Tuesday, March 31, 2015
IN GOOD HEART, April 76, for Conrad, poem by: John Sawkins
When that Aprille with his shoures sote
The droghts of Marche hath perced to the rote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
And which vertu enengdred is the flour;
Dan Chaucer, Prolgue to the Canterbury Tales.
April is the cruellest month...
mixing memory and desire
T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land
Do not cry out in your need
and do not be angry
when the teeth of the harrow
tear at your heart
for it is the spring harrowing
without which
the soil can cradle no seed
nor bear any fruit;
try not to weep when you shudder
for the forces of sorrow
need firm ground;
though the heart find no ease
yet seed take
then rain will come too
in its own sweet time
12.4.1976
The droghts of Marche hath perced to the rote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
And which vertu enengdred is the flour;
Dan Chaucer, Prolgue to the Canterbury Tales.
April is the cruellest month...
mixing memory and desire
T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land
Do not cry out in your need
and do not be angry
when the teeth of the harrow
tear at your heart
for it is the spring harrowing
without which
the soil can cradle no seed
nor bear any fruit;
try not to weep when you shudder
for the forces of sorrow
need firm ground;
though the heart find no ease
yet seed take
then rain will come too
in its own sweet time
12.4.1976
Monday, March 30, 2015
there is no 'non' in life, 'non' doesn't count
i am tired and sad but a relationship which causes imbalance howsoever beautiful stops the ability to walk.i have to return to the source of my very own happiness inside. the absence of illusion is an illusion. there is no non-illusion as there is no non-nothing and no non-being. the acceptance and awareness of illusion belongs to the way to wisdom. to continue to suffer from a recognized illusion once you know better is silly. really, there is always a way out, even if the path can be hard and harsh as we have to act in accordance with our own insufficiency and deficiencies. in the end it doesn't matter what i expect but what i want. the only sin is to act against better knowledge. i share this, it will soon be Easter: please don't glorify suffering. be open for true joy, share when you can, and live as happy as you can. i try.
maybe everybody is a snake
maybe everybody is a snake
coiled up in sleep and
shimmering like a rainbow,
hissing when disturbed
spitting poison on the enemy,
hungrily attacking its prey
or just digesting and tired,
changing hideouts with the seasons
maybe everybody is a monster
lurking underground
moving without sound
with a lust to eat souls
maybe everybody is an angel,
walks in indifference,
has no language to be heard,
but wings made of moonlight
cold and beautiful.
and maybe everybody can fly
but does not know
the ways of the sky.
and just maybe
everybody can be a light
permeating blood and heart
into a dance of joy
coiled up in sleep and
shimmering like a rainbow,
hissing when disturbed
spitting poison on the enemy,
hungrily attacking its prey
or just digesting and tired,
changing hideouts with the seasons
maybe everybody is a monster
lurking underground
moving without sound
with a lust to eat souls
maybe everybody is an angel,
walks in indifference,
has no language to be heard,
but wings made of moonlight
cold and beautiful.
and maybe everybody can fly
but does not know
the ways of the sky.
and just maybe
everybody can be a light
permeating blood and heart
into a dance of joy
Leonce und Lena, Georg Büchner
"Dann – habe ich nachzudenken, wie es wohl angehn mag, daß ich mir auf den Kopf sehe. O, wer sich einmal auf den Kopf sehen könnte! Das ist eins von meinen Idealen. Mir wäre geholfen."
Nun, das geht. Aber es hilft nichts. Ein langweiliges Amüsement, allein, in den Kopf, auf den Kopf zu sehen.
Mit ein klein wenig Mühe kann man sich sogar auf den Kopf spucken.
"Erste Szene
Ein Garten Leonce halb ruhend auf einer Bank. Der Hofmeister.
LEONCE. Mein Herr, was wollen Sie von mir? Mich auf meinen Beruf vorbereiten? Ich habe alle Hände voll zu tun, ich weiß mir vor Arbeit nicht zu helfen. – Sehen Sie, erst habe ich auf den Stein hier dreihundertfünfundsechzigmal hintereinander zu spucken. Haben Sie das noch nicht probiert? Tun Sie es, es gewährt eine ganz eigne Unterhaltung. Dann – sehen Sie diese Handvoll Sand? Er nimmt Sand auf, wirft ihn in die Höhe und fängt ihn mit dem Rücken der Hand wieder auf. – Jetzt werf ich sie in die Höhe. Wollen wir wetten? Wieviel Körnchen hab ich jetzt auf dem Handrücken? Grad oder ungrad? – Wie? Sie wollen nicht wetten? Sind Sie ein Heide? Glauben Sie an Gott? Ich wette gewöhnlich mit mir selbst und kann es tagelang so treiben. Wenn Sie einen Menschen aufzutreiben wissen, der Lust hätte, manchmal mit mir zu wetten, so werden Sie mich sehr verbinden. Dann – habe ich nachzudenken, wie es wohl angehn mag, daß ich mir auf den Kopf sehe. O, wer sich einmal auf den Kopf sehen könnte! Das ist eins von meinen Idealen. Mir wäre geholfen. Und dann – und dann noch unendlich viel der Art. – Bin ich ein Müßiggänger? Habe ich jetzt keine Beschäftigung? – Ja, es ist traurig ...
HOFMEISTER. Sehr traurig, Euer Hoheit.
LEONCE. Daß die Wolken schon seit drei Wochen von Westen nach Osten ziehen. Es macht mich ganz melancholisch.
HOFMEISTER. Eine sehr gegründete Melancholie.
LEONCE. Mensch, warum widersprechen Sie mir nicht? Sie haben dringende Geschäfte, nicht wahr? Es ist mir leid, daß ich Sie so lange aufgehalten habe. Der Hofmeister entfernt sich mit einer tiefen Verbeugung. Mein Herr, ich gratuliere Ihnen zu der schönen Parenthese, die Ihre Beine machen, wenn Sie sich verbeugen.
LEONCE allein, streckt sich auf der Bank aus. Die Bienen sitzen so träg an den Blumen, und der Sonnenschein liegt so faul auf dem Boden. Es krassiert ein entsetzlicher Müßiggang. – Müßiggang ist aller Laster Anfang. – Was die Leute nicht alles aus Langeweile treiben! Sie studieren aus Langeweile, sie beten aus Langeweile, sie verlieben, verheiraten und vermehren sich aus Langeweile und sterben endlich aus Langeweile, und – und das ist der Humor davon – alles mit den wichtigsten Gesichtern, ohne zu merken, warum, und meinen Gott weiß was dazu. Alle diese Helden, diese Genies, diese Dummköpfe, diese Heiligen, diese Sünder, diese Familienväter sind im Grunde nichts als raffinierte Müßiggänger. – Warum muß ich es gerade wissen? Warum kann ich mir nicht wichtig werden und der armen Puppe einen Frack anziehen und einen Regenschirm in die Hand geben, daß sie sehr rechtlich und sehr nützlich und sehr moralisch würde? – Der Mann, der eben von mir ging, ich beneidete ihn, ich hätte ihn aus Neid prügeln mögen. O, wer einmal jemand anders sein könnte! Nur 'ne Minute lang. – Valerio, etwas betrunken, tritt auf. Wie der Mensch läuft! Wenn ich nur etwas unter der Sonne wüßte, was mich noch könnte laufen machen."
Prinzessin auf der Erbse, Princess and the Pea
This illustration came from:
Andersen, Hans Christian. The Snow Queen and Other Stories from Hans Andersen. Edmund Dulac, illustrator. London: Hodder & Stoughton 1911.
When a princess gets older, a woman used to be courted and to have a free choice , she usually cannot change her ways. She will complain. Then she will find pea after pea and then another pea on which she has to bed herself: her self. And then, there is no amount of mattresses which will take the pain.
Nothing at all will help but to leave the bed and walk until she finds her lost heart underneath.
well, this is not a nice story, it is not nice in Grimm's story to decide this way that somebody is a princess, and it is even really bad to make your son marry a princess who has only the quality to feel pain from a pea.
"my" princess has more qualities, for sure.
she is a princess, in essence.
only a bit opinionated and always
ready to give unwanted advice.
but then, i am not nice.
(on: "choosing from top right")
but then, i am not nice.
(on: "choosing from top right")
who will win: the senselessness of suffering on purpose or demand
who will win
my wish to die
or my wish to live
Easter is coming, the glorification of
blood and suffering.
I hate it.
it is there anyway, each day.
why this glorification,
why?
is heaven to be reached by suffering
or through loving?
I think both not but through kindness
and awareness.
My birthday ahead, 65 years, it doesn't say anything to me.
just a number.
but to be just a number is hard to take.
to end as a failed experiment, subjected to it by
choice, free will or not.
this time i managed to say no.
i do not look for suffering.
i cannot glorify it.
please, whoever reads this, do not think
that suffering will make you stronger
or purify you or free you from sin,
there is only one sin,
to act against better knowledge.
Gloria....next post
my wish to die
or my wish to live
Easter is coming, the glorification of
blood and suffering.
I hate it.
it is there anyway, each day.
why this glorification,
why?
is heaven to be reached by suffering
or through loving?
I think both not but through kindness
and awareness.
My birthday ahead, 65 years, it doesn't say anything to me.
just a number.
but to be just a number is hard to take.
to end as a failed experiment, subjected to it by
choice, free will or not.
this time i managed to say no.
i do not look for suffering.
i cannot glorify it.
please, whoever reads this, do not think
that suffering will make you stronger
or purify you or free you from sin,
there is only one sin,
to act against better knowledge.
Gloria....next post
nothing comes from nothing and vice versa
words are not a voice.
presence is not closeness.
the lack of sex between man and woman
is only a symptom for an inability
of being close, nothing else.
to fear closeness may be a deficiency of feeling, a fear to trust
and the idea that there will be a choice for happiness.
there is no choice, either there is joy or it is not there.
nobody can choose relationships, it chooses, life chooses.
it is attraction of the mind. put aside affairs.
happiness happens or it doesn't.
to love is not the wish to be loved.
but not to be loved is no way to go
together with the loved one.
presence is not closeness.
the lack of sex between man and woman
is only a symptom for an inability
of being close, nothing else.
to fear closeness may be a deficiency of feeling, a fear to trust
and the idea that there will be a choice for happiness.
there is no choice, either there is joy or it is not there.
nobody can choose relationships, it chooses, life chooses.
it is attraction of the mind. put aside affairs.
happiness happens or it doesn't.
to love is not the wish to be loved.
but not to be loved is no way to go
together with the loved one.
The White Birch ~ Solid Dirt
though the text is in parts disputable, i do like the song
Take me to the solid dirt
Invert this land
Let the stains revert
Unfold who we are
Through every scar
They used to shine like medals and stars
Take me to were the daughters swim
To tease the boys
Hearts filled to the brim
Make me believe
Your heart will not flee
Into the horizon
Towards the endless sea
Once
I was just a boy
With the urge to destroy
Once
I was just a boy
With scars to deploy
Take me to the spring that scatters
Its restless wings
Among our hearts
And we shall prevail
From this air
That breathes through everywhere
Once
I was a boy
With a need to destroy
Now
I will be a man,
I will rise from this land
Let the bells ring
Let the air sing
Let the hearts bring
Their scars and submit to spring
Through solid dirt
Take me to the solid dirt
Invert this land
Let the stains revert
Unfold who we are
Through every scar
They used to shine like medals and stars
Take me to were the daughters swim
To tease the boys
Hearts filled to the brim
Make me believe
Your heart will not flee
Into the horizon
Towards the endless sea
Once
I was just a boy
With the urge to destroy
Once
I was just a boy
With scars to deploy
Take me to the spring that scatters
Its restless wings
Among our hearts
And we shall prevail
From this air
That breathes through everywhere
Once
I was a boy
With a need to destroy
Now
I will be a man,
I will rise from this land
Let the bells ring
Let the air sing
Let the hearts bring
Their scars and submit to spring
Through solid dirt
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Animal of Light, Pablo Neruda
Animal of Light
Pablo Neruda
I am in this endless lack of solitude
an animal of light corralled
by his mistakes and by his foliage:
the forest is wide: here my brother creatures
swarm, back away or roam around,
while I retreat accompanied
by the escort that time chooses:
waves of the sea, stars of the night.
It is small, it is wide, scarce and is everything.
My eyes from looking into so many eyes
and my mouth from so many kisses,
from having swallowed the smoke
of those trains that vanished:
the old merciless stations
and the dust of countless bookshops,
the man I am, the mortal, weary
of eyes, of kisses, of smoke, of roads,
tired of books thicker than the earth.
And today, deep in the lost forest
he hears the rustling of the enemy and flees
not from the others but from himself,
from the interminable conversation,
from the choir that used to sing with us
and from the meaning of life.
Because one moment, because one voice, because one
syllable or the passing of one silence
or the undying sound of the wave
leave me face to face with the truth,
and there is nothing left to decipher,
nothing more to say: that was all:
the doors of the forest are closed,
the sun circles opening the leaves,
the moon rises like a white fruit
and man suits himself to his destiny.
--Pablo Neruda, from "Winter Garden" trans. by William O'Daly--
Pablo Neruda
I am in this endless lack of solitude
an animal of light corralled
by his mistakes and by his foliage:
the forest is wide: here my brother creatures
swarm, back away or roam around,
while I retreat accompanied
by the escort that time chooses:
waves of the sea, stars of the night.
It is small, it is wide, scarce and is everything.
My eyes from looking into so many eyes
and my mouth from so many kisses,
from having swallowed the smoke
of those trains that vanished:
the old merciless stations
and the dust of countless bookshops,
the man I am, the mortal, weary
of eyes, of kisses, of smoke, of roads,
tired of books thicker than the earth.
And today, deep in the lost forest
he hears the rustling of the enemy and flees
not from the others but from himself,
from the interminable conversation,
from the choir that used to sing with us
and from the meaning of life.
Because one moment, because one voice, because one
syllable or the passing of one silence
or the undying sound of the wave
leave me face to face with the truth,
and there is nothing left to decipher,
nothing more to say: that was all:
the doors of the forest are closed,
the sun circles opening the leaves,
the moon rises like a white fruit
and man suits himself to his destiny.
--Pablo Neruda, from "Winter Garden" trans. by William O'Daly--
Spring is like perhaps a hand, Ferdinand von Bozen (photo and quote)
Ferdinand von Bozen, facebook post
Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and
changing everything carefully
spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and
without breaking anything.
― E.E. Cummings
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and
changing everything carefully
spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and
without breaking anything.
― E.E. Cummings
o sweet gray day
o sweet gray day
drab and bleak and gloomy:
i praise you, universe,
for the flowers and the wind
i praise you, love, for light
and you earth, for bird's song.
i greet you, great silence,
deep and wide inside
i greet you, space to breathe,
i embrace you and me ,
and i caress you, the tree,
the green moss for me to see
i praise you, water,
for your flow
and i thank you, salt
to give me taste
o sweet gray day
i praise you
as i came alive
like a cloud in the sky
to sail away, weightless,
to change and rain and fly.
i thank you,universe,
for the roots you gave
for my heaviness to stay
on this soil and ground
where i met and found
the gift of moving, walking
i thank you that i may not know
what will be tomorrow
and not the end of time:
there is no plan for living.
drab and bleak and gloomy:
i praise you, universe,
for the flowers and the wind
i praise you, love, for light
and you earth, for bird's song.
i greet you, great silence,
deep and wide inside
i greet you, space to breathe,
i embrace you and me ,
and i caress you, the tree,
the green moss for me to see
i praise you, water,
for your flow
and i thank you, salt
to give me taste
o sweet gray day
i praise you
as i came alive
like a cloud in the sky
to sail away, weightless,
to change and rain and fly.
i thank you,universe,
for the roots you gave
for my heaviness to stay
on this soil and ground
where i met and found
the gift of moving, walking
i thank you that i may not know
what will be tomorrow
and not the end of time:
there is no plan for living.
never..
don't want to but this is not only up to one person,
there are always two involved
quote: Thinking Minds,facebook page
THE TIGER LILLIES - LONELY SCHIZOPHRENIC
no,no, don't worry, though the divided self speaks to each other...
and the wind rattles the shutters
and the wind rattles the shutters
Simon & Garfunkel - The Sound Of Silence+The Boxer+Bridge Over Troubled ...
cannot help but posting, it is so beautiful, soothing...
Richie Havens - Freedom (Studio Version) High Quality
i must remark that i just return home after having
taken my 89 year old mother for lunch
taken my 89 year old mother for lunch
Otis Taylor - Nobody Knows My Name
unfortunately not true, too many and nobody, it is not a real misery.
just get up and walk. forget what is a burden. collect new light and condensate it.
just get up and walk. forget what is a burden. collect new light and condensate it.
A wise man, Baltasar Gracián y Morales S.J
One can do both, be a fool and be wise,
it is the usual state of being
me
Baltasar Gracián y Morales S.J
TOWNES VAN ZANDT - "Lover's Lullaby" on Solo Sessions, January 17, 1995
quite unsuitable for this moment, just liked it
Saturday, March 28, 2015
joy and pain
joy and pain
walk hand in hand
to the end of land
until they drown in the sea
the nightingale does not think
she is somebody else,
she doesnt flee herself,
she sings and calls
the fox knows no desire,
he stretches in the sun
or goes hunting,
he doesn't know his colour.
only man needs a name
to call himself by,
never sees who he is,
questions his being
when he reaches out,
he may stumble, fall.
he is used to take
and thinks he rules
well knowing, he does not.
his heart may be kind,
his mind in misery.
entangled in the web
of fate and dreams.
there is no way
but to try forever,
to walk each moment
like a newborn child.
balance is a mystery,
and the earth turms
and turns and turns.
joy and pain
walk hand in hand
to the end of land
until they drown in the sea
ps: one can try other ways...
paths, hope, courage
walk hand in hand
to the end of land
until they drown in the sea
the nightingale does not think
she is somebody else,
she doesnt flee herself,
she sings and calls
the fox knows no desire,
he stretches in the sun
or goes hunting,
he doesn't know his colour.
only man needs a name
to call himself by,
never sees who he is,
questions his being
when he reaches out,
he may stumble, fall.
he is used to take
and thinks he rules
well knowing, he does not.
his heart may be kind,
his mind in misery.
entangled in the web
of fate and dreams.
there is no way
but to try forever,
to walk each moment
like a newborn child.
balance is a mystery,
and the earth turms
and turns and turns.
joy and pain
walk hand in hand
to the end of land
until they drown in the sea
ps: one can try other ways...
paths, hope, courage
Beethoven: Symphony No. 3 "Eroica" / Karajan · Berliner Philharmoniker
good night, just as small appetizer
on the value of ....
a Lady walks in my office.
i have to tell her: yes, you have a cancer growing. she sits there, her face a mask, shell shocked. i try another approach: don't take it so bad. you are not the only one. loads of people suffer from cancer these days, and some do quite well. try to do something nice today.
ps:of course i wouldn't
silence
soon, soon i think,
i can come out of silence
only here.
and it is very silent here.
but i don't want to talk.
as quoted from B.Shaw:
"The single biggest problem in communication
is the illusion that it has taken place."
i was rather looking for communion.
the lack of extension into future and
extension of arms in being is very heavy,
for me.
only shared dreams are reality.
as quoted from B.Shaw:
"The single biggest problem in communication
is the illusion that it has taken place."
i was rather looking for communion.
the lack of extension into future and
extension of arms in being is very heavy,
for me.
only shared dreams are reality.
the same walk , light and darkness crossing
this tree of life,
amputated, decapitated,
the roots upside down,
by human violence
of which i thought
i freed myself
but must accept
that i am a part
and here where darkness
grows i see the light,
they flow from the same
source as i do and as you
Who will she be, by: Marysia Wojtaszek
deeply connected to this question
by experience:
who will she be?
"She doesn't sleep.
Dawn projects life on her walls in the form of temptation.To touch or not to touch, that is her dilemma. To reach out from the comfortable recess of darkness and feel the heat of naked being; to unfold in light; to burn until she bleeds: that is all she desires and all that she fears.
Who will she be?
If she connects with light, loses all sense of anonymity, becomes consumed with emergence -
Who will she be.
* * *
Poem & Image (C) Marysia Wojtaszek "
(facebok post)
Otis Taylor & Cassie Taylor - Few Feet Away
If the sky fell down
And the moon went out
I'd just be a few feet away from you
If the sky fell down
And the moon went out
I'd just be a few feet away from you
Sometimes, you know you wander
Sometimes, you know they stay
Sometimes, you know they wander
Oh just tell them who I am
Go for a walk
And we sit by the rock
I'd just be a few feet away from you.
Go for a walk
And I sit by the rock
I'd just be a few feet away from you
Sometime you know they wonder
You know they stare
Sometime you know they wonder
Well just tell them who I am
If the sky fell down
And the moon went out
I'd just be a few feet away from you
If the sky fell down
And the moon went out
I'd just be a few feet away from you
Sometime you know they wonder
You know they stare
Sometime you know they wonder
tell them who I am.........
Discovering Marguerite Duras, Yann Andréa Steiner
I had read before L'Amant, seen the film and Hiroshima mon amour.
After all, I am only a medical doctor , i have not met all good books yet.
But then, this creates space for new and intense experience.
This book is an incredible discovery for me. It touches me so deeply, it is a poem written as a story,
language and mind are so very beautiful, tender and cruelly true.
though i am reading it in German-
the translation must be very good.
I penetrates me deep into my soul.
It is like a dream of something or somebody I know or wish to have known or should know.
The language is clear and simple, the atmosphere is filled with a terrible beauty and sadness,
a caring awareness not of words but of the soul, a condensation of perceptiveness
as i have rarely met it.
i could not even read it it in one go, i have to let hours pass inbetween.
it moves me to tears and i wanted to save the next pages for a bit later,again and again.
i cannot bear so much beauty for a long time.
a few quotes, in German:
"Ich erwiderte, ich hätte nie Nazis gesagt, um die Deutschen zu bezeichnen. Ich würde weiterhin sagen, manche Deutsche würden ihre Massaker, ihre Gaskammerrn, ihr Töten aller jüdischen Neugeborenen, ihre chirurgischen Experimente an den jüdischen Jugendlichen neimals loswerden. Niemals."
"Schreiben sei für mich wie weinen, Es gebe kein fröhliches Buch ohne Schamlosigkeit. Die Trauer müsse getragen werden, als wäre sie selbst eine Kultur, diejenige aller Erinnerung an den vom Menschen verfügten Tod, wie auch immer er erfolge,
als Strafe oder durch Krieg."
"Vielleicht hat sie überhaupt keine Geschichte."
"Vielleicht, ja. Vielleicht war sie in einen latenten, sanften Irrsinn verfallen, der sie davor bewahrte, sehen,wissen, verstehen zu wollen. Eine Art Irrsinn der Normalität hat sich vielleicht ihrer Person, ihres Geistes, ihres Körpers bemächtigt."
"Man wünschte , alles besäße die Anmut dieses weinenden Kindes. Es ist die des Meeres, wenn diess Kind es betrachtet."
"Das Kind schaut. Alles schaut es an, das Meer, die Strände, die Leere. Seine Augen sind grau. GRAU. Wie das Gewitter, der Stein, der Himmel des Nordens, das Meer, die der Materie, dem Leben innewohnende Intelligenz.Grau wie das Denken. Die Zeit. Das Gemisch der vergangenen und kommenden Jahrhunderte.GRAU."
"Die junge Frau sagt, man beschreibe immer das Ende der Welt und den Tod der Liebe.
Sie sieht, daß das Kind nicht versteht. Und sie lachen ganz laut darüber, alle beide.
Das Kind sagt, das stimme nicht, man beschreibe das Papier. Und sie sagt, nun verstehe
das Kind. Sie lachen. Sie sagt auch, wenn es weder das Meer noch die Liebe gäbe,
würde niemand Bücher schreiben."
"Théodora war vielleicht kein Buch.
Dieses Weiß, diese Geduld, dieses dunkle unerklärliche Warten, das war vielleicht zu viel. Diese Gleichgültigkeit war zuviel."
Tom Waits - Hope I don't fall in love with you
i think i don't like this text...but it sounds nice.
and otherwise, what can i do?
and otherwise, what can i do?
from: Bhagavad Gita
Bhagavad Gita (Chapter II, 16-26)
“Man is not born, nor does he ever die. For ever he tries to exist, he will never stop doing this, because this is eternal and permanent.”
“Just as a man casts off his old clothes and starts to wear new ones, the soul casts off the old body and takes on a new one.”
“But the soul is indestructible; spades cannot cut it down, fire does not burn it, water does not wet it, and the wind never dries it. The soul is beyond the power of all such things.”
“As man is indestructible, he is always victorious (even in his defeats), and therefore should never have regrets.”
taken from: http://paulocoelhoblog.com/
taken from: http://paulocoelhoblog.com/
Love's labours lost, William Shakespeare, Scene 3
“From women's eyes this doctrine I derive:
They sparkle still the right Promethean fire;
They are the books, the arts, the academes,
That show, contain and nourish all the world."
They sparkle still the right Promethean fire;
They are the books, the arts, the academes,
That show, contain and nourish all the world."
As you like it, Act V, Scene 1, William Shakespeare
| TOUCHSTONE | : Then learn this of me: to have, is to have; for it |
| is a figure in rhetoric that drink, being poured out | |
| of a cup into a glass, by filling the one doth empty | |
| the other; for all your writers do consent that ipse | |
| is he: now, you are not ipse, for I am he. ps: well,well...it didn't want it like that |
Woyzeck, G. Buechner, an interpretation by: Oleg Myrzak (Reutlingen, Gastspiel Theater unterm Dach aus Berlin)
"Jeder Mensch ist ein Abgrund, es schwindelt einem, wenn man hinabsieht."
a man prone to compulsive acts caught in social conflict , depending on a cruel need for money and humiliating himself by necessity and by instability of character, young and immature, weak and maybe not so weak, not well educated, again humiliated and insulted as an inferior being by officers, abused as a laboratory animal by a doctor, rather poisoned and weakened physically and mentally by a diet of peas only, betrayed by his pregnant love who couldn't trust in him as he had started to hear voices and showed all signs of schizophrenia, the doom dark and burning in the sky:
a drama where in the end only emotions rule, feeding halluzinations, and a man who could only see a way of freeing himself from suffering by self destruction finding an end with the murder of his love. an act of despair and senseless rebellion.
not only to be seen as political but as an elementally important warning in the spirit of time.
and for me personally an educational experience.
the peformance was excellent, the project can be called a full success.
PS: i quite appreciated the doctor making his patient depending on drugs, calling them peas...
and Woyzeck declaring that one cannot bear life without drugs, a modern interpretation.
Unfortunately at the time of Buechner really not so few poor people were test persons for a medical experiment which was founded on economic deliberations: can poor people live on a poor diet, cheap peas only, cost efficieny in slavery.
see link.
Friday, March 27, 2015
on emotion and modesty
http://zenyogagurdjieff.blogspot.de/2015/03/negative-emotions.html
interesting thoughts on emotions, leave aside the question of God,
about "negative" emotions. one has to accept emotions and embrace them
and deal with them as well as one can like with all other aspects of life.
to be adult means to be able to look for a way not to let emotions rule,
but it will happen anyway, accidentally, to all these highly developed ever
so wise people, intellectuals, gurus,masters, it happens when they meet
their own emotional source and pattern in meeting with other humans.
it is a call for modesty.
nobody hovers above another one.
interesting thoughts on emotions, leave aside the question of God,
about "negative" emotions. one has to accept emotions and embrace them
and deal with them as well as one can like with all other aspects of life.
to be adult means to be able to look for a way not to let emotions rule,
but it will happen anyway, accidentally, to all these highly developed ever
so wise people, intellectuals, gurus,masters, it happens when they meet
their own emotional source and pattern in meeting with other humans.
it is a call for modesty.
nobody hovers above another one.
this is not a good poem, just how i feel
do i call this home,
a place of loneliness
growing next to solitude
yes. it is my home
the cat watches my steps,
purrs on my lap
until he scratches,
just a wee bit, for love
there is nobody but me
and imagination, dream.
it is as it is.
after all, i am filled
with the fragrance of flowers,
filigrane leaves against light,
not only my hopeless heart
which must always be strong
i cannot be, nobody can.
i could be more like steel
resilient as a knife's blade.
i could be more like water
which closes over your hand
as if nothing was there.
but my blood sings another song,
my heart tells me to dare,
my brain to despair,
but i will not, will not.
i walk, i dream, i sleep,
nobody will know.
my insufficiencies
make me modest,
as much as i can be,
more i cannot see.
i do not know from where
my kindness flows, it does,
but so does the turmoil,
the storm, the thunder
so does the rain, i must
bear who i am and grow
until i am a tree, bent, old,
ready to burst and to fall,
to rot and feed the soil,
the grass and the bushes,
the flies and the birds,
a last song, a final dance
and then the wind
will take my dust
to the skies,
to the sea.
a place of loneliness
growing next to solitude
yes. it is my home
the cat watches my steps,
purrs on my lap
until he scratches,
just a wee bit, for love
there is nobody but me
and imagination, dream.
it is as it is.
after all, i am filled
with the fragrance of flowers,
filigrane leaves against light,
not only my hopeless heart
which must always be strong
i cannot be, nobody can.
i could be more like steel
resilient as a knife's blade.
i could be more like water
which closes over your hand
as if nothing was there.
but my blood sings another song,
my heart tells me to dare,
my brain to despair,
but i will not, will not.
i walk, i dream, i sleep,
nobody will know.
my insufficiencies
make me modest,
as much as i can be,
more i cannot see.
i do not know from where
my kindness flows, it does,
but so does the turmoil,
the storm, the thunder
so does the rain, i must
bear who i am and grow
until i am a tree, bent, old,
ready to burst and to fall,
to rot and feed the soil,
the grass and the bushes,
the flies and the birds,
a last song, a final dance
and then the wind
will take my dust
to the skies,
to the sea.
Thursday, March 26, 2015
last night with frogs
a last night with frogs
to croak me to dream,
calls for mating
from the hills
a last night with now
because tomorrow
is another time,
me another man
i will drive far
and i will reach home
to greet my cat
and do my work
there the owl will hoot,
the foxes will bark,
the toads will splash
and spawn in my pond,
and in the garden
sun, moon and stars
will call the buds
to open for spring
i must sleep, may dream.
when so many died,
it must have a reason
that i am alive.
i will learn to be kind,
this is all i know about wisdom,
not to despair, not guilt,
but find to acceptance
of what is and will be.
but i must be me,
true and as pure
as i can be.
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
Heimweh nach einem Gott
Niemals in meinem Leben glaubte ich an einen Gott,
wie die Bibel und andere Religionen ihn vorstellen.
Ich fühle, dass wir in der Urkraft und dem Licht und Dunkel
des Universums leben, in 'Gott', dessen Ausmass und Eigenschaften
wir nicht kennen können noch müssen.
Und dass in jedem von uns ein Funke davon schwingt,
den wir mehr oder weniger zum Leuchten bringen können.
Ich weiss, dass wir alle Reisende sind.
Eben geschah etwas merkwürdiges.
Ein Mensch stand nah den Wellen am Ufer
in Levanto. Nur kurz träumte ich, dann sah ich
niemand mehr, auch nicht am davon gehen,
nicht nah,nicht weit, nicht im Meer.
Was gehört dazu, einsam in der Nacht
einfach ins Meer zu gehen, um still zu ertrinken?
Eigentlich glaube ich nicht, dass dies geschah.
Beim Träumen vergeht oft mehr Zeit als man
sich beim Erwachen vorstellt.
Aber was gehört dazu?
Ich bin froh, dass ich lebe, lebendig,
jetzt.
the wind: if we do not find another place
ps: i love 'you' with all my heart. our insufficiencies appear to be so heavy that
i cannot bear an imagined nearness
anymore. too many ups and downs with it. if there was a God who could act within the course of our world and if prayer was begging, which it is not, i'd ask him to stop facebook, whatsapp and all places where artificial presence can be felt. no, i'd ask him to stop all manufactured presence.
i start with a ps which i cannot see but right.
der wind-
wenn wir keinen anderen ort finden
willst du, spürst du?
hörst du? wo bist du?
es ist nur eine möwe,
die in die nacht schreit
der wind nimmt den ruf,
den regen, die blumen,
nadeln und blätter,
er nimmt, was er kann
o was der wind nicht
tragen kann, das fällt
und taumelt zur erde
oder ins unersättliche meer
den duft der geranien
bringt er, den geruch
von salz und nasser erde,
von gras und wiesen
worte stäubt der wind,
sätze frisst er und silben,
die lieder von kindern
und das lachen der mädchen
das weinen der kranken,
er schluckt sehnsucht,
peitscht uns im sturm
und richtet unsere segel
jetzt, sagte der wind,
ist eine gute zeit, kind,
für die reise. ich fege
die himmel klar,
ich räume die gassen,
die tore und strassen.
doch wo bist du?
es ist die möwe, die schreit.
der wind nimmt uns fort
und fort und fort,
es ist ohne sinn
zu fragen wohin.
ps: fuck, o god, i just used google translator
to see what it does here translating this into English:
absolutely fcn horrible!
ps: fuck, o god, i just used google translator
to see what it does here translating this into English:
absolutely fcn horrible!
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