Thursday, January 23, 2020

SUBSCRIBE THROUGH THE NEW SITE, PLEASE--SIMPLE!

FROM THE BOOK OF MIRACLES

Hi people, for current subscribers, or for those who may wish to become new subscribers, please go to the Subscribe to Blog via Email feature on my new wordpress home page.

It's very simple; I just did it myself. Just go to the right sidebar beneath categories and above archive and enter your email address. Thank you!!

Friday, January 17, 2020

I'M MIGRATING OVER TO WORDPRESS...


Pray for me. I've been hosted by blogger for over 10 years now!

And for the last going on five months, I've been in trying to migrate over to wordpress.

The site is up, if not totally fine-tuned. Check it out: HEATHER KING.

I think I managed to re-direct the RSS feed over for those who have subscribed.

I do like the new, cleaner look.

The new decade has called for a housecleaning in many areas: material, emotional, and psycho-spiritual, with the emphasis for me on psycho.

Once I get a few other things squared away, I hope to be posting more regularly.

Eternal thanks to all who have read, supported, commented upon and prayed along with me.

Adventures await!




Friday, January 10, 2020

SUNDAYS LIVE AT ST. JAMES: FREE CLASSICAL MUSIC


THE HOLLYWOOD TRIO

Here’s how this week’s arts and culture piece begins:

For years during the 1990s when I lived in Koreatown, I’d attend the Sunday afternoon Bing Theater classical music concerts at LACMA.

After almost a quarter of a century, the concerts have now moved a couple of miles east, to St. James Episcopal Church on Wilshire Boulevard and St. Andrew’s Place. Part of the larger “Great Music at St. James” series, the programs are free, open to the public, and start at 6 pm.

You can go to kusc.org for weekly downloads of Sundays Live. But why not make the trek, at least once, and take in the whole experience?

On December 29, I attended a concert featuring The Hollywood Piano Trio: Roberto Cani on violin, Robert deMaine on cello, and Inna Faliks on piano. The occasion was the celebration of Beethoven’s 250th birthday.

Free parking is available across from the church at 3926 Wilshire Blvd. The church is also close to the Wilshire/Western stop on the Metro Purple Line.

READ THE WHOLE PIECE HERE.

Wednesday, January 8, 2020

"ALL THINGS ARE PHOTOGRAPHABLE"

New York, 1968
GARRY WINOGRAND, COURTESY THE COLLECTION CENTER FOR CREATIVE PHOTOGRAPHY, THE UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA

"I look at the pictures I have done up to now and they make me feel that who we are and how we feel and what is to become of us just doesn't matter. Our aspirations and successes have been cheap and petty. I read the newspapers, the columnists, some books, I look at some magazines (our press). They all deal in illusions and fantasies. I can only conclude that we have lost ourselves, and that the bomb may finish the job permanently, and it just doesn't matter, we have not loved life."

--Garry Winogrand

Winogrand, one of my favorite photographers, wrote the above in the wake of the assassination of JFK, and in the midst of the Vietnam War and the Civil Rights Movement.

I was able to take in "Garry Winogrand: Color," an exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum (through  while I was in NY last November.

And I realized all over again: what made Winogrand great is that he DID love life.


ETHAN, c. 1964
GARRY WINOGRAND


Untitled (New York), 1960
GARRY WINOGRAND





Friday, January 3, 2020

HUMMINGBIRD IN UNDERWORLD, A MEMOIR



Here's how this week's arts and culture piece begins:

Deborah Tobola is known as a visionary pioneer in the field of arts in U.S. corrections.
She is a graduate of the University of Montana, and has a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from the University of Arizona. Her prose and poetry have won several awards. She has worked as a waitress, journalist, legislative aide, and adjunct English faculty member in Alaska and California.

She currently serves as executive director of The Poetic Justice Project, an organization that “advances social justice by engaging formerly incarcerated people in the creation of original theatre that examines crime, punishment, and redemption.”

“Hummingbird in Underworld: Teaching in a Men’s Prison,” out this year from She Writes Press ($17), is ostensibly an account of Tobola’s nine-year tenure at the California Men’s Colony (CMC) in San Luis Obispo.

But this mesmerizing hybrid is much more: part family memoir, part prison system snapshot, partly a narrative of the making of a poet.


READ THE WHOLE PIECE HERE.

Wednesday, January 1, 2020

HAPPY NEW YEAR

THE MADONNA OF THE CARNATIONALBRECT DÜRER, 1516
Last night, while searching for an Albert Dürer composition entitled "Strange Bird with Scroll," I came across a whole cache of interesting stuff. The above seems especially apropos for today, January 1, Solemnity of Mary, the Holy Mother of God.

Here's the bird.



 And another bird.




And here's a self-portrait of the artist at 22, done in 1493. Check out the headgear!




Then I somehow found my way to Ernst Haeckel.



Help! I have all kinds of books on reserve not at the library, and have meanwhile become obsessed with James Castle, about whom more anon. 

I aim to learn, enlarge my spiritual life, and not be crabby and tired for the year of Our Lord 2020--I pray the same for you!




Friday, December 27, 2019

IN THIS PLACE CHRIST WANTS TO BE BORN



Here's how this week's arts and culture piece begins:

"Now he comes to be born in the narrowness of our lives, to be incarnate in us, to give his love to the world through us, through our flesh and blood. That is one meaning of the Incarnation.

The reason why we are where we are this Christmas, in this house, family, office, workroom, hospital, or camp, is because it is here in this place that Christ wants to be born, from here that he wants his life to begin again in the world…We did not choose this place- Christ has chosen it. We did not choose these people—Christ has chosen them.”

--Caryll Houselander, The Mother of Christ
 
I’m not sure I ever chose LA. When I moved here in 1990, I was newly married. My brother, a contractor who lived in the South Bay, had given my then-husband and I tickets from Boston as a honeymoon gift. He’d offered Tim, a carpenter, a job.

LA was the last place that, as a lifelong New Englander, I ever thought I’d end up. Yet bit by bit the city, in all its unfathomable, sprawling mystery, grew on me. I underwent so many dark nights, so much searching and suffering here—not because LA is an especially harsh place; rather, because I’m human—that over time the very city came to be incorporated into my bones and blood, and vice versa.

In recovery programs, I’d experienced the fascinating phenomenon that I was not healed by people I had hand-picked, but by whoever happened to walk through the door on any given day. 

That rough concept of the Mystical Body prepared me well to come into the Church, which I did in 1996. So did the traits with which I seem to have emerged from the womb: my love of nature, my propensity for the outcast, the hypersensitivity that has made for so much pain but also for so much consolation and joy.  

READ THE WHOLE PIECE HERE.

Wednesday, December 25, 2019

LET EARTH RECEIVE HER KING

MERRY CHRISTMAS, LA STYLE...
 Oh the season of Advent has been deep. I find I'm spent. Not from buying presents, eating, or showing off/arguing/sniping on social media. Rather from the deep prayer of the last four weeks...

"The people who walk in darkness have seen a great light."

And then the Gospel today, the beginning of John: "The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. He was in the world, and the world came to be through him, but the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, but his own people did not accept him."

True then, true now.

And yet--Joy to the world. The Lord has come.

Off to 12:30 Mass, then dinner with friends in the neighborhood.

My gratitude and love for your readership, your loyalty, your own questing spirits and hearts is boundless. Thank you, eternally, for walking with me on our PERILOUS journey!

Let's be extra nice to our families today.







Monday, December 23, 2019

THE TAILOR OF GLOUCESTER


But it is in the old story that all the beasts can talk in the night between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in the morning (though there are very few folk that can hear them, or know what it is that they say).

When the Cathedral clock struck twelve there was an answer—like an echo of the chimes—and Simpkin heard it, and came out of the tailor’s door, and wandered about in the snow.

From all the roofs and gables and old wooden houses in Gloucester came a thousand merry voices singing the old Christmas rhymes—all the old songs that ever I heard of, and some that I don’t know, like Whittington’s bells.

Under the wooden eaves the starlings and sparrows sang of Christmas pies; the jackdaws woke up in the Cathedral tower; and although it was the middle of the night the throstles and robins sang; and air was quite full of little twittering tunes.

But it was all rather provoking to poor hungry Simpkin.

--Beatrix Potter, The Tailor of Gloucester


Thursday, December 19, 2019

DUST MOTES AND CIGARETTE SMOKE: A PAINTER WEIGHS IN FROM BROOKLYN...


From a reader:

Heather,

Painted some snow-filled pots two days ago in my icy backyard.
Beforehand I was thinking about the capitalism that is grinding up all
social cohesion and about the american-led war against all the
little/ancient societies of the globe. Thinking, what in god's name
can be done? How to fight back?

Then, during painting, how I would never want painting to be part of
any political struggle except on its own insignificant terms - just
observing/participating-in whatever little corner of existence I find
myself in - a fence, some brown reeds, steaming humps of snow.

And after: how it's really just us, the devil, Mary, and the child in
her womb in whatever little corner of the world we're in. And she
seems to know almost nothing, just a little corner of Palestine, not
even about sex. While the evil one seems to control everything, know
everything (is probably reading this email), twist everything…

But her victory is so obvious, so utter. Even the brilliant, huge
counter-refomormation paintings seem to miss how _completely_ she
crushes him (she's the one we call "terribilis," not him). Yet the
truth is shot like radiation through everyday material: the warm
shadow in the folds of a crumpled tissue, the broken pencil point left
on a church pew, dust motes in light, the microclimate of a hot
sidewalk. In short, our millennia-old, common existence, which we're
now mostly too busy to notice, but which menaces us and loves us
still.

Then again, there is a dull horror to the everyday - old wounds that
should have healed but haven't. STUPID misunderstandings that no
amount of explaining seems to be able to overcome. Anger buried and
exhumed. THe sudden awareness of lost years.

We don't live on light and dust motes alone, as much as I sometimes
wish we could. There is the whole social dimension. THe need for
justice. The need to keep talking, keep trying to understand and to
make clear. The Not Yet.

Anyway, here is a painting of a plant and some objects in my studio at
night. Thanks for your openness, your willingness to talk to
strangers, your beautiful photographs, and for LA (never been there
except to smoke a cigarette outside the Amtrak station - I'll never
forget the thickness of the light, smell of the plants and the heat of
the sidewalk!).

I'm also attaching the snow-filled pots mentioned above.

Merry Christmas!

Matt (brooklyn, ny)
See more at Matthew Kirby