TOM CLARK: Vladimir Nabokov: from Lance / dead carp don't talk

_DSC03964 [Chennai]: photo by Viduthalai Mani Dharmaraj, 4 November 2017

#18 [Dhaka]: photo by Sohail Bin Mohammad, 3 November 2017

2017-11-06_08-37-35 [tofu maker, Jakarta]: photo by Chris Tuarissa, 5 November 2017

2017-11-06_08-37-35 | by Chris Tuarissa

2017-11-06_08-37-35 [tofu maker, Jakarta]: photo by Chris Tuarissa, 5 November 2017

2017-11-06_08-37-35 | by Chris Tuarissa

2017-11-06_08-37-35 [tofu maker, Jakarta]: photo by Chris Tuarissa, 5 November 2017

2017-10-21_06-59-57 [Jakarta]: photo by Chris Tuarissa, 21 October 2017

Seaside Resort Impressions 51/63 | by Stare & Street Photographer

Seaside Resort Impressions 51/63 [Yalta, Crimea]: photo by Pierre Gély-Fort, 18 August 2016

Seaside Resort Impressions 52/63 | by Stare & Street Photographer

Seaside Resort Impressions 52/63 [Yalta, Crimea]: photo by Pierre Gély-Fort, 28 August 2016

Vladimir Nabokov: from Lance

     Terrestrial space loves concealment. The most it yields to
the eye is a  panoramic  view.  The  horizon  closes upon  the
receding  traveler  like  a trap door in slow motion. For those
who remain, any town a day's journey from  here  is invisible,
whereas  you  can  easily  see  such transcendencies as, say, a
lunar amphitheater and the shadow cast by its  circular  ridge.
The  conjuror  who  displays  the  firmament  has rolled up his
sleeves and performs in full view  of  the  little  spectators.
Planets  may  dip out of sight (just as objects are obliterated
by the blurry curve of one's own cheekbone); but they are back
when  the  earth  turns its head. The nakedness of the night is
appalling. Lance has left; the fragility  of  his  young  limbs
grows  in  direct  ratio  to the distance he covers. From their
balcony, the old Bokes look at the  infinitely  perilous  night
sky and wildly envy the lot of fishermen's wives.
     If  Boke's  sources  are  accurate, the name "Lanceloz del
Lac"  occurs  for  the  first  time  in  Verse  3676   of   the
twelfth-century  Roman de la Charrette. Lance, Lancelin,
Lancelotik -- diminutives murmured at the brimming, salty, moist
stars. Young knights in their teens learning to harp, hawk, and
hunt; the Forest Dangerous and the Dolorous  Tower;  Aldebaran,
Betelgeuse -- the  thunder  of  Saracenic  war cries. Marvelous
deeds of arms, marvelous warriors, sparkling within the  awfill
constellations  above the Bokes' balcony: Sir Percard the Black
Knight, and Sir Perimones the Red Knight, and Sir Pertolepe the
Green Knight, and Sir Persant the Indigo Knight, and that bluff
old party Sir Grummore Grummurslim,  muttering  northern oaths
under  his  breath. The field glass is not much good, the chart
is all crumpled and damp, and: "You do not hold the  flashlight
properly" -- this to Mrs. Boke.
     Draw a deep breath. Look again.
     Lancelot  is gone; the hope of seeing him in life is about
equal to the hope  of  seeing  him  in  eternity.  Lancelot  is
banished  from the country of L'Eau Grise (as we might call the
Great Lakes) and now rides up in the  dust  of  the  night  sky
almost  as  far as our local universe (with the balcony and the
pitch-black,  optically  spotted  garden)  speeds  toward  King
Arthur's  Harp,  where  Vega burns and beckons -- one of the few
objects that can be  identified  by  the  aid  of  this  goddam
diagram.  The  sidereal  haze  makes  the  Bokes  dizzy -- gray
incense, insanity,  infinity-sickness.  But  they  cannot  tear
themselves  away from the nightmare of space, cannot go back to
the lighted bedroom, a corner of which shows in the glass door.
And presently the planet rises, like a tiny bonfire.

Paradise Lost [Arnhem]: photo by Robert van der Kroft, 27 March 2015

    There, to the right, is the Bridge of the Sword leading to
the Otherworld  ("dont  nus  estranges   ne   retorne").
Lancelot  crawls  over  it in great pain, in ineffable anguish.
"Thou shalt not pass a pass that is called the Pass  Perilous."
But  another  enchanter  commands:  "You  shall. You shall even
acquire a sense of humor that will tide  you  over  the  trying
spots."  The  brave  old Bokes think they can distinguish Lance
scaling, on crampons, the verglased rock of the sky or silently
breaking trail through  the  soft  snows  of  nebulae.  Bootes,
somewhere  between Camp X and XI, is a great glacier all rubble
and icefall. We try to make out the serpentine route of ascent;
seem to distinguish the  light  leanness  of  Lance  among  the
several  roped  silhouettes.  Gone! Was it he or Denny (a young
biologist. Lance's best friend)? Waiting in the dark valley  at
the foot of the vertical sky, we recall (Mrs. Boke more clearly
than  her husband) those special names for crevasses and Gothic
structures  of  ice  that  Lance  used  to  mouth   with   such
professional  gusto  in  his  alpine  boyhood  (he  is  several
light-years  older  by  now);   the   sиracs   and   the
schrunds,  the avalanche and its thud; French echoes and
Germanic magic hobnailnobbing up there as they do  in  medieval
romances.
     Ah,  there  he  is again! Crossing through a notch between
two stars; then, very slowly, attempting a traverse on a  cliff
face  so  sheer,  and  with  such  delicate holds that the mere
evocation of those groping fingertips and scraping boots  fills
one with acrophobic nausea. And through streaming tears the old
Bokes  see  Lance  now  marooned  on  a  shelf of stone and now
climbing again and now, dreadfully safe, with his ice  axe  and
pack,  on  a  peak  above  peaks, his eager profile rimmed with
light.
     Or is he already on his way down? I assume  that  no  news
comes  from  the  explorers  and  that  the Bokes prolong their
pathetic vigils. As they wait for  their  son  to  return,  his
every  avenue  of  descent  seems  to run into the precipice of
their despair. But perhaps he has swung over those  high-angled
wet  slabs  that  fall  away  vertically  into  the  abyss, has
mastered the overhang, and is now  blissfully  glissading  down
steep celestial snows?
     As,  however,  the  Bokes'  doorbell  does not ring at the
logical culmination of an  imagined  series  of  footfalls  (no
matter  how  patiently  we  space  them as they come nearer and
nearer in our mind), we have to thrust him back  and  have  him
start  his ascent all over again, and then put him even farther
back, so that he is still at headquarters (where the tents are,
and the open latrines, and the begging, black-footed  children)
long  after we had pictured him bending under the tulip tree to
walk up the lawn to the door and the doorbell. As if  tired  by
the  many  appearances he has made in his parents' minds, Lance
now plows wearily through mud puddles, then up a  hillside,  in
the haggard landscape of a distant war, slipping and scrambling
up the dead grass of the slope. There is some routine rock work
ahead,  and  then  the summit. The ridge is won. Our losses are
heavy. How is one notified? By wire? By registered letter?  And
who  is  the  executioner -- a special messenger or the regular
plodding, florid-nosed postman, always a little  high  (he  has
troubles  of  his own)? Sign here. Big thumb. Small cross. Weak
pencil.  Its  dull-violet  wood.  Return  it.   The   illegible
signature of teetering disaster.
     But  nothing comes. A month passes. Chin and Chilla are in
fine shape and seem very fond of each other -- sleep together in
the nest box, cuddled up in a fluffy ball.  After  many  tries,
Lance  had discovered a sound with definite chinchillan appeal,
produced by pursing the lips and emitting in  rapid  succession
several  soft,  moist  surpths, as if taking sips from a
straw when most of one's drink is finished and only  its  dregs
are  drained.  But his parents cannot produce it -- the pitch is
wrong or something. And there is such an intolerable silence in
Lance's room, with its battered books,  and  the  spotty  white
shelves,  and  the  old  shoes,  and  the relatively new tennis
racquet in its preposterously secure press, and a penny on  the
closet  floor -- and  all  this  begins  to undergo a prismatic
dissolution, but then you tighten the screw and  everything  is
again  in  focus.  And  presently  the  Bokes  return  to their
balcony. Has he reached his goal -- and if so, does he see us?

Vladimir Nabokov (1899-1977): from Lance (1952), in Nabokov's Dozen (1958)

Seaside Resort Impressions 49/63 | by Stare & Street Photographer

Seaside Resort Impressions 49/63 [Yalta, Crimea]: photo by Pierre Gély-Fort, 24 August 2016

Seaside Resort Impressions 46/63 | by Stare & Street Photographer

Seaside Resort Impressions 46/63 [Hurzuf, Crimea]: photo by Pierre Gély-Fort, 19 August 2016

Glasgow, Scotland 2017 | by Monserrat Orallo

Glasgow, Scotland 2017: photo by Monserrat Orallo, 2 November 2017

Glasgow, Scotland 2017: photo by Monserrat Orallo, 14 October 2017

Glasgow, Scotland 2017: photo by Monserrat Orallo, 7 October 2017

Glasgow Celtic founded 130 years ago today | by - kenny Mcdonald

Glasgow Celtic founded 130 years ago today. It was 130 years ago today, on November 6, 1887, that the meeting during which Celtic Football Club was formally constituted took place in St Mary’s Church Hall in East Rose Street, Calton. ‘A football club will be formed for the maintenance of dinner tables for the children and the unemployed.': photo by - kenny McDonald, 6 November 2017

If anyone needs to know the difference in #Celtic and #Rangers then here it is: image via Scott Ox @oxley_scott, 5 November 2017

Chinatown, Vancouver: photo by - kenny McDonald, October 2017

Untitled | by Street photographer - http://www.gabibest.com/

Untitled [Tel Aviv]: photo by Gabi Ben avraham, 22 September 2017

Solidarity with the Palestinians versus the pro-Zionist British State | by alisdare1

Solidarity with the Palestinians versus the pro-Zionist British State. Thousands of protesters marching through Mayfair, London, are forced to wait while a group of around 20 pro-Zionist counter protesters block the road in front. The affluence of the neighbourhood and its jewellery shops catering to Britain's privileged elites contrasting sharply with the extreme poverty of most Palestinians in Gaza and the West Bank, many of them often unable to access basic medical supplies. On Saturday 4 November 2017, thousands marched through London demanding that the UK recognise Palestine and take action to stop British support for Israel's illegal occupation of the West Bank and its brutal siege of Gaza. 136 countries have recognised Palestine representing the vast majority of the world's population but it is still not recognised by the United Kingdom or the United States. It shouldn't be a surprise that in a political system dominated by financial institutions and multinational corporations with a vested interest in maintaining the highly anti-democratic and repressive status quo in the Middle East that only 35 British MPs, only fractionally over 5 per cent of all those in parliament, have actually spoken out on the issue, signing a declaration calling for the UK to recognise the state of Palestine. Although Opposition leader Jeremy Corbyn sent a message of support, many demonstrators were disappointed that he didn't speak from the platform at the end of the march. Only one Labour MP, Andy Slaughter, was among the eminent speakers, who included Dr. Mustafa Barghouti, Ken Loach, John Pilger and the SNP MP John Nicolson. The march was held on the hundredth anniversary of the Balfour Declaration ( 2 November 2017 ) which, while it laid the basis for a future Jewish homeland, was also supposed to protect the rights of Palestinians. It had promised that “nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine.” A promise which was never kept. Marchers carried placards which read "Justice for Palestine", "Stop Arming Israel" and "Free Palestine".: photo by Alisdare Hickson, 4 November 2017

Solidarity with the Palestinians versus the pro-Zionist British State: photo by Alisdare Hickson, 4 November 2017

Untitled: photo by Ilan Burla, 23 April 2016

People try to put out a fire set ablaze by rioters the day after a re-run election in Kawangware slums, Nairobi: image via Reuters Pictures @reuterspictures, 4 November 2017

The First Baptist Church is taped off by law enforcement in Sutherland Springs, Texas after a gunman opened fire: image via Reuters Pictures @reuterspictures, 4 November 2017

The playground at the First Baptist Church in Sutherland Springs, Texas a day after the shooting Photo Rick Wilking: image via Reuters Pictures @reuterspictures, 4 November 2017

President Trump lands in Japan for the first stop on his 13-day trek through Asia: image via Getty Images News @GettyImagesNews, 5 November 2017

Recreational global fish-murder

U.S. Pres. Donald Trump feeds carp with Japan's Prime Minister Shinzo Abe. @toruhanai: image via AP Images @AP_Images, 6 November 2017

President Trump pours fish food into a carp pond as Japan's Prime Minister Shinzo Abe looks on Photo Jonathan Ernst: image via Reuters Pictures @reuterspictures, 6 November 2017

@realDonaldTrump pours the remainder of his fish food out as he and Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe feed fish in a koi pond.: image via Andrew Harnik @andyharnik, 5 November 2017

[Untitled]: image via Alex Pfeiffer @PfeifferDC, 5 November 2017

@realDonaldTrump empties his fish food box as he and @AbeShinzo toss food to the Koi Fish at the Akasaka Palace in Tokyo. #TrumpAsiaTrip: image via Doug Mills @dougmillsnyt, 5 November 2017

overkill at carp pond

It was then that the fish began to throw boxes of leftovers to the touring heads of state

The biggest boxes to the most florid the most engrossed w/ ingested dead animal tissue
And this was considered among these beings to be good

#Kyrgyztan Dogfight in a stadium in the Kyrgyzstan capital Bishkek Photo Vyacheslav Oseledko #AFP: image via AFP Photo @AFPphoto, 5 November 2017

#Myanmar #Bangladesh Childhoods lost as Rohingya kids fill their parents shoes Photo @Dibyangshus #AFP: image via AFP Photo @AFPphoto, 5 November 2017

Rohingya refugee Mohammed Shoaib, 7, shows his scar from being shot in the chest in Myanmar in August Photo @adnanabidi: image via Reuters Pictures @reuterspictures, 6 November 2017

Death toll from typhoon floods in Vietnam now over 60 as government warns some dams near bursting: image via Reuters Pictures @reuterspictures, 6 November 2017

and the truth is, i have no story

Replying to @rgay @HarperPerennial And here is the Table of Contents with the incredible contributors.: image via roxane gray @rgay, 3 November 2017

Someone is apparently trying to sell naked photos of me to my fans. Save your money, here it is for free. Everyday is Christmas!: image via sia @Sia, 6 November 2017

after hours [Taipei]: photo by TC, 10 October 2017

Kent Johnson: The Pretty Bad Tragedy Of Being a Loser Poet Who Won't Give Up

It's hard being a loser poet who won't give up

You try every trick

Starting fake controversies over nothing

Saying outrageous things which are totally innocuous

Working industriously on offending

The very people you're jealous of

In hopes they will finally pay attention to you

But no they didn't even notice

Still there's this one consolation
You're the joke and you know it

And that's your claim to fame

An effigy of film producer #HarveyWeinstein is burned during a fireworks display at Edenbridge #BonfireNight Photo: @JackWynTaylor: image via Getty Images News @GettyImagesNews, 4 November 2017

Anti and pro-Donald Trump rallies take place in Seoul as the U.S. president embarks on 12-day trip to Asia: image via Getty Images News @GettyImagesNews, 4 November 2017