i quite like this one...intelligence hiding out inside
Saturday, January 31, 2015
John Paul Young - Love Is In The Air (1978)
just heard it on TV in a film...
i don't mind what's in the air
as long as i feel ok
i don't mind what's in the air
as long as i feel ok
Dancing on the Edge
Dancing on The Edge (colour)
A N D R Z E J • R A D K A
(source: facebook, Photographize)
L'Erba Persa, Levanto (2013,2014)
in good memory
my friends moved from there to the mountains now...there will be a new place
Tu mano fue volando de mis ojos
XXXV
Tu mano fue volando de mis ojos al día.
Entró la luz como un rosal abierto.
Arena y cielo palpitaban como una
culminante colmena cortada en las turquesas.
Tu mano tocó sílabas que tintineaban, copas,
alcuzas con aceites amarillos,
corolas, manantiales y, sobre todo, amor,
amor: tu mano pura preservó las cucharas.
La tarde fue. La noche deslizó sigilosa
sobre el sueño del hombre su cápsula celeste.
Un triste olor salvaje soltó la madreselva.
Y tu mano volvió de su vuelo volando
a cerrar su plumaje que yo creí perdido
sobre mis ojos devorados por la sombra
Entró la luz como un rosal abierto.
Arena y cielo palpitaban como una
culminante colmena cortada en las turquesas.
Tu mano tocó sílabas que tintineaban, copas,
alcuzas con aceites amarillos,
corolas, manantiales y, sobre todo, amor,
amor: tu mano pura preservó las cucharas.
La tarde fue. La noche deslizó sigilosa
sobre el sueño del hombre su cápsula celeste.
Un triste olor salvaje soltó la madreselva.
Y tu mano volvió de su vuelo volando
a cerrar su plumaje que yo creí perdido
sobre mis ojos devorados por la sombra
Pablo Neruda
Tu casa suena como un tren
XXXVIII
Tu casa suena como un tren a mediodía,
zumban las avispas, cantan las cacerolas,
la cascada enumera los hechos del rocío,
tu risa desarrolla su trino de palmera.
La luz azul del muro conversa con la piedra,
llega como un pastor silbando un telegrama
y entre las dos higueras de voz verde
Homero sube con zapatos sigilosos.
Sólo aquí la ciudad no tiene voz ni llanto,
ni sin fin, ni sonatas, ni labios, ni bocina
sino un discurso de cascada y de leones,
y tú que subes, cantas, corres, caminas, bajas,
plantas, coses, cocinas, clavas, escribes, vuelves,
o te has ido y se sabe que comenzó el invierno.
zumban las avispas, cantan las cacerolas,
la cascada enumera los hechos del rocío,
tu risa desarrolla su trino de palmera.
La luz azul del muro conversa con la piedra,
llega como un pastor silbando un telegrama
y entre las dos higueras de voz verde
Homero sube con zapatos sigilosos.
Sólo aquí la ciudad no tiene voz ni llanto,
ni sin fin, ni sonatas, ni labios, ni bocina
sino un discurso de cascada y de leones,
y tú que subes, cantas, corres, caminas, bajas,
plantas, coses, cocinas, clavas, escribes, vuelves,
o te has ido y se sabe que comenzó el invierno.
Pablo Neruda
Friday, January 30, 2015
i am a bit tired
i wanted to talk and
walk with you
i wanted to wake and
sleep with you
it is as simple as that
there is no space
for somebody like me
in your life
to look for you
is like circling in a desert
jumping from little points of light,
from firefly to firefly at night,
from stone to stone
i am tired
of chasing a feather
in the wind.
i must lie down
and sleep
http://manonafence-zwischenwelten.blogspot.de/2012/02/bodyhttp3a2f2fpaulocoelhoblog.html
walk with you
i wanted to wake and
sleep with you
it is as simple as that
there is no space
for somebody like me
in your life
to look for you
is like circling in a desert
jumping from little points of light,
from firefly to firefly at night,
from stone to stone
i am tired
of chasing a feather
in the wind.
i must lie down
and sleep
http://manonafence-zwischenwelten.blogspot.de/2012/02/bodyhttp3a2f2fpaulocoelhoblog.html
Here I Love You
Here I love you.
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant
waters.
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.
The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.
Oh the black cross of a ship.
Alone.
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.
The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you,
the pines in the wind want to sing
your name with their leaves of wire.
Aquí te amo.
En los oscuros pinos se desenreda el viento.
Fosforece la luna sobre las aguas errantes.
Andan días iguales persiguiéndose.
Se desciñe la niebla en danzantes figuras.
Una gaviota de plata se descuelga del ocaso.
A veces una vela. Altas, altas estrellas.
O la cruz negra de un barco.
Solo.
A veces amanezco, y hasta mi alma está húmeda.
Suena, resuena el mar lejano.
Este es un puerto.
Aquí te amo.
Aquí te amo y en vano te oculta el horizonte.
Te estoy amando aún entre estas frías cosas.
A veces van mis besos en esos barcos graves,
que corren por el mar hacia donde no llegan.
Ya me veo olvidado como estas viejas anclas.
Son más tristes los muelles cuando atraca la tarde.
Se fatiga mi vida inútilmente hambrienta.
Amo lo que no tengo. Estás tú tan distante.
Mi hastío forcejea con los lentos crepúsculos.
Pero la noche llega y comienza a cantarme.
La luna hace girar su rodaje de sueño.
Me miran con tus ojos las estrellas más grandes.
Y como yo te amo, los pinos en el viento,
quieren cantar tu nombre con sus hojas de alambre.
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant
waters.
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.
The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.
Oh the black cross of a ship.
Alone.
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.
The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you,
the pines in the wind want to sing
your name with their leaves of wire.
Poema 18
Aquí te amo.
En los oscuros pinos se desenreda el viento.
Fosforece la luna sobre las aguas errantes.
Andan días iguales persiguiéndose.
Se desciñe la niebla en danzantes figuras.
Una gaviota de plata se descuelga del ocaso.
A veces una vela. Altas, altas estrellas.
O la cruz negra de un barco.
Solo.
A veces amanezco, y hasta mi alma está húmeda.
Suena, resuena el mar lejano.
Este es un puerto.
Aquí te amo.
Aquí te amo y en vano te oculta el horizonte.
Te estoy amando aún entre estas frías cosas.
A veces van mis besos en esos barcos graves,
que corren por el mar hacia donde no llegan.
Ya me veo olvidado como estas viejas anclas.
Son más tristes los muelles cuando atraca la tarde.
Se fatiga mi vida inútilmente hambrienta.
Amo lo que no tengo. Estás tú tan distante.
Mi hastío forcejea con los lentos crepúsculos.
Pero la noche llega y comienza a cantarme.
La luna hace girar su rodaje de sueño.
Me miran con tus ojos las estrellas más grandes.
Y como yo te amo, los pinos en el viento,
quieren cantar tu nombre con sus hojas de alambre.
sun and snow today
Thursday, January 29, 2015
U2 - So Cruel
We crossed the line
Who pushed who over
It doesn't matter to you
It matters to me
We're cut adrift but still floating
I'm only hanging on to watch you go down
My love
Oh, in love and war there are no rules
Oh, that said
You're so cruel
She wears my love like a see-through dress
Here lips say one thing
Her movements, something else
Oh love, like a screaming flower
Love, dying every hour
You don't know if it's fear or desire
Danger, the drug that takes you higher
Head of heaven, fingers in the mire
Oh, to stay with you I'd be a fool
Oh, sweetheart, sweetheart
You're so cruel
walking around, Pablo Neruda
WALKING AROUND
SUCEDE que me canso de ser hombre.
Sucede que entro en las sastrerías y en los cines
marchito, impenetrable, como un cisne de fieltro
navegando en un agua de origen y ceniza.
Sucede que entro en las sastrerías y en los cines
marchito, impenetrable, como un cisne de fieltro
navegando en un agua de origen y ceniza.
El olor de las peluquerías me hace llorar a gritos.
Sólo quiero un descanso de piedras o de lana,
sólo quiero no ver establecimientos ni jardines,
ni mercaderías, ni anteojos, ni ascensores.
Sólo quiero un descanso de piedras o de lana,
sólo quiero no ver establecimientos ni jardines,
ni mercaderías, ni anteojos, ni ascensores.
Sucede que me canso de mis pies y mis uñas
y mi pelo y mi sombra.
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
y mi pelo y mi sombra.
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sin embargo sería delicioso
asustar a un notario con un lirio cortado
o dar muerte a una monja con un golpe de oreja.
Sería bello
ir por las calles con un cuchillo verde
y dando gritos hasta morir de frío.
asustar a un notario con un lirio cortado
o dar muerte a una monja con un golpe de oreja.
Sería bello
ir por las calles con un cuchillo verde
y dando gritos hasta morir de frío.
No quiero seguir siendo raíz en las tinieblas,
vacilante, extendido, tiritando de sueño,
hacia abajo, en las tripas mojadas de la tierra,
absorbiendo y pensando, comiendo cada día.
vacilante, extendido, tiritando de sueño,
hacia abajo, en las tripas mojadas de la tierra,
absorbiendo y pensando, comiendo cada día.
No quiero para mí tantas desgracias.
No quiero continuar de raíz y de tumba,
de subterráneo solo, de bodega con muertos
ateridos, muriéndome de pena.
No quiero continuar de raíz y de tumba,
de subterráneo solo, de bodega con muertos
ateridos, muriéndome de pena.
Por eso el día lunes arde como el petróleo
cuando me ve llegar con mi cara de cárcel,
y aúlla en su transcurso como una rueda herida,
y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche.
cuando me ve llegar con mi cara de cárcel,
y aúlla en su transcurso como una rueda herida,
y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche.
Y me empuja a ciertos rincones, a ciertas casas húmedas,
a hospitales donde los huesos salen por la ventana,
a ciertas zapaterías con olor a vinagre,
a calles espantosas como grietas.
a hospitales donde los huesos salen por la ventana,
a ciertas zapaterías con olor a vinagre,
a calles espantosas como grietas.
Hay pájaros de color de azufre y horribles intestinos
colgando de las puertas de las casas que odio,
hay dentaduras olvidadas en una cafetera,
hay espejos
que debieran haber llorado de vergüenza y espanto,
hay paraguas en todas partes, y venenos, y ombligos.
colgando de las puertas de las casas que odio,
hay dentaduras olvidadas en una cafetera,
hay espejos
que debieran haber llorado de vergüenza y espanto,
hay paraguas en todas partes, y venenos, y ombligos.
Yo paseo con calma, con ojos, con zapatos,
con furia, con olvido,
paso, cruzo oficinas y tiendas de ortopedia,
y patios donde hay ropas colgadas de un alambre:
calzoncillos, toallas y camisas que lloran
lentas lágrimas sucias.
con furia, con olvido,
paso, cruzo oficinas y tiendas de ortopedia,
y patios donde hay ropas colgadas de un alambre:
calzoncillos, toallas y camisas que lloran
lentas lágrimas sucias.
Partenogénesis, Pablo Neruda
Todos los que me daban consejos
están mas locos cada día.
Por suerte no les hice caso
y se fueron a otra ciudad,
en donde viven todos juntos
intercambiándose sombreros.
Eran sujetos estimables,
políticamente profundos,
y cada falta que yo hacía
les causaba tal sufrimiento
que encanecieron, se arrugaron,
dejaron de comer castañas,
y una otoñal melancolía
por fin los dejó delirantes.
Ahora yo no sé que ser,
si olvidadizo o respetuoso,
si continuar aconsejado
o reprocharles su delirio:
no sirvo para independiente,
me pierdo entre tanto follaje,
y no sé si salir o entrar,
si caminar o detenerme,
si comprar gatos o tomates.
Voy a tratar de comprender
lo que no debo hacer y hacerlo,
y así podre justificar
los caminos que se me pierdan,
porque si yo no me equivoco
quién va a creer en mis errores?
Si continúo siendo sabio
nadie me va a tomar en cuenta.
Pero trataré de cambiar:
voy a saludar con esmero,
voy a cuidar las apariencias
con dedicación y entusiamo
hasta ser todo lo que quieran
que uno sea y que uno no sea,
hasta nos sino los otros.
Y entonces si me dejan tranquilo
me voy a cambiar de persona,
voy a discrepar de pellejo,
y cuando ya tenga otra boca,
otros zapatos otros ojos,
cuando ya sea diferente
y nadie pueda conocerme
seguiré haciendo lo mismo
porque no sé hacer otra cosa.
están mas locos cada día.
Por suerte no les hice caso
y se fueron a otra ciudad,
en donde viven todos juntos
intercambiándose sombreros.
Eran sujetos estimables,
políticamente profundos,
y cada falta que yo hacía
les causaba tal sufrimiento
que encanecieron, se arrugaron,
dejaron de comer castañas,
y una otoñal melancolía
por fin los dejó delirantes.
Ahora yo no sé que ser,
si olvidadizo o respetuoso,
si continuar aconsejado
o reprocharles su delirio:
no sirvo para independiente,
me pierdo entre tanto follaje,
y no sé si salir o entrar,
si caminar o detenerme,
si comprar gatos o tomates.
Voy a tratar de comprender
lo que no debo hacer y hacerlo,
y así podre justificar
los caminos que se me pierdan,
porque si yo no me equivoco
quién va a creer en mis errores?
Si continúo siendo sabio
nadie me va a tomar en cuenta.
Pero trataré de cambiar:
voy a saludar con esmero,
voy a cuidar las apariencias
con dedicación y entusiamo
hasta ser todo lo que quieran
que uno sea y que uno no sea,
hasta nos sino los otros.
Y entonces si me dejan tranquilo
me voy a cambiar de persona,
voy a discrepar de pellejo,
y cuando ya tenga otra boca,
otros zapatos otros ojos,
cuando ya sea diferente
y nadie pueda conocerme
seguiré haciendo lo mismo
porque no sé hacer otra cosa.
"Sueño de gatos", de Neruda
Qué bonito duerme un gato,
duerme con patas y peso,
duerme con sus crueles uñas,
y con su sangre sanguinaria,
duerme con todos los anillos
que como círculos quemados
construyeron la geología
de una cola color de arena.
Quisiera dormir como un gato
con todos los pelos del tiempo,
con la lengua del pedernal,
con el sexo seco del fuego
y después de no hablar con nadie,
tenderme sobre todo el mundo,
sobre las tejas y la tierra
intensamente dirigido
a cazar las ratas del sueño.
He visto cómo ondulaba,
durmiendo, el gato: corría
la noche en él como agua oscura,
y a veces se iba a caer,
se iba tal vez a despeñar
en los desnudos ventisqueros,
tal vez creció tanto durmiendo
como un bisabuelo de tigre
y saltaría en las tinieblas
tejados, nubes y volcanes.
Duerme, duerme, gato nocturno
con tus ceremonias de obispo,
y tu bigote de piedra:
ordena todos nuestros sueños,
dirige la oscuridad
de nuestras dormidas proezas
con tu corazón sanguinario
y el largo cuello de tu cola.
Pablo Neruda
duerme con patas y peso,
duerme con sus crueles uñas,
y con su sangre sanguinaria,
duerme con todos los anillos
que como círculos quemados
construyeron la geología
de una cola color de arena.
Quisiera dormir como un gato
con todos los pelos del tiempo,
con la lengua del pedernal,
con el sexo seco del fuego
y después de no hablar con nadie,
tenderme sobre todo el mundo,
sobre las tejas y la tierra
intensamente dirigido
a cazar las ratas del sueño.
He visto cómo ondulaba,
durmiendo, el gato: corría
la noche en él como agua oscura,
y a veces se iba a caer,
se iba tal vez a despeñar
en los desnudos ventisqueros,
tal vez creció tanto durmiendo
como un bisabuelo de tigre
y saltaría en las tinieblas
tejados, nubes y volcanes.
Duerme, duerme, gato nocturno
con tus ceremonias de obispo,
y tu bigote de piedra:
ordena todos nuestros sueños,
dirige la oscuridad
de nuestras dormidas proezas
con tu corazón sanguinario
y el largo cuello de tu cola.
Pablo Neruda
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
I like people who dream, A.Camus
I like people
who dream or talk
to themselves interminably;
I like them,
for they are double.
They are here
and elsewhere.
Albert Camus
who dream or talk
to themselves interminably;
I like them,
for they are double.
They are here
and elsewhere.
Albert Camus
Ferdinand von Bozen:....
https://plus.google.com/113358809742678365342/posts/Yk6V2dfckG8
see: above link
photo and text: Ferdinand von Bozen
Don't talk unless you can improve the silence.
― Jorge Luis Borges
This post hit me hard at the right time....
see: above link
photo and text: Ferdinand von Bozen
Don't talk unless you can improve the silence.
― Jorge Luis Borges
This post hit me hard at the right time....
more food for thought
"This life is temporary; in the Middle Ages and the early Renaissance, the constant proximity of death and the lack of any miracle cures or drastic methods of resuscitation brought people, I think, to a much closer sense of this — a sense that has been deteriorating ever since. People's sense of their own importance leads them to do terrible things; these young men who murdered the cartoonists and grocery store customers in Paris are an excellent example. These men— objectively violent and tragic to the rest of us — thought they were terribly important, and that what they were doing was terribly important. Perhaps that is the essence of terrorism — not the outward action, but the narcissistic tyranny of self that confers Godlike agency on us. It's one thing to grab an automatic rifle and kill people this way; yet I think that all of us, due to the action of this self-importance, indulge in thousands of tiny little acts of murder of compassion and love within ourselves all week long.
It's this inner dilemma from which all the outer actions spring; everything outward is an expression of an inward action. All these inward actions begin with the belief that I am important; and only the certain action that I ought to focus remarkably on the present moment, because I will die, seems to be a dose of medicine that could counteract it."
http://zenyogagurdjieff.blogspot.de/2015/01/the-missing-mind-part-iv.html
this link leads to the previous post here .:
"In failing to distinguish between the inner and the outer, and understanding that mindfulness (in so far as it works within one) addresses the inner, and the outer—
but not the intersection between the inner and the outer—
which is the terrifying location of consciousness itself, the location we forever avoid because of the difficulty of standing between these two powerful forces —
—we conceptualize.
I would say, generally speaking, that this tendency towards the superficial—which is relentless in this age of endless media and the growth industry of willful ignorance—has infiltrated the spiritual subsystems of cultures in the same way that it has contaminated everything else.
Now, this is a very important point, because the spiritual essence of a culture is the BIOS, the basic input output system, on which everything the culture represents is based. It lies embedded deep within the machinery of not only the culture itself, but the souls of the individuals that inhabit it; and when our attention spans grow short, our memories of tradition are abridged, and our commitment to the long, deep, essential pondering that is necessary for spiritual growth is abandoned, our culture decays, and everything along with it.
We live in an age where this form of degradation is not only accepted, it is celebrated."
value and misunderstanding of mythology: thoughts on romantic love
I wish to clear some possible errors in understanding myth, mythology, emotional patterns and expectations.
Ariadne, Theseus and Dionysos. Orpheus and Eurydike.
These are wonderful myths, rich, rich in depth and feeling.
The Greek mythology didn't promiss salvation.
It let us participate in all the tragedy, suffering, comedy and joy of life , love and death.
As a start bourgeois romanticism regulating life in sleeping rooms and at tea parties started to make promisses of "religious" fulfillment. it was, maybe one could say it, encrypting marital violence.
And nowadays mass production of double hearts coming with a new car and flat, furniture, food and lifestyle goodies oriented on consumerism makes it all sadly ridiculous. Romantic stories turn out to be mere pornography of the hunt for taxable pleasure.
Personally i do not see anything wrong with "romantic" feeling as long as it is true, secret and kept away from these lines of influence. Not romanticism, no. But people have bolts and doors and windows and longing and desire. they can melt for short eternal moments, in soul, spirit and body. they cannot melt together in life. to live and love together or apart is an active process which requires full awareness and effort.
it is important to see that no crucifix and no lover will save us.
Love itself is not a myth but it is a myth too, a different one for each human on this earth.
It certainly is not "just" a myth.
I do not want to live without myths, fairy stories, all the memories of mankind,
and i advocate a life with all its richness, feeling all the joy in living, moving, early morning light and sunsets, in Eros, in sharing and melting, being able to let go, well knowing that nothing like that is permanent or leaves me as an angel flying through the dark forever.
To fly through the dark, we have to do it ourselves.
We can but stretch out a hand, sometimes.
We don't need to come away from all expectations and hopes.
We have to recognize them for what they are and what they mean to our real self.
And we must be able to live inside ourselves.
Ariadne, Theseus and Dionysos. Orpheus and Eurydike.
These are wonderful myths, rich, rich in depth and feeling.
The Greek mythology didn't promiss salvation.
It let us participate in all the tragedy, suffering, comedy and joy of life , love and death.
As a start bourgeois romanticism regulating life in sleeping rooms and at tea parties started to make promisses of "religious" fulfillment. it was, maybe one could say it, encrypting marital violence.
And nowadays mass production of double hearts coming with a new car and flat, furniture, food and lifestyle goodies oriented on consumerism makes it all sadly ridiculous. Romantic stories turn out to be mere pornography of the hunt for taxable pleasure.
Personally i do not see anything wrong with "romantic" feeling as long as it is true, secret and kept away from these lines of influence. Not romanticism, no. But people have bolts and doors and windows and longing and desire. they can melt for short eternal moments, in soul, spirit and body. they cannot melt together in life. to live and love together or apart is an active process which requires full awareness and effort.
it is important to see that no crucifix and no lover will save us.
Love itself is not a myth but it is a myth too, a different one for each human on this earth.
It certainly is not "just" a myth.
I do not want to live without myths, fairy stories, all the memories of mankind,
and i advocate a life with all its richness, feeling all the joy in living, moving, early morning light and sunsets, in Eros, in sharing and melting, being able to let go, well knowing that nothing like that is permanent or leaves me as an angel flying through the dark forever.
To fly through the dark, we have to do it ourselves.
We can but stretch out a hand, sometimes.
We don't need to come away from all expectations and hopes.
We have to recognize them for what they are and what they mean to our real self.
And we must be able to live inside ourselves.
PINK FLOYD - HIGH HOPES [ HQ ]
i lost nearly a complete tooth in sleep....it should tell me something
a view on the most frequent causes of "illness" in a Western society
About eight years ago I had to write up a curriculum by
which I would train young medical practitioners in my office.
Though in large parts written in non-medical simple
German language it was approved by the Medical Council which surprised me
considerably. I obtained the licence to train doctors for 24 months.
I try to translate the central part.
A General Practitioner's view on the most frequent
causes of suffering and illness in rich capitalist Western countries
Lack of movement
Lack of motivation
Lack of true feeling
Lack of experience of self "value"
Lack of any true/own image of oneself
Lack of "valuable"/own/true/right aims in
life
Estrangement from one's life and self. Inability to
use the tools of thought and questions. Rigidity in imagination. Dependency on
social convention leading to fear, failure and confusion. Environmental and
self poisoning.
Monday, January 26, 2015
the pursuit of happiness: run, rabbit, run
"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. "
source: The American declaration of independence
absurd...the pursuit of happiness, pursuit and happiness, means and goal, both...
why, fuck, i have to run after the carrot?
a free man's spittle drooling from my mouth....?
source: The American declaration of independence
absurd...the pursuit of happiness, pursuit and happiness, means and goal, both...
why, fuck, i have to run after the carrot?
a free man's spittle drooling from my mouth....?
Vashti Bunyan - Across the Water
Fall into sleep as the sun comes up
And wake at the back of noon
Drift through the hours as the sun gets lower
Till the days are lit by the moon
And wake at the back of noon
Drift through the hours as the sun gets lower
Till the days are lit by the moon
Every day is every day
Can't tell one from the other
Wait to fall at the end of it all
As stones skip across the water
Can't tell one from the other
Wait to fall at the end of it all
As stones skip across the water
Lived on wit, got away with it
Hummed a universal tune
Found a thread away in the head
Followed it over the moon
Hummed a universal tune
Found a thread away in the head
Followed it over the moon
Every day is every day
One foot in front of the other
Learn to fall with the grace of it all
As stones skip across the water
One foot in front of the other
Learn to fall with the grace of it all
As stones skip across the water
Laurie Anderson - Someone Else's Dream
well, i know these nights...not these days but i know them well
meta-morphosis
i am growing
green scales
golden eyes
and i sleep
in silence
nobody hears
my breath
i smell with my tongue
i feel the earth
vibrate underground
i shed my skin,
i wear a shimmering
garment of stars
there is
a new space
to be filled
and it is mine
in which
i am coiled up
guarding
my peace
green scales
golden eyes
and i sleep
in silence
nobody hears
my breath
i smell with my tongue
i feel the earth
vibrate underground
i shed my skin,
i wear a shimmering
garment of stars
there is
a new space
to be filled
and it is mine
in which
i am coiled up
guarding
my peace
coiled-up
my flue taught me to re-coil
like a snake,
sleeping energy,
tranquility
unfortunately these pics are borrowed from forgotten sources
Sunday, January 25, 2015
Poetry by Pablo Neruda -- Leaning into the Afternoons
this is quite beautiful. just for contemplating: love does mean so many things as there are people and moments.
to love is more than longing and desire and homesickness.
it is not that Neruda didn't know.
here a moment of pure feeling...
to love is more than longing and desire and homesickness.
it is not that Neruda didn't know.
here a moment of pure feeling...
Greg Haines - 183 Times
is it melancholic? i don't know. just listening, it is quite tender and beautiful, a landscape
of memories, feeling , music, no thinking .....
of memories, feeling , music, no thinking .....
is love a butterfly?
losing color
as soon as you touch
is love a river
flowing
between
or is it a spring,
you take a bath
and come out clean
is love a cloud
shimmering in the sun
hiding the moon
to be taken away
by winds of the desert,
the rain to fall far away
is love just a word
we turn it in our hand
like a kaleidoscope
we test it for its weight
admire its presence,
give it to another to see
is love a butterfly
losing stardust
when we come near?
i listen
to its wings,
i hear.
fr-agility
Saturday, January 24, 2015
I will be waiting here. Rumi
I will be waiting here. For your silence to break. For your soul to shake. For your love to wake.
— Rumi
— Rumi
One of...Rumi
"One of the marvels of the world:
The sight of a soul sitting in prison
with the key in its hand."
—
Rumi
The sight of a soul sitting in prison
with the key in its hand."
—
Rumi
Life is not a problem...
“Life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced.”
S. Kierkegaard
S. Kierkegaard
inhabiting what we are ..suffering...
The best we can do, in other words, is inhabit what we are; and this is very different than the idea of of escaping our inner defilements by, as it were,inhibiting what we are, which is a quite different thing.
If Gurdjieff were to explain it, he might describe mindfulness not as rising above the defilements, but engaging with them; that is, we must come directly to grips with what we are, which may not lead to less pain and suffering, but, in fact, more of it: which some (very) few Buddhists are in fact willing to come to grips with.
from:
http://zenyogagurdjieff.blogspot.de/
as mentioned before, i cannot agree with all views in tis blog as it tends to put Christianity
"high" on top of the ladder, at least as far as i understand it. i cannot do this. . but always interesting and strong impulses for thinking..
If Gurdjieff were to explain it, he might describe mindfulness not as rising above the defilements, but engaging with them; that is, we must come directly to grips with what we are, which may not lead to less pain and suffering, but, in fact, more of it: which some (very) few Buddhists are in fact willing to come to grips with.
from:
http://zenyogagurdjieff.blogspot.de/
as mentioned before, i cannot agree with all views in tis blog as it tends to put Christianity
"high" on top of the ladder, at least as far as i understand it. i cannot do this. . but always interesting and strong impulses for thinking..
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