc., an art consultancy firm specializing in the creation of art programs for hospitals. Her bio from the Aesthetics website describes her as “a pioneer in applying the arts to improve health and healthcare. She served as one of the original board members of the Society for the Arts in Healthcare, and she co-founded the Blair L. Sadler International Healing Arts Competition, which recognized exemplary arts projects that have measurably improved the quality of healthcare. Numerous articles by her, about her, and about Aesthetics have appeared in publications that include Healthcare Design, Health Facilities Management, Healthcare Building Ideas, and Spirituality & Health.
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Someone texturized the ceiling of my bedroom with plaster.
Which color of ink would I use if I wrote this sentence by hand?
I read about healing and chakras today after a friend wrote me a note asking about chakras.
I intoned the vowel sounds, a, e, i, o, u….this is not IPA.
i did two loads of laundry, emptied the dishwasher, filled the dishwasher, scrubbed down the kitchen counters, listened to the birds and crickets, went out on the deck and admired the white wisp of clouds stretched out against blue azure, caught up on the weeks tv season premieres, and looked for books that I missed.
I thought about my health as I recovered from exercises for my underutilized legs and grieved for the ease of neck movement now of days nearly forgotten. My right shoulder decides to remind me that it still exists.
I listened to the CD my sister so thoughtfully sent to me for my bday.
i tried to listen to the news and then asked, why?
I read poems written by a friend of a friend and decided to make this list.
Goodnight, sweet William, wherever you are.
Always thinking about voice and identity… take a watch/listen of Amy Ginther performing in Central School of Speech and Drama in London at the Voice and Speech Trainer’s Association annual conference this past summer.
This is a new performance piece I wrote for the VASTA Cabaret in London this summer at my alma mater, the Royal Central School of Speech and Drama. I workshopped it at Perry-Mansfield Performing Arts School and Camp, which I am quite proud to say that I am now summer faculty there, teaching Voice and Speech.
This piece has lived in me for over a year now, as the actual incident that opens the performance happened during the summer of 2013 in Brooklyn. I felt like it was important to highlight the idea that oppression does not come in only explicit, hateful forms but from the educated and millennial peers that I hang out and work with in my progressive circles.
When microaggressions happen, I don’t always want to confront the person and give them some diatribe about social justice; sometimes, I just want to drink my fucking cocktail…
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A profound writing about Zen and depression. This week I still think about the passing of Robin Williams, my own struggle with depression and my beautiful young students and their struggles with depression, anxiety, and addictions. We are all on this path together. May we breathe deeply and know that simply taking one step on a walk outdoors or take pen to page or calling a friend…or or or…we are alone and never alone. May the gifts be received by each of us. Big love to all. Truly. Laura
Right now I can’t read too good
Don’t send me no more letters, no
Not unless you mail them from
— from “Desolation Row” by Bob Dylan
It starts with dread. In a distant city, on top of the covers in a two-star hotel, ceiling fan humming and circling slowly, mosquito net shrouding the bed. Or driving alone on the late night interstate, rolling by strip malls and chain stores. Or walking down an everyday street, feeling empty inside. Dread has a physical quality — a dead weight on my chest and shoulders, a gnawing sensation in my stomach. Nausea. A wish to jump out of my skin.
Within these sensation there is loneliness, despair, and the certainty of ceaseless separation. The dread is that my life will be like this from now on, and that it always has been like this and I have been so…
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How curious, today is World Poetry Day…this was declared by the UN in 1999! Very funny. Every day is pretty much poetry day for me. Here is a short poem by Richard Wright, who wrote many haiku. Published a whole book of them actually…which I purchased and seem to have loaned to someone. So, here are two that I was able to find and like ever so. #readwritespeakthinkseepoetrynow
I am nobody:
A red sinking autumn sun
Took my name away.
A sleepless spring night:
Yearning for what I never had
And for what never was.
-Richard Wright, from “Haiku: This Other World,” by Richard Wright
Yes, I’m “home” today. Buried under my covers. Stomach pain. Dizziness. Thinking about home…what that has ever meant, to you, and to me. Is it a location? Where we hail from? Where we currently revive ourselves? Time and again I identify the road as my familiar abode…in motion, in transit, on the go…rather than a place of stillness and rooted residence.
But one day, when young and living in NYC, in deep despair, I sat on the Lincoln Center steps outside of Juilliard. It was there that my breath became conscious. Inhalation…exhalation. I was smoking at the time…smoking a cig just having quit my waiting tables job. On those steps a moment of insight took root. Insight that unwittingly changed the contour of my life.
The one place I may not escape, until “I” is no longer, the never ceasing rhythm of inspire…expire. And so where I call “home” discovered to be born of movement, pointing to a place of flesh, bones, blood, and air. Embodiment of earth and air. This home, so often neglected, unnoticed and undervalued, stays with me, sustains me; allows for float, root, and whimsy as I search for one place to create and embrace. To allow breath of play and sigh of relief move this space of spine and heart..where a recognition, nearly forgotten, breathes deepening of interior. Home remembered of unrelenting diastole to systole…vacuum abhorrent. The heart sitting atop the dome of diaphragm that may never not reawaken to re-membering where all of us, no matter how dim our reckoning, live…at home, again.