Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Man's Inconsistency (Cioran)
i quite like this book, in parts...Cioran, On the heights of despair..
isn't it...a bit romantic in a certain way?
lucid in others..
isn't it...a bit romantic in a certain way?
lucid in others..
Monday, June 29, 2015
My Back Pages, Bob Dylan
Crimson flames tied through my ears
Rollin' high and mighty traps
Pounced with fire on flaming roads
Using ideas as my maps
"We'll meet on edges soon" said I
Proud 'neath heated brow
Ah, but I was so much older then
I'm younger than that now
Half-wracked prejudice leaped forth
"Rip down all hate" I screamed
Lies that life is black and white
Spoke from my skull, I dreamed
Romantic facts of musketeers
Foundationed deep somehow
Ah, but I was so much older then
I'm younger than that now
Girl's faces formed the forward path
From phony jealousy
To memorizing politics
Of ancient history
Flung down by corpse evangelists
Unthought of, though, somehow
Ah, but I was so much older then
I'm younger than that now
A self-ordained professor's tongue
Too serious to fool
Spouted out that liberty
Is just equality in school
"Equality," I spoke the word
As if a wedding vow
Ah, but I was so much older then
I'm younger than that now
In a soldier's stance, I aimed my hand
At the mongrel dogs who teach
Fearing not I'd become my enemy
In the instant that I preach
My existence led by confusion boats
Mutiny from stern to bow
Ah, but I was so much older then
I'm younger than that now
Yes, my guard stood hard when abstract threats
Too noble to neglect
Deceived me into thinking
I had something to protect
Good and bad, I define these terms
Quite clear, no doubt, somehow
Ah, but I was so much older then
I'm younger than that now
A dream with Cioran and Heidegger
A dream with Cioran and Heidegger
It was a
large and quiet lake. The reflections of
clouds and the sun and the stars and the moon
were
stirred by a soft warm wind. I turned on my back, floating, the sky open to my
own eyes.
An apple
tree stood out of a meadow along the
shore.
Images rose in my mind, disturbing my piece.
I saw
Cioran dissecting the apple next to me, first it was small pieces, then puree,
then all of
a sudden it was not there anymore. For a moment I couldn't remember
that there
ever was anything in my world like an
apple at all.
Even
Cioran's thinking sharp as a honed kitchen knife had stopped to be in
existence.
It had
annihilated itself. Maybe this was his way, he didn't sleep, and thirsting for
the the mercy of sleep and for the joy
of mornings he tried to lead thinking itself to disintegration: to find peace
in nothing which must be difficult as long as you are somebody.
I saw a
certain humor in it, staring at me like a slowly winding and ,yes, grinning, snake
.
I rolled
around in the water, put in a few strokes for my freedom, then decided for the
apple: I refused to be infected by Cioran’s way of thinking.
A shadow
fell, and I heard someone talking in long and elaborated sentences, with an
intonation of absolute importance. Heidegger appeared, still talking and
writing. And again I couldn’t see the apple.
I found myself
deeply occupied with the ontology of apples. Again the question, so
fundamental: “Is there an apple?”. The apple got lost in translation, caught in
a so very German system of communication reminding of administrative procedures
with their very own exclusive and impenetrable terminology.
The power
of language destroyed my apple. I refused to listen: the apple re-appeared.
After all Cioran and Heidegger lived quite a long life. They must have eaten something
even if
they may not have enjoyed doing it.
I started
swimming again, and reaching the tree I ate the apple.
I woke up
without any signs of infection.
Un Homme Qui Dort (1974) Full movie with subs
"You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen.
Do not even listen, simply wait. Do not even wait, be quite still and solitary.
The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked. It has no choice.
It will roll in ecstasy at your feet."
- Franz Kafka, "Reflections on Sin, Pain, Hope and the True Way"
Do not even listen, simply wait. Do not even wait, be quite still and solitary.
The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked. It has no choice.
It will roll in ecstasy at your feet."
- Franz Kafka, "Reflections on Sin, Pain, Hope and the True Way"
E.M. Cioran - "Nichts zählt"
Er sagt, " die Angst vor dem Tode ist durch die Todeswollust überwunden"...also bitte....wie Herr Heidegger stand er anfangs dem Faschismus nahe...da wundert mich bei beiden nicht mehr so viel. Cioran, in "Auf den Gipfeln der Verzweiflung",
„Ich würde eine Welt lieben, in der es gar kein Kriterium gäbe, keine Form und keinerlei Prinzip, eine Welt der absoluten Unbestimmtheit. Denn in unserer Welt sind alle Kriterien, Formen und Prinzipien schal". Er begegnet aller tumben Hoffnung mit einem absoluten Vernichtungswillen alles ist Betrug, das Böse ist Therapie...das Leben ist nicht lebbar.
Provocation is good to initiate thinking.
Apocalypse According to Cioran [Documentary, English Subs]
Emile M. Cioran, geb. am 8.4.1911 in Rumänien, gest. am 20.6.1995 in Paris,
studierte in Bukarest Philosophie - vor allem Kant, Fichte, Schopenhauer, Hegel und Bergson -,
kam 1937 als Stipendiat nach Paris, wo er bis zu seinem Tod lebte.
"Lehre vom Zerfall" E.M. Cioran..mit Übersetzung/Bearbeitung von Paul Celan!..
...Resignation und Tatenlosigkeit...nicht mein Weg
he says, "i wrote all my books for therapeutic reasons"..."i am not cured, i am tired"...
well, understandable with his vision and with our world as it is conveyed to us day for day
http://www.literaturkritik.de/public/rezension.php?rez_id=15513
studierte in Bukarest Philosophie - vor allem Kant, Fichte, Schopenhauer, Hegel und Bergson -,
kam 1937 als Stipendiat nach Paris, wo er bis zu seinem Tod lebte.
"Lehre vom Zerfall" E.M. Cioran..mit Übersetzung/Bearbeitung von Paul Celan!..
...Resignation und Tatenlosigkeit...nicht mein Weg
he says, "i wrote all my books for therapeutic reasons"..."i am not cured, i am tired"...
well, understandable with his vision and with our world as it is conveyed to us day for day
http://www.literaturkritik.de/public/rezension.php?rez_id=15513
Sunday, June 28, 2015
SO THAT ONE DAY YOU REALIZED, DAVID WHYTE ("Santiago")
SO THAT ONE DAY YOU REALIZED
So that one day you realized, that what you wanted
had actually already happened, and long ago,
and in the dwelling place in which you lived before you began,
and that every step along the way, you had carried
the heart and the mind and the promise,
that first set you off and then drew you on, and that,
you were more marvelous in your simple wish to find a way
than the gilded roofs of any destination you could reach...
had actually already happened, and long ago,
and in the dwelling place in which you lived before you began,
and that every step along the way, you had carried
the heart and the mind and the promise,
that first set you off and then drew you on, and that,
you were more marvelous in your simple wish to find a way
than the gilded roofs of any destination you could reach...
...
Excerpt from ‘Santiago’
From PILGRIM: Poems by David Whyte
©2012 David Whyte
From PILGRIM: Poems by David Whyte
©2012 David Whyte
Photo © David Whyte
The Road to Nant Gwynant
Snowdonia, North Wales.
July 2015
The Road to Nant Gwynant
Snowdonia, North Wales.
July 2015
Bo Gordzelak Pedersen, Denmark, painter and poet: texts and paintings by Bo G.Pedersen
http://www.bogorzelakpedersen.dk/
https://www.facebook.com/bogope
I have the fall in my soul today
with its crackling of dry orange leaves
in hands of days much greater than me.
The swelling of something that is nothing in my throat,
and the almost bursting of a blue deer's eyes,
caught, as it is, in its silent animal skin.
The rising moon wants Jimi Hendrix,
and I will give it.
And I will give myself to it, and prepare.
Already up there, which we cannot see,
some black stars are birds in flight.
Again we have so little, we
return to this, the just rubbing against
the bark.
How naked we are, how old.
Our Greek souls still haunting us, our
echoing music.
But those intervals inbetween …
How naked we are
with our hands.
Somebody came to tell me
what I already had suspected,
that if there is no God for us
to compare ourselves with,
our love is as real as it gets.
https://www.facebook.com/bogope
( Desert rose)
(Lake in the forest)
(Landscape at dusk)
(In the woods)
Poem for St. John
Tell me, what is most empty, a day or a night?
With its lack of long enough reasons, or just the white light
With its lack of long enough reasons, or just the white light
yellowing. Stars. Then another cup of coffee.
Maybe language is, like when it's snowing and you
Maybe language is, like when it's snowing and you
hide in an old shed.
Or raining, books of that –
Or raining, books of that –
with chapters on hours dripping from dying trees.
Let us ask about the landscape and get
Let us ask about the landscape and get
no answers in return. There is no one here,
only these starling questions blackening,
only these starling questions blackening,
spotting our eyes as if a sudden fall,
while we were numb,
while we were numb,
had spread its wings to the end.
What beginning is the most empty, the one
What beginning is the most empty, the one
that comes with flowers in hand,
or where you start to kneel with all that is broken?
or where you start to kneel with all that is broken?
Out of the zone of the spoken:
time, religiously, feeds on who we are.
time, religiously, feeds on who we are.
( The empty grave, sold)
(The burning bush, sold)
with its crackling of dry orange leaves
in hands of days much greater than me.
The swelling of something that is nothing in my throat,
and the almost bursting of a blue deer's eyes,
caught, as it is, in its silent animal skin.
The rising moon wants Jimi Hendrix,
and I will give it.
And I will give myself to it, and prepare.
Already up there, which we cannot see,
some black stars are birds in flight.
(The mushroom hunt)
Again we have so little, we
return to this, the just rubbing against
the bark.
How naked we are, how old.
Our Greek souls still haunting us, our
echoing music.
But those intervals inbetween …
How naked we are
with our hands.
Somebody came to tell me
what I already had suspected,
that if there is no God for us
to compare ourselves with,
our love is as real as it gets.
( Winter Mist)
(Terrain vague)
Saturday, June 27, 2015
The Waterboys-The Whole Of The Moon. (This Is The Sea 1985)
I pictured a rainbow
you held it in your hands
I had flashes
but you saw then plan
I wandered out in the world for years
while you just stayed in your room
I saw the crescent
you saw the whole of the moon!
The whole of the moon!
You were there at the turnstiles
with the wind at your heels
You stretched for the stars
and you know how it feels
To reach too high
too far
Too soon
you saw the whole of the moon!
I was grounded
while you filled the skies
I was dumbfounded by truths
you cut through lies
I saw the rain-dirty valley
you saw Brigadoon
I saw the crescent
you saw the whole of the moon!
I spoke about wings
you just flew
I wondered, I guessed, and I tried
you just knew
I sighed
but you swooned
I saw the crescent
you saw the whole of the moon!
The whole of the moon!
With a torch in your pocket
and the wind at your heels
You climbed on the ladder
and you know how it feels
To GET too high
too far
Too soon
you saw the whole of the moon!
The whole of the moon!
Unicorns and cannonballs,
palaces and piers,
Trumpets, towers, and tenements,
wide oceans full of tears,
Flag, rags, ferry boats,
scimitars and scarves,
Every precious dream and vision
underneath the stars
Yes, You climbed on the ladder
with the wind in your sails
You came like a comet
blazing your trail
Too high
too far
Too soon
you saw the whole of the moon!
The Waterboys - This Is The Sea
These things you keep, you better throw them away
You wanna turn your back on your soulless days
Once you were tethered, now you are free
Once you were tethered, now you are free
That was the river, this is the sea
You wanna turn your back on your soulless days
Once you were tethered, now you are free
Once you were tethered, now you are free
That was the river, this is the sea
And now if you're feelin' weary, if you've been alone too long
Or maybe you've been sufferin' from a few too many plans
That have gone wrong and you're tryin' to remember
How fine your life used to be, runnin' around, bangin' your drum
Like it's 1973, well that was the river, this is the sea
Or maybe you've been sufferin' from a few too many plans
That have gone wrong and you're tryin' to remember
How fine your life used to be, runnin' around, bangin' your drum
Like it's 1973, well that was the river, this is the sea
And now you say you've got trouble, you say you've got pain
You say you've got nothin' left to believe in, nothin' to hold on to
Nothin' to trust, nothin' but chains, you've been scourin' your conscience
Rakin' through your memory, scourin' your conscience
Rakin' through your memory but that was the river, this is the sea
You say you've got nothin' left to believe in, nothin' to hold on to
Nothin' to trust, nothin' but chains, you've been scourin' your conscience
Rakin' through your memory, scourin' your conscience
Rakin' through your memory but that was the river, this is the sea
Now I can see you waverin' as you try to decide
You've got a war in your head and it's tearin' you up inside
You're tryin' to make sense of somethin' that you just don't see
You're tryin' to make sense now and you know that you once held the key
But that was the river, this is the sea
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
You've got a war in your head and it's tearin' you up inside
You're tryin' to make sense of somethin' that you just don't see
You're tryin' to make sense now and you know that you once held the key
But that was the river, this is the sea
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Now I hear there's a train, it's comin' on down the line
It's yours if you hurry, you've got still enough time
And you don't need no ticket and you don't pay no fee
And now, you don't need a ticket, you don't pay no fee
Because that was the river and this is the sea
It's yours if you hurry, you've got still enough time
And you don't need no ticket and you don't pay no fee
And now, you don't need a ticket, you don't pay no fee
Because that was the river and this is the sea
That was the river, this the sea, that was the river, this the sea
That was the river, river, river, river, river, river, river and this the sea
Sea, sea, yeah, behold the sea
That was the river, river, river, river, river, river, river and this the sea
Sea, sea, yeah, behold the sea
The Beatles - When I'm Sixty-Four - Lyrics
but.. i am 65 ~ and i can cook for myself and...well,still ..
Por que o Budismo não apoia o amor romântico? | Thich Nhat Hanh
romantic, non-romantic: not important, just terms , historic contexts...
Jethro Tull - Living In The Past 1969
no~we walk out of the past, memories fading, it is a blessing to be able to forget what is not needed anymore.
it is a pre-condition for sleep , for death, for life , for love and for the rising of the phoenix,...
it is a pre-condition for sleep , for death, for life , for love and for the rising of the phoenix,...
Friday, June 26, 2015
Bob Dylan, Every Grain of Sand
In the time of my confession, in the hour of my deepest need
When the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seed
There's a dyin' voice within me reaching out somewhere,
Toiling in the danger and in the morals of despair.
Don't have the inclination to look back on any mistake,
Like Cain, I now behold this chain of events that I must break.
In the fury of the moment I can see the Master's hand
In every leaf that trembles, in every grain of sand.
Oh, the flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryear,
Like criminals, they have choked the breath of conscience and good cheer.
The sun beat down upon the steps of time to light the way
To ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay.
I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry flame
And every time I pass that way I always hear my name.
Then onward in my journey I come to understand
That every hair is numbered like every grain of sand.
I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night
In the violence of a summer's dream, in the chill of a wintry light,
In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space,
In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face.
I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea
Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me.
I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man
Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand.
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