Wed, 2 July 2008  DRAMAI don't care to dwell in the past that murky place of half-baked memories my story begins here now on this Saturday afternoon in a strange city Oh sure, there was this and that... that this event the epic cast in others' stories villain friend confidante lover, fallen idol when cast in another's drama and understand the role I am supposed to play I potest "I am not like that!" But he tries to convince me I am He needs someone to play that role and I care and I am free watching the rain beat against the window my drama begins as a silent monologue it is a Saturday afternoon in a strange city . . . (c)2005 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Sun, 8 June 2008  a man who liesa dishonest man is not a fun man he'll break your heart at every turn a dishonest man is not a fun man he'll leave you to cry and burn don't ever love a man untrue don't love a man who lies to you he'll break your heart at every turn while in the dark you cry and burn a man who lies is not your friend his love is fickle, prone to bend if he bends the truth at his whim face his lies: stay away from him save your heart for a man of gold whose word is good, whose word is true he's the man you can love 'til you're old the kind of man who won't betray you don't ever love a man untrue don't love a man who lies to you he'll break your heart at every turn leaving you to cry and burn (c)2008 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Wed, 4 June 2008  FIRST ELEGY Excerpt from the Duino Elegies by Rainer Maria Rilke - TranslationMy translation has attempted to somewhat simplify to make more accessible to Americans. I hope I have not lost the profundity of Rilke. First Elegy (Excerpt) Who, if I cried out, would listen among the classes of holy angels? and should one clasp me to its breast, its profound essence would dissolve me. For beauty is nothing but the first sight of a terror that we can hardly stand except that it quietly refrains from destroying us. Every angel is too awesome. And so I swallow my luring call and weep in the dark. Who can help us us? Not angels, not men—and animals know that we’re homeless in this world we’ve constructed. Maybe along a hillside a tree stands that we can see each day, and there are always yesterday’s streets and the fidel habit moved in like a tenant who now secure shall not move on. Oh, and there’s night—night when a cosmic wind erodes our faces—gentle, yearned for, but how it forces us to confront the solitary beat of life. Is it easier for lovers? No, they only conceal the lottery from each other. Don’t you understand yet? Throw the emptiness from your arms into the clearing where we breathe— maybe the bird in the widened air will fly viscerally. -Translation - Eleanor A. Binnings (c)2008 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ================= Die erste Elegie Wer, wenn ich schriee, hörte mich denn aus der Engel Ordnungen? und gesetzt selbst, es nähme einer mich plötzlich ans Herz: ich verginge von seinem stärkeren Dasein. Denn das Schöne ist nichts als des Schrecklichen Anfang, den wir noch grade ertragen, und wir bewundern es so, weil es gelassen verschmäht, uns zu zerstören. Ein jeder Engel ist schrecklich. Und so verhalt ich mich denn und verschlucke den Lockruf dunkelen Schluchzens. Ach, wen vermögen wir denn zu brauchen? Engel nicht, Menschen nicht, und die findigen Tiere merken es schon, daß wir nicht sehr verläßlich zu Haus sind in der gedeuteten Welt. Es bleibt uns vielleicht irgend ein Baum an dem Abhang, daß wir ihn täglich wiedersähen; es bleibt uns die Straße von gestern und das verzogene Treusein einer Gewohnheit, der es bei uns gefiel, und so blieb sie und ging nicht. O und die Nacht, die Nacht, wenn der Wind voller Weltraum uns am Angesicht zehrt –, wem bliebe sie nicht, die ersehnte, sanft enttäuschende, welche dem einzelnen Herzen mühsam bevorsteht. Ist sie den Liebenden leichter? Ach, sie verdecken sich nur mit einander ihr Los. Weißt du's noch nicht? Wirf aus den Armen die Leere zu den Räumen hinzu, die wir atmen; vielleicht daß die Vögel die erweiterte Luft fühlen mit innigerm Flug. Direct download: First_Elegy_Translated_Rilke_-_Binnings.mp3 Category: podcasts -- posted at: 1:01 PM Comments[0] |
Sat, 5 April 2008  Rick Davis is playing harmonica on this. I'd love to have a solo.Moonbeams & Thin Air The way you love me is unfair Your good intentions all turn to lies all moonbeams and thin air I no longer know what I may share without clean water, the orchid dies the way you love me is unfair between us at first was something rare but history tells me it's no surprise it's all moonbeams and thin air. for you i laid my raw skin bare too often i've exposed myself unwise the way you love me is unfair some things in life are meant to wear long....but .... still time grows wings and flies it's all moonbeams and thin air i recall the touch of your hands in my hair but now i'm unreflected in your eyes the way you love me is unfair it's all moonbeams and thin air i love you more than you care....... (c)2008 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Sat, 8 March 2008  An acquaintance with privilegeThe walls are so high Opportunity is perennial yet underground like a sigh Acquaintance with privilege Who truly are you? Behind those walls, what do you do? Or think about when moments are spare Or minister to with strong feelings of care? Acquaintance with privilege What matters to you? What are your priorities? In your life, what's new? (c) 2008 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Thu, 7 February 2008  Travis Lemle is the artist. Once long ago we created the Solotramp website together, Travis' art, my poetry. The title of this art is "Alone." Then we didn't go into the site for a period of time, and it vanished. Comments[0] |
Mon, 4 February 2008  Shadowsthough i hear your words there is no action so why should those words mean anything to me? you've held your secrets you've hid in the shadows you claim that's your right and yes, yes it is you can stay in the shadows i'll not look for you there nor will i care what you say stay in the shadows it's your right but those shadows will hide the jewels Comments[0] |
Thu, 3 January 2008  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Two years ago today is when I flew to Phoenix to meet the surgeon for the brain bypass. These two years have truly been an incredible experience. I am alive. Thank you, everyone!!! xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo ==================================================== My first for 2008 . . . a poem I had sought . . . and here it is. Cycles of life . . . I Wait We're slipping along the paths that lead away from each other-- no longer lovers and barely friends. The echo of your words of love throb in empty canyons ever more distant while day to day jargon swallows memories of when we once touched. Even now a bond reaches from me to you, each day unraveling and growing more tenuous. We don't talk except in empty phrases that neither move the earth nor us. I neither leave nor stay . . . I wait. (c)2008 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Thu, 22 November 2007  I originally wrote "Bodies" after a conversation with a bulemic. It was among the first I recorded after my surgery (quite body conscious then!) and experimented again with the sound. I decided to re-do it, so here it is, a bit different. Another change I still want to make in it . . . next time. . .Bodies This body slid into the world with perfect limbs lungs . . . and innocence for years it did all the things bodies should do moving breathing crying cringing from bumps falls burns bleeding touching he sweet the bitter he sour salt sleeping under blankets and beneath stars seeing objects and plants and animals hearing music and voices and clicks and creaks Maybe we don't enjoy the way our bodies hurt or give warning or the rough hands that press into our ribs the bite and itch and burrow of feeding insects the way cold can be too cold or hot too hot and how viruses make us ill when do we learn we're not to love these bodies? their colors their shapes the sounds they make? the marks and scars that hint at our most dramatic stories? we conceal our bodies some of us even keep out the lights so our lovers will not judge our bodies as harshly as we do ourselves those who remove their clothes have the bodies we're supposed to have implanted liposuctioned rhinoplastied bo-flexed waxed like fruit in a display ad how do we come to be conscious of bodies and then despise our own? these bodies that entered the world to do the things that bodies do . . . these bodies that cook everything we can ever taste of life (c) 2007 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Sat, 17 November 2007  Rebel nun of the 17th century.Sister Juana Ines de la Cruz lived in the certainty that "all things come from God, who is the center and at the same time the circumference from which all the lines of creation issue and where they stop." Such was the life of this religious woman of 17th-century New Spain, who not only left her mark on Spanish-American literature but whose cry of revolt over their inferior position of women is timely even today. Beatriz Berger. World Press Review. Oct 1994. From http://www.lasmujeres.com/sorjuana/rebelnun.shtml Here is your introduction to Sor Juana. And here: http://www.latin-american.cam.ac.uk/culture/SorJuana/SorJuana2.htm A Su Retrato Este, que ves, engano colorido, que del arte ostentando los primores, con falsos silogismos de colores es cauteloso engano del sentido; este, en quien la lisonja ha pretendido excusar de los anos los horrores, y venciendo del tiempo los rigores triunfar de la vejez y del olvido, es un vano artificio del cuidado es una flor al viento delicada, es un resguardo inutil para el hado: es una necia diligencia errada, es un afan caduco y, bien mirado, es cadaver, es polvo, es sombra, es nada. My translation: To Her Portrait the artifice of colors that here you see testify to cunning and crafty grace But if its false logic and gloss faded away, we'd begin to see how illusory is the likeness, how human vanity deceives us all into thinking years erase the horrors those years have etched into our faces But to battle with time is insanity, is a futile gesture you cannot hope to win, is an absence of caution, is wit put aside is a delicate flower caught in the wind is a weak defense against what Fate's contrived is a conquest doomed, and you know in your mind it's a corpose, dust, shadow, a reed's insides (c) 2004 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Direct download: To_Her_Portrait_-_Sor_Juana_translation.mp3 Category: podcasts -- posted at: 10:40 PM Comments[1] |
