Friday, October 29, 2004

Addison Mizner, Architect 1872 - 1933

Addison Mizner Alone On His First Night At The Cloister Inn, Boca Raton, Feb. 6, 1926

and bread loaf is not stone ... from the same source I have not taken ... it is around you too ... bird perches, miles of telephone wires ... past the school and heading ... you thought of first but do not ... with undulating long-drawn flow ... in a net, under water ... the screen door bangs, and it sounds so funny ... reluctant pilgrims stolen by Jehovah's light ... "keep your oil slick and your motor running" ... his flashy villa on the palatine hill, home ... and it's easy to make this understood by ... is the loveliest. Light were the work to make this ... when the horse had gone the water in the trough ... but this too has passed: I'm not alone anymore ... lips ... the fire escape, so it's not as though he ... the wilderness rose up to it ... and this maiden she lived with no other thought ... vivacity of my last dinner party ... coveys of nursemaids ... mirror one another, black, rain-soaked ... beyond a distant island ... and I think of my son a dolphin in the Aegean ... separating good from evil, brother from brother ... as dinner plates and eyelashes like sharpened tines ... spare us all word of the weapons, their force and range ... when a grandfather dies ... day after day, I become of less use to myself ... after the man with the apparition ... if it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's soundless blink ... thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen ... exceptional, uncomfortable as that is ... stuck into and ... still when, to where thou wert, I came ... praise the lighthouse in Fajardo, candle ... genius is wisdom and youth ... reach me. The untied parcel service never delivered. I regret to say I'm ... his acts being seven ages. At first, the infant ... and the beneficent face of a nation ... women and men(both little and small) ... do not write! ... now you do not know what to do, not even when you go back to being ... in though once when I climbed the hill in Skye ... in the slow, black water of the big sandy ... with dangling basket all along the grass ... the blossoms snow down in my hair ... white feathers among me, fistfuls ... the wind, playboy of towers, ... gleams in all its power. Otherwise ... I write of youth, of love, and have access ... and go out the other. It's bad luck to pay back salt ... rising toward a saint ... to defend ... hind legs bending backwards with inhuman ... silent as the sleeve-worn stone ... locked out in the cold, waiting ... otters below and moorhens on the top ... believers fall on their bellies, they suppose it is a monstrance that shines, ... to the lattice of pastures interlaced like Celtic spirals, ... and down by the brimming river ... but near his ears, above his brains, ... ask me no more whither do stray ... patterns in ambers, ... as who would say (in a dream), ... the sycamore tree spills a few leaves ... clay made edible. The aunts hand the dishes ... and wrecks passed without sound of bells, ... in the strobe & black lights ... a dark purple-brown, ... and hoist nothing ... earnest pilgrims puffing up the slope ... things soft as flesh. Someone sewed ... all whom the flood did, and fire shall o'erthrow, ... I wrote before production began, "I want to include all of myself, a heartbroken person who hasn't worked for years, who's simply not dead" ... its taste to bitter dish-soap. It took a moment ... made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge, ... dreaming of heroes. ... who is coming? ...

Have you shared a Havana with Mr Mizner? Boca Raton is Mouse Mouth?

What do you think of this?

Too romantic? Bit slushy? Well, I kinda like it.
Le voila! No, Bern - I was a speaker at the United Van Lines Convention ( at the Boca Raton Resort. They put me up in the Cloister Inn - the original building designed by Addison Mizner.

While researching the moving and relocation industry, I became distracted by the brochure on the history of Boca Raton, and Addison Mizner, lying next to my laptop, on top of the minibar.

I think I fell asleep and had a tropical version of Jack Nicholson's dream in The Shining. I woke up in fright (please note the Australian allusion) and went for a walk to the very empty breakfast room which is called The Cathedral, and is, yes, a cathedral.

A nice Cuban lady offered me a cup of coffee - I noted she had a gold front tooth. That's when I realised that all the books went missing in the original library after Addison Mizner's first night alone in the Cloister Inn (something he demanded). It was a revelation from a non-Popperian God (I couldn't disprove him).

Thr books must have been pulped or shredded into dangling chads - a nice Modernist touch (with a dash of Voodoo). J.P. Morgan once slept alone in the middle of the big pyramid at Cheops. I think that Gatsby read them all. I longed for that America of the jazz age when Miami was just a port to the river of grass.

The morning sun over the marina was a gold disc - Liberace meets Ammon - Ra.

I liked the photos from peccavi.
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