By Jack Brummet
Simple probability
And statistics
Tell us ineluctably
That the more times
You stick your head
In the lion's mouth,
The more likely it is
That one day
He will close it.
---o0o---
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Poem: The Odds
By Jack Brummet
Simple probability
And statistics
Tell us ineluctably
That the more times
You stick your head
In the lion's mouth,
The more likely it is
That one day
He will close it.
---o0o---
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Xochimilco's La Isla de la Muñecas/The Island of the Dolls—the strange story of an island possibly haunted by sentient dolls
By Jack Brummet
Unexplained Phenomena Editor
Thanks to Jeff Clinton for the idea for this story.
South of México Distrito Federal (Mexico City) in the extensive network of Xochimilco canals, is a small island called La Isla de la Muñecas. The Island of the Dolls is a seriously spooky place.
The man who created the island of dolls—Don Julian Santana—often told visitors that he was haunted by the ghost of a little girl who drowned in one of the nearby canals. That haunting, real or imagined, led him to eventually decorate almost every tree growing on the island with old and mutilated dolls. Most people who visit the island say that they have a feeling that they’re constantly being watched.
Although Don Julian was married, he abandoned his family and life and ended up living the last 50 years of his life as a hermit on his island, working on his strange project.
Some people say he would fish the dolls from the water because he though they were real children. In fact, he was collecting and placing them around his home as a shrine and to assuage the spirit/ghost of the little girl that he thought tormented him.
He grew vast amounts of fruit and vegetables in the lush gardens around his house, and, eventually, began to trade his fruit and vegetables for old dolls in hopes the dolls would form vehicles for spirits to keep the deceased girl company and prevent further evil from descending upon the island. He would also often buy dolls and rummage through garbage dumps to find more dolls.
Local legend has it that Santana died under mysterious circumstances—that the spirit-inhabited dolls went Chucky on him. Others people swear they have witnessed the dolls become sentient at night and that the dolls themselves have taken Santana's place as caretaker of their island.
In 2001, Don Julian Santana was found dead by his nephew in the same canal in which the little girl had drowned.
As part of the World Heritage site of the islands and canals of Xochimilco, Santana's Island of the Dolls is now one of the world’s weirdest tourist attractions (visitors often bring more dolls). Some tourists who have visited the island claim that the dolls whisper to you [1], and that you must offer them a gift upon setting foot on the island.
I've visited several World Heritage sites over the years. This is the next one on my list.
[1] This reminds me of another story I wrote about not long ago--the story of Robert The Sentient Doll (which also has a Chucky connection). It is one of the ten most read stories on ATIT. You can find that story here.
Unexplained Phenomena Editor
Thanks to Jeff Clinton for the idea for this story.
South of México Distrito Federal (Mexico City) in the extensive network of Xochimilco canals, is a small island called La Isla de la Muñecas. The Island of the Dolls is a seriously spooky place.
The man who created the island of dolls—Don Julian Santana—often told visitors that he was haunted by the ghost of a little girl who drowned in one of the nearby canals. That haunting, real or imagined, led him to eventually decorate almost every tree growing on the island with old and mutilated dolls. Most people who visit the island say that they have a feeling that they’re constantly being watched.
Although Don Julian was married, he abandoned his family and life and ended up living the last 50 years of his life as a hermit on his island, working on his strange project.
Some people say he would fish the dolls from the water because he though they were real children. In fact, he was collecting and placing them around his home as a shrine and to assuage the spirit/ghost of the little girl that he thought tormented him.
He grew vast amounts of fruit and vegetables in the lush gardens around his house, and, eventually, began to trade his fruit and vegetables for old dolls in hopes the dolls would form vehicles for spirits to keep the deceased girl company and prevent further evil from descending upon the island. He would also often buy dolls and rummage through garbage dumps to find more dolls.
Local legend has it that Santana died under mysterious circumstances—that the spirit-inhabited dolls went Chucky on him. Others people swear they have witnessed the dolls become sentient at night and that the dolls themselves have taken Santana's place as caretaker of their island. In 2001, Don Julian Santana was found dead by his nephew in the same canal in which the little girl had drowned.
As part of the World Heritage site of the islands and canals of Xochimilco, Santana's Island of the Dolls is now one of the world’s weirdest tourist attractions (visitors often bring more dolls). Some tourists who have visited the island claim that the dolls whisper to you [1], and that you must offer them a gift upon setting foot on the island.
I've visited several World Heritage sites over the years. This is the next one on my list.
[1] This reminds me of another story I wrote about not long ago--the story of Robert The Sentient Doll (which also has a Chucky connection). It is one of the ten most read stories on ATIT. You can find that story here.
---o0o---
"...some men aren't looking for anything logical, like money..." Alfred Pennyworth tells a story to Bruce Wayne
From The Dark Knight script:
Alfred Pennyworth: A long time ago, I was in Burma, my friends and I were working for the local government. They were trying to buy the loyalty of tribal leaders by bribing them with precious stones. But their caravans were being raided in a forest north of Rangoon by a bandit. So we went looking for the stones. But in six months, we never found anyone who traded with him. One day I saw a child playing with a ruby the size of a tangerine. The bandit had been throwing them away.
Bruce Wayne: Then why steal them?
Alfred Pennyworth: Because he thought it was good sport. Because some men aren't looking for anything logical, like money. They can't be bought, bullied, reasoned or negotiated with. Some men just want to watch the world burn.
---o0o---
Monday, September 12, 2011
Map 3: The Hammertoe Strait
Watercolor by Jack Brummet
[water on d'Arches paper with pen, ink, and Sharpie]
[water on d'Arches paper with pen, ink, and Sharpie]
---o0o---
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Bumper sticker: Keeping millions out of work to put one man out of a job
Thanks to Jeff Clinton...
click to enlarge
---o0o---
The Trouble With Poetry (A Billy Collins poem)
By Jack Brummet, Poetry and Classics Editor
I just finished reading a couple of books of Billy Collins's poetry (now starting on Ted Berrigan's collected poems). This poem captures the marrow of what it means to write poetry. The passages on thievery are wonderful, as is the sly reference to Ferlinghetti's A Coney Island Of The Mind. I realize there is debate on Billy Collins' merits in the "poetry community," but I find his plain speaking and humor exhilarating. Most of all I think I love his exuberance and world-weary optimism.
The Trouble With Poetry
By Billy Collins
The trouble with poetry, I realized
as I walked along a beach one night --
cold Florida sand under my bare feet,
a show of stars in the sky --
the trouble with poetry is
that it encourages the writing of more poetry,
more guppies crowding the fish tank,
more baby rabbits
hopping out of their mothers into the dewy grass.
And how will it ever end?
unless the day finally arrives
when we have compared everything in the world
to everything else in the world,
and there is nothing left to do
but quietly close our notebooks
and sit with our hands folded on our desks.
Poetry fills me with joy
and I rise like a feather in the wind.
Poetry fills me with sorrow
and I sink like a chain flung from a bridge.
But mostly poetry fills me
with the urge to write poetry,
to sit in the dark and wait for a little flame
to appear at the tip of my pencil.
And along with that, the longing to steal,
to break into the poems of others
with a flashlight and a ski mask.
And what an unmerry band of thieves we are,
cut-purses, common shoplifters,
I thought to myself
as a cold wave swirled around my feet
and the lighthouse moved its megaphone over the sea,
which is an image I stole directly
from Lawrence Ferlinghetti --
to be perfectly honest for a moment --
the bicycling poet of San Francisco
whose little amusement park of a book
I carried in a side pocket of my uniform
up and down the treacherous halls of high school.
I just finished reading a couple of books of Billy Collins's poetry (now starting on Ted Berrigan's collected poems). This poem captures the marrow of what it means to write poetry. The passages on thievery are wonderful, as is the sly reference to Ferlinghetti's A Coney Island Of The Mind. I realize there is debate on Billy Collins' merits in the "poetry community," but I find his plain speaking and humor exhilarating. Most of all I think I love his exuberance and world-weary optimism.
By Billy Collins
The trouble with poetry, I realized
as I walked along a beach one night --
cold Florida sand under my bare feet,
a show of stars in the sky --
the trouble with poetry is
that it encourages the writing of more poetry,
more guppies crowding the fish tank,
more baby rabbits
hopping out of their mothers into the dewy grass.
And how will it ever end?
unless the day finally arrives
when we have compared everything in the world
to everything else in the world,
and there is nothing left to do
but quietly close our notebooks
and sit with our hands folded on our desks.
Poetry fills me with joy
and I rise like a feather in the wind.
Poetry fills me with sorrow
and I sink like a chain flung from a bridge.
But mostly poetry fills me
with the urge to write poetry,
to sit in the dark and wait for a little flame
to appear at the tip of my pencil.
And along with that, the longing to steal,
to break into the poems of others
with a flashlight and a ski mask.
And what an unmerry band of thieves we are,
cut-purses, common shoplifters,
I thought to myself
as a cold wave swirled around my feet
and the lighthouse moved its megaphone over the sea,
which is an image I stole directly
from Lawrence Ferlinghetti --
to be perfectly honest for a moment --
the bicycling poet of San Francisco
whose little amusement park of a book
I carried in a side pocket of my uniform
up and down the treacherous halls of high school.
---o0o---
Friday, September 09, 2011
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)