It's so satisfying to be back in the soulful city of Seattle, sitting in a cafe, enjoying a great cup of coffee, listening to the rain.
On the wall across from me is a Michael Dailey original, one of his spectacular landscape-inspired abstractions. I've always loved his work. These color field paintings are particularly arresting, like desert sunsets, yet somehow evocative of the Pacific Northwest. Similar to Mark Rothko, Georg Gudni and Hiroshi Sugimoto, Dailey was able to conjure atmospheric windows to a misty horizon, conveying a sense of longing for something just out of reach.
This week is the 20th anniversary of Batman: The Animated Series, which aired on American television from September 1992 to '95.
If you've never seen the series, do yourself a solid and check out an episode or two from Netflix.
For fans, this incarnation of Batman achieved what the movies have not: it strikes the right balance between the fanciful, kid-friendly hero of the silver age comics and the brutal vigilante of Frank Miller's dark world.
For everyone else (even those who may have already reached their superhero saturation limit), the series has other virtues. You'll appreciate the vintage radio drama storytelling style, film noir visuals ("dark deco" art direction by Bruce Timm) and Shirley Walker's excellent orchestral score.
One of those rare moments when pop culture is worth a second look.
Today I was able to re-connect with several clients and friends, learn Art Farmer's solo on "The Squirrel," check out Donny McCaslin's set @jazzbaltica, study a new twist on a favorite business practice, admire some beautiful photos, peruse the amazing reading list of @Art_Garfunkel, listen to a cool BBC interview with @Jimmy Cobb, read @JasonDCrane's latest poem, and watch a classic Star Trek episode -- all without leaving my solitary bunker in the lonesome desert. Thanks, Internet!
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.