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subscribeFriday, February 29
it's the days that I sleep through that the ghosts come closest to finally touching my skin, brushing the hair from my forehead, and loving me as a parent loves a child
it's the nights that I fill with smoke and fire that the ghosts run away...
and it's in the afternoons that I walk with you, and talk with you, burn daylight with you and self-soothe next to you, that we walk in the paths that our ghosts will return to one day
i wish you would call me, in this momentous moment you are the only ghost that matters
you know that it never mattered to me how our ghosts spent their time
it only mattered that you called
it's the nights that I fill with smoke and fire that the ghosts run away...
and it's in the afternoons that I walk with you, and talk with you, burn daylight with you and self-soothe next to you, that we walk in the paths that our ghosts will return to one day
i wish you would call me, in this momentous moment you are the only ghost that matters
you know that it never mattered to me how our ghosts spent their time
it only mattered that you called
Famous blue raincoat
Wednesday, February 27
Leonard Cohen, 1979, not a perfect version... in fact, I really couldn't hear the song I love in it for the first two minutes... but then I could feel the honesty in the lyrics shine through. Some of the possible meanings of the song were elucidated in the liner notes to 1975's The Best of Leonard Cohen, which included the song.
"I had a good raincoat then, a Burberry I got in London in 1959. Elizabeth thought I looked like a spider in it. That was probably why she wouldn't go to Greece with me. It hung more heroically when I took out the lining, and achieved glory when the frayed sleeves were repaired with a little leather. Things were clear. I knew how to dress in those days. It was stolen from Marianne's loft in New York sometime during the early seventies. I wasn't wearing it very much toward the end."
Tuesday, February 26
my soul speaks legends and pages of noise boil through me, from the depths and cracks and secret places that words like to hide in (they eat that shit up); the shock and trauma remake my body into some kind of stronghold, but the courier brings more bad news, to, as of yet, no change in the strength or nobility of the fortress
it's the new strange abilities that smack of reality and old age and destiny that are the most troublesome, the things neglected, the things that matter, mi vida, mi amor, mi destino
the isolation of the isolate, the dread of the kingdom, the solace of the dove; the surface of the unconscious and the sideways transfer of ideas and memories to the places we sat before we were born from the places we built to hold our sensitivities in place
there is no day like today and no chance left to bury it away
it's the new strange abilities that smack of reality and old age and destiny that are the most troublesome, the things neglected, the things that matter, mi vida, mi amor, mi destino
the isolation of the isolate, the dread of the kingdom, the solace of the dove; the surface of the unconscious and the sideways transfer of ideas and memories to the places we sat before we were born from the places we built to hold our sensitivities in place
there is no day like today and no chance left to bury it away
it flows, has a rhythm, moves forward and back, and then lands like a kite
even so, an embarrassing length of time aside, the blue moon and sad sky
welcome gently my heat soaked soul (and press me against the matterhorn)
with little sorrow and terrible softened undoom, invariably or inconsequently
I wait at the corner store for the right moment to stand up and cry aloud
"The world is a snap strike unholy place, but it brought me to you" and
even then your absence has a hold on me, a strange sad hold
a glove on reupholstered living room furniture
even so, an embarrassing length of time aside, the blue moon and sad sky
welcome gently my heat soaked soul (and press me against the matterhorn)
with little sorrow and terrible softened undoom, invariably or inconsequently
I wait at the corner store for the right moment to stand up and cry aloud
"The world is a snap strike unholy place, but it brought me to you" and
even then your absence has a hold on me, a strange sad hold
a glove on reupholstered living room furniture
e.e.
To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best to make you like everybody else, means to fight the hardest human battle ever and to never stop fighting.
e.e. cummings
New Poems [from Collected Poems], 1938, [Excerpt from the Introduction]
Miracles are to come. With you I leave a remembrance of miracles: they are somebody who can love and who shall be continually reborn,a human being;somebody who said to those near him,when his fingers would not hold a brush "tie it to my hand"--
nothing proving or sick or partial. Nothing false,nothing difficult or easy or small or colossal. Nothing ordinary or extraordinary,nothing emptied or filled,real or unreal;nothing feeble and known or clumsy and guessed. Everywhere tints childrening,innocent spontaneaous,true. Nowhere possibly what flesh and impossibly such a garden,but actually flowers which breasts are amoung the very mouths of light. Nothing believed or doubted;brain over heart, surface:nowhere hating or to fear;shadow,mind without soul. Only how measureless cool flames of making;only each other building always distinct selves of mutual entirely opening;only alive. Never the murdered finalities of wherewhen and yesno,impotent nongames of wrongright and rightwrong;never to gain or pause,never the soft adventure of undoom,greedy anguishes and cringing ecstasies of inexistence;never to rest and never to have;only to grow.
Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question
e.e.
e.e. cummings
New Poems [from Collected Poems], 1938, [Excerpt from the Introduction]
Miracles are to come. With you I leave a remembrance of miracles: they are somebody who can love and who shall be continually reborn,a human being;somebody who said to those near him,when his fingers would not hold a brush "tie it to my hand"--
nothing proving or sick or partial. Nothing false,nothing difficult or easy or small or colossal. Nothing ordinary or extraordinary,nothing emptied or filled,real or unreal;nothing feeble and known or clumsy and guessed. Everywhere tints childrening,innocent spontaneaous,true. Nowhere possibly what flesh and impossibly such a garden,but actually flowers which breasts are amoung the very mouths of light. Nothing believed or doubted;brain over heart, surface:nowhere hating or to fear;shadow,mind without soul. Only how measureless cool flames of making;only each other building always distinct selves of mutual entirely opening;only alive. Never the murdered finalities of wherewhen and yesno,impotent nongames of wrongright and rightwrong;never to gain or pause,never the soft adventure of undoom,greedy anguishes and cringing ecstasies of inexistence;never to rest and never to have;only to grow.
Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question
e.e.
World Clock
Thursday, February 14
Thoughts on circles
Monday, February 11
Every circle is perfect, in it's own impossible way.
From metaphysics, we know that certain concepts of geometry, such as the concept of a circle (i.e., a line equidistant from a point) is something which does not really exist, at least not in the physical world. All physical circles (e.g., wheels, drawings of circles) are not perfectly round. Yet our minds can conceive of a perfect circle. Philosophically speaking, since this concept can not come from the physical world it must instead come from an ideal world. Through any three points, not all on the same line, there lies a unique circle. To take this one step further, imagine that two people meet at a certain time and place and their interaction, the resulting new entity, the relationship, becomes a third point. Now we have three points and can conceive of a circle connecting these three entities. Something new exists: a new, perfect, and previously impossible connection.
Each day we should pay attention to the new creation that arises when we pay attention to the other point in our equation and to the circle that is created, enveloping us in something new.
Friday, February 8
Nirvana covering Seasons in the Sun, which I had never heard before tonight. They are all playing the wrong instrument.
more
Mitt and Bird
A day late but I am still pondering why Mitt Romney would say that he quit the race to save us from terrorists.
Also, want a free toilet Austinites?
If I fight on in my campaign, all the way to the convention, I would forestall the launch of a national campaign and make it more likely that Senator Clinton or Obama would win. And in this time of war, I simply cannot let my campaign, be a part of aiding a surrender to terror.If you are looking for something more fun to do, why don't you watch an Andrew Bird concert... or tomorrow you can go to the link and watch Okkervil River play a live set from Europe. Sweet. I'm really good at not doing any dissertation work.
Also, want a free toilet Austinites?
Wednesday, February 6
I dreamt that I fought the universe; the whole thing smashed away into colored glass that coalesced into sights no one could ever imagine; and then I knew, somehow, how you felt, what you were thinking, and why you do the things you do. Filled with knowledge, I was beyond the reach of the sun and the stars and far beyond faith, reaching my hand toward something greater than all of these things. I knew, and I existed, to imbue substance into the spaces in between the particle and the wave, adding movement to light. Words and mystery had no meaning. I watched as the colored glass continued to transform in my mind until a drop of rain from the heavens collided with my consciousness and my transcendent illusions fell away into the darkness of the void, where all things will one day return. Again steeped in the glue of predetermined limits, again mired and measured solely through the few minor and fleeting victories and ascensions beyond non-memory that I have acquired in the wet and ethereal spaces near to my dreams, I somehow managed to smile.
Saturday, February 2
Flow: when action and awareness merge in the absence of spare attention that might allow objects beyond the immediate interaction to enter awareness.
This happens most in dance, in sport, in chess, in creating art. Could it also happen in appreciating art? In appreciating beauty? Are these things challenging enough to push away the external distractions that might sap away some attention? Is it possible to become one with beauty for more than a fleeting moment? What is the relationship of Flow and the experience of Zen or kenshō or satori?
Oh, it looks like there is a book that might answer some of these questions: The Art of Seeing: An Interpretation of the Aesthetic Encounter by Mihaly Csikszentmihaly.
It is also addressed in other works.
This happens most in dance, in sport, in chess, in creating art. Could it also happen in appreciating art? In appreciating beauty? Are these things challenging enough to push away the external distractions that might sap away some attention? Is it possible to become one with beauty for more than a fleeting moment? What is the relationship of Flow and the experience of Zen or kenshō or satori?
Oh, it looks like there is a book that might answer some of these questions: The Art of Seeing: An Interpretation of the Aesthetic Encounter by Mihaly Csikszentmihaly. It is also addressed in other works.
When you're not dominated by feelings of separateness from what you're working on, then you can be said to 'care' about what you're doing. That is what caring really is: 'a feeling of identification with what one's doing.' When one has this feeling then you also see the inverse side of caring, quality itself.Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig
