The Telling Itself

The Telling Itself

By Steve TellArts
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The Telling Itself episodes

  • Pockets

    POCKETS

    Emptied of coins and keys and pulled inside out, they are unformed wings, sad nubs downy with lint and frayed threads at the seams; twin wind socks flagging the still air; sails limp in the horse latitudes; dingy guidons of a solitary company.

    But from the other side they are pockets for the first time, a place for the inner man to store his few essentials-a quark for luck, a moment beyond time, the extra breaths a diver takes before he ducks his head and plunges to the bottom.

    -Neal Bowers

    KEEP A POEM IN YOUR POCKET

    Keep a poem in your pocket, and a picture in your head, and you'll never feel lonely at night when you're in bed. The little poem will sing to you. The little picture bring to you - a dozen dreams to dance to you - at night when you're in bed. So keep a picture in your pocket, and a poem in your head; and you'll never feel lonely, at night when you're in bed.

    .-Beatrice Schenk de Regniers

    Poem read by Oisín N (5th class - Room 7, 2012-2013,  in preparation for the Christmas 2012 Recital)

    Back Pocket Clavinet cover: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=od-S_tyeBhs&ab_channel=MartinSalemi

    12 min
  • Loss, Reactance, & Forced Accommodation

    The word

    is bear: you give and give, you empty yourself
    into something or someone. And you survive
    the automatic loss. Against inhuman landscape,
    the tree remains a figure for grief; its form
    is forced accommodation.

    Louise Glück (from Autumnal)

    Notes:

    Psychological reactance: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reactance_(psychology)

    RE: STACKS (Bon Iver Piano Cover) played by Klara Louise

    Glück reading from The Garden: https://voca.arizona.edu/content/louise-gl%C3%BCck

    9 min
  • Muesli

    AUTUMN DAY

    Lord: it is time. The huge summer has gone by.

    Now overlap the sundials with your shadows,
    and on the meadows let the wind go free.

    Command the fruits to swell on tree and vine;

    grant them a few more warm transparent days,
    urge them on to fulfillment then, and press
    the final sweetness into the heavy wine.

    Whoever has no house now, will never have one.

    Whoever is alone will stay alone,
    will sit, read, write long letters through the
    evening,
    and wander the boulevards, up and down,
    restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing.

    -Rainer Maria Rilke (Translation: Stephen Mitchell)

    -Film excerpt in closing from Synecdoche, New York (Charlie Kaufman)

    8 min

About The Telling Itself

From the publisher's feed

There’s a bird crying outside, or maybe calling, anyway it goes on and on without stopping."