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Tuesday, September 27, 2016

The Rolling Stones , Sympathy For The Devil (Live) - OFFICIAL



well. why not.

anonymous power is the worst

no power i worse  than the anonymous,
the grey people, paragraphs,laws, they hide there,
they cannot be made out.
they torture us but they have no face nor name.
they suck our blood, life, hope,
and i hate being helpless, not knowing who to kill.
believe me, i want to kill this grey anonymous mass,
this distasteful jelly, this swarm of  suckers
and bullies behind glass and large desks
and huge screens with data strangulating us.
i don't know whom to attack at all.
maybe the newspapers know?
but they are just the same.
opportunist calls opportunist.
where is a true human in all this estranged shit?
and what is true in all this and who?

"peaceful relations between states of different ideologies," 1954, a Cold War term: co-existence (etymology)

now now.
i ask
what is peace:

violence
balanced with
violence?

to stay
calm,
non-action
in a danger-zone

walking mine fields
without emotion,
negotiating

possible explosion?
well well.
i don't know.

co-existence,
unreal, not more
than just existence.

but mindful,
together
and each alone

peace being inside,
no judgement
until

and even then
no doomsday
but trying to forgive...

can all be forgiven?
really really
i don't know.

the human race
knows more cruelty
than any other

being alive.
because
they know

what they do:
this makes us bad.
we know.



Everything But The Girl ,I Don't Want to Talk About It




mmh..everybody who does breaks his / her own heart...

ps: i guess it is enough to go broke :-)

Monday, September 26, 2016

Everything But The Girl ,Low tide of the night

E.B.T.G. ,I Didn't Know I Was Looking For Love



Nu ,Earth





Not Christian or Jew or Muslim, not Hindu
Buddhist, sufi, or zen. Not any religion
or cultural system. I am not from the East
or the West, not out of the ocean or up
from the ground, not natural or ethereal, not
composed of elements at all. I do not exist,
am not an entity in this world or in the next,
did not descend from Adam and Eve or any
origin story. My place is placeless, a trace
of the traceless. Neither body or soul.
I belong to the beloved, have seen the two
worlds as one and that one call to and know,
first, last, outer, inner, only that
breath breathing human being.

Kronos Quartet , Eddie Gómez , Nardis

admit...feel a bit like this..just now...



on the German health system and the imminent ruin of an old doctor

Today i am very troubled.

I have been a doctor since 1978,
for nearly 25 years now a General Medical Practitioner in
my own office here in the rural South of Germany..
In 2018 i want to stop work. Now i am 66 years old.

Apart from other work i care for 3 nursing homes.
My prescriptions are "over budget" each year.
Now i am threatened with paying the excess
out of my own pocket which is fairly empty.

We are talking about sums of 28-58 000 Euros yearly !
for the years 2015 until end of my working time,
to be paid 2018, 2019, 2020.

Does anyone think this is ok?
I don't.

I try to look for professional help,
but the chances are not good, maybe only to lower
the cost by a few thousand Euros.

Is it not enough to have paid taxes all these many years,
do our laws need to ruin the hope for ageing peacefully,
as if it was not enough to grow old and frail and walk towards
death?

I do not understand and cannot accept, at least i don't know
how.

Boris Grebenshikov ,Winter.




Now that the summer is gone
Snow"s on the ground
I sought and I found
I know what I found is true
But the bitter gray sky
Fades into silence
Only the fire is left
And some say it"s not enough
To carry us through
Days of apple bloom white
Silver and steel
Tales of webs
Spun around a careless heart
I dream of the snow-white seagulls
Crying to show me the way
But I will stay here with you
And nothing will ever come
To tear us apart
Look into my eyes sister
No harm will come to you
Look into my eyes sister
No harm will come to you


The Wind ,Boris Grebenshikov-,Radio Silence






Radio Silence
It suddenly feels like a new year
Like I'm a million miles away from here
I can see some kind of light here
Although I won't name it

I want to talk about the moonlight
I want to talk about the wild child, you know
That real wild one, dancing alone
In the middle of the whirlpool

Spinning tales about silence
About radio silence
About some kind of asylum
In the middle of an empty field full of danger

It's strange I don't feel like I'm a stranger

I feel like I belong here
I feel like I've been waiting for a long time
And now I can tell you some stories

Stories about the madmen
Stories about the dream-child
You know, that real wild one
Who dances alone
In the middle of the whirlpool
And I can tell you about silence
About radio silence
About some kind of asylum
In the middle of an empty field full of danger

If you want it

Neil Young ,Dead Man Theme (long version)

a short "essay" on "my" intelligence

intelligence tells me i die and now i live.
I die and live. I am alive.
I live as consciously,
as passionately
and as truly as i can with all
the richness of life and death,
with the sweetness of  grapes, the taste of  apples,
the scent of flowers, with kisses
and embraces and tenderness
and all desire
to be free and open to see, to be
free of thought and pre-judgement
and of as many concepts as i can be.

My greatest desire is to be near to essence,
to true and conscious experience.

Essence is a word, but essence cannot be in a word.

I must move on,  grow inside, water my love
and my kindness.
I must live
with my emptiness and
with my fullness, my not-mine
and non-me and my many me,
my idiot child in me and my education
and past, my wishes and dreams
and with all the cruelty and violence
and desert and indifference of the days
and the human race and me,
fighting, going inside to find my way.

all this intelligence tells me.
It tells me i am not and I am.
I feel me living, this is all.
And i feel this passionately.

i love and i am in love,
enchanted by the essence of another,
no need for chanting,
i walk with it and listen.
I remain untouchable in essence
but touchable. I changes, not essence.

Can anybody do more than to listen?

Intelligence tells me: all is fragile,
and the beauty of the filigree
is all the more beautiful for it.

ps: i am not so very intelligent
and not always conscious of what i do,
certainly not of what i write...








Sunday, September 25, 2016

shadow of a wine glass

Jiddu Krishnamurti, quote, desire, passion, emptiness

"If you destroy desire, you may destroy life itself. If you pervert desire, shape it, control it, dominate it, suppress it, you may be destroying something extraordinarily beautiful.
We have to understand desire, and it is very difficult to understand something which is so vital, so demanding, so urgent, because in the very fulfillment of desire, passion is engendered, with the pleasure and the pain of it. And if one is to understand desire, obviously, there must be no choice. You cannot judge desire as being good or bad, noble or ignoble, or say, ''I will keep this desire and deny that one.'' All that must be set aside if we are to find out the truth of desire - the beauty of it, the ugliness, or whatever it may be. It is a very curious thing to consider, but here in the West, the Occident, many desires can be fulfilled. You have cars, prosperity, better health, the ability to read books, acquire knowledge, and accumulate various types of experience, whereas when you go to the Orient, they are still wanting food, clothing, and shelter, still caught in the misery and degradation of poverty. But in the West as well as in the East, desire is burning all the time, in every direction; outward and deep within, it is there. The man who renounces the world is as crippled by his desire to pursue God as the man who pursues prosperity. So it is there all the time, burning, contradicting itself, creating turmoil, anxiety, guilt, and despair.
I do not know if you have ever experimented with it at all. But what happens if you do not condemn desire, do not judge it as being good or bad, but simply be aware of it? I wonder if you know what it means to be aware of something? Most of us are not aware because we have become so accustomed to condemning, judging, evaluating, identifying, choosing. Choice obviously prevents awareness because choice is always made as a result of conflict. To be aware when you enter a room, to see all the furniture, the carpet or its absence, and so on - just to see it, to be aware of it all without any sense of judgment - is very difficult. Have you ever tried to look at a person, a flower, at an idea, an emotion, without any choice, any judgment?
And if one does the same thing with desire, if one lives with it - not denying it or saying, ''What shall I do with this desire? It is so ugly, so rampant, so violent,'' not giving it a name, a symbol, not covering it with a word - then, is it any longer the cause of turmoil? Is desire then something to be put away, destroyed? We want to destroy it because one desire tears against another, creating conflict, misery, and contradiction; and one can see how one tries to escape from this everlasting conflict. So can one be aware of the totality of desire? What I mean by totality is not just one desire or many desires but the total quality of desire itself. And one can be aware of the totality of desire only when there is no opinion about it, no word, no judgment, no choice. To be aware of every desire as it arises, not to identify oneself with it or condemn it, in that state of alertness, is it then desire, or is it a flame, a passion that is necessary? The word passion is generally kept for one thing - sex. But for me, passion is not sex. You must have passion, intensity, to really live with anything; to live fully, to look at a mountain, a tree, to really look at a human being, you must have passionate intensity. But that passion, that flame is denied when you are hedged around by various urges, demands, contradictions, fears. How can a flame survive when it is smothered by a lot of smoke? Our life is but smoke; we are looking for the flame, but we are denying it by suppressing, controlling, shaping the thing we call desire.
Without passion how can there be beauty? I do not mean the beauty of pictures, buildings, painted women, and all the rest of it. They have their own forms of beauty, but we are not talking of superficial beauty. A thing put together by man, like a cathedral, a temple, a picture, a poem, or a statue may or may not be beautiful. But there is a beauty which is beyond feeling and thought and which cannot be realized, understood, or known if there is not passion. So do not misunderstand the word passion. It is not an ugly word; it is not a thing you can buy in the market or talk about romantically. It has nothing whatever to do with emotion, feeling. It is not a respectable thing; it is a flame that destroys anything that is false. And we are always so afraid to allow that flame to devour the things that we hold dear, the things that we call important.
After all, the lives we lead at present, based on needs, desires, and the ways of controlling desire, make us more shallow and empty than ever. We may be very clever, very learned, able to repeat what we have gathered, but the electronic machines are doing that, and already in some fields the machines are more capable than man, more accurate and swifter in their calculations. So we always come back to the same thing - which is that life as we live it now is so very superficial, narrow, limited, all because deep down we are empty, lonely, and always trying to cover it up, to fill up that emptiness; therefore, the need, the desire becomes a terrible thing. Nothing can fill that deep void within - no gods, no saviors, no knowledge, no relationship, no children, no husband, no wife - nothing. But if the mind, the brain, the whole of your being can look at it, live with it, then you will see that psychologically, inwardly, there is no need for anything. That is true freedom.
But that requires very deep insight, profound inquiry, ceaseless watching; and out of that perhaps we shall know what love is. How can there be love when there is attachment, jealousy, envy, ambition, and all the pretense which goes with that word? Then, if we have gone through that emptiness - which is an actuality, not a myth, not an idea - we shall find that love and desire and passion are the same thing. If you destroy one, you destroy the other; if you corrupt one, you corrupt beauty. To go into all this requires not a detached mind, not a dedicated mind or a religious mind, but a mind that is inquiring, that is never satisfied, that is always looking, watching, observing itself, knowing itself. Without love you will never find out what truth is."

Múm, Green Grass Of Tunnel




Down from my ceiling
Drips great noise
It drips on my head through
A hole in the roof

Behind these two hills here
There's a pool
And when I'm swimming
In through a tunnel
I shut my eyes
Inside their cabin
I make sound
In through the tubes
I send this noise

Behind these two hills here
Fall asleep
And when I float in
Green grass of tunnel
It flows back

Down from the ceiling
Drips great noise
It drips on my head through
A hole in the roof

Behind these two hills here
There's a pool
And when I'm swimming
In through a tunnel
I shut my eyes

Concierto De Aranjuez, Chet Baker , Paul Desmond , Jim Hall , Ron Carter, Steve Gadd, Roland Hanna

Chet Baker ,You Go to My Head

a love poem

i see you
through faces,
moments
space
and time

all is you.
light in your eyes
and  shadow.

your smile,
then the stone,
polished blank.

your worries,
your joy
and your loneliness.

all this i see.
your poison
and your gift.

your radiance,
fragility,
fear.

your kindness,
presence,
withdrawal.

i see no words.
in the end,
i see essence

moving
through all,
even me.

evening with horse, flowers, sky



Genesis ,Hold on my heart (1991)

Jorge Luis Borges, quote, A New Refutation of time

"And yet, and yet… Denying temporal succession, denying the self, denying the astronomical universe, are apparent desperations and secret consolations. Our destiny … is not frightful by being unreal; it is frightful because it is irreversible and iron-clad. Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire. The world, unfortunately, is real; I, unfortunately, am Borges."



full text of the essay (out of: Labyrinths)

http://heavysideindustries.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/borges-a-new-refutation-of-time.pdf



source for today:

https://www.brainpickings.org/2016/09/19/a-new-refutation-of-time-borges/?mc_cid=ddefbb8098&mc_eid=d4633eff0a

Genesis , Your Own Special Way



~~~  ~~~  ~~~

Genesis ,Entangled

Genesis , In the Cage

Genesis ,Ripples

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

tonight, diary note

tonight i have nothing to write 
nor to say.
this tells me all i need to know.

hard times, diary note

inside i live not knowing what is right and what is wrong.
this is fairly terrible.
but it would be a sin not to see it.

it is easy to take refuge in trying to
disappear,
in dreaming to be away from all and from oneself.
it is easy to reflect, to analyze, all doesn't help
to see what is right and what is wrong.

Tuesday, September 20, 2016

Meghan O'Rourke, quotes from: The Long Goodbye

"If children learn through exposure to new experiences, mourners unlearn through exposure to absence in new contexts. Grief requires acquainting yourself with the world again and again; each “first” causes a break that must be reset… And so you always feel suspense, a queer dread—you never know what occasion will break the loss freshly open."

"Whatever my life is, whatever my loss is, it’s small in the face of all that existence… The meteor shower changed something. I was looking the other way through a telescope before: I was just looking at what was not there. Now I look at what is there."


"It’s not a question of getting over it or healing. No; it’s a question of learning to live with this transformation. For the loss is transformative, in good ways and bad, a tangle of change that cannot be threaded into the usual narrative spools. It is too central for that. It’s not an emergence from the cocoon, but a tree growing around an obstruction."




https://www.brainpickings.org/2014/06/09/meghan-o-rourke-the-long-goodbye/

Werner Haas, Debussy, L'isle Joyeuse

moralized away

Today i saw love and being in love moralized away.
I saw pain and effort being moralized away and statements of
how love should be.
Everybody needs a reason to feel right,
i see no such reasons,
either i do or i don't feel well-
but morals is always good for this,
and especially so if one mixes morals and ethics,
then nobody will escape judgement.
And judgement is the most useless ingredient
of life, it only helps to close with a statement.
I do not wish to be right, i have other needs.

Being in love is egocentric at its core but has tremendous possibilities
of a flow out and towards and can connect as well as separate.

Loving is walking out of ego with an effort  in awareness and  care for another one.

What happens when both cannot be reconciled?
This.
For example.




François Couperin , Wilhelm Kempff (Aix, live 1955) ,Le Carillon de Cithère

Monday, September 19, 2016

Oasis ,Let There Be Love (Official Video)

Oasis , Songbird (Official Video)

Night train in the rain - 2 hours - soundscape - relaxing sound - sleep ...

quite convincing. after the first 45 minutes i feel my sofa moving.

on a road to nowhere: and this is where i want to be just now.





Wörter und Worte: Nichts

Wörter sind nichts,
gar nichts.
Worte, Wörter, Worte, Wörter
Gar nichts.

Wörter liegen wie tote Schwalben
auf dem Müll,
das Blut gerinnt in den Gossen,
Worte verstecken die Mörder,
uns vor uns selbst,
nehmen uns allen Atem,
sogar den Kampf.

Wörter zerteilen die Tage
Wörter decken sie zu.

Also.
Gar nichts.
Wörter, Worte,
Tage, Nächte,
Leben.

Nichts.


Forest at Night ,Crickets Owls Rain Wind in Trees, Nature Sounds To Re...

i enjoyed this...

the sixth night of the candles


"the sixth will
ask me to
be patient
and wait"

the sixth night of the candle.
i don't know much about waiting
and for what. 
i am alive with a patience
and a glass of exquisite Pinot Gris
from L'Alsace.
Not in a mood for poems in me.




8. Im Yariss ,For My Love, Levon Minassian

Wake Up The Sun , Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros (Official Video)





I'm tired of God
Tired of church
I'm tired of Jesus
I tried to serve
No religion, my religion is love
My religion
I'm sick of correct
I'm sick of harm
No religion, love
All that you wanted was all that you find in your heart
All that you wanted was all that you find in your heart
All that you wanted was all that they took from ya
I'm tired of Buddha
So bored of Abraham
I'm tired of Krishna
It feels good to say I am
My religion, my religion is love
My religion, love easy
God approves this message
No religion, love
All that you wanted was all that you find in your heart
All that you wanted was all that you find in your heart
All that you wanted was all that they took from your heart
All that you wanted was all that you found in your heart
All that you wanted was all that you found in your heart

Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros ,Perfect Time

5. Lousniag Kicher ,Moonlight

age and clearness

at my age i do not wish to live
in continuously produced confusion,
there is already all the confusion
of days and uncertainty
and variability of life as burden and possibilities. more confusion
through and after now two years needs not be, not in heart, feeling, response and the small plans and joys of days coming.
this is the sixth day of the candles. without hope and faith
there is no patience necessary.
freedom from hope must be release.



Von meinem iPhone gesendet

quote,Sarah Manguso

'Time punishes us by taking everything, but it also saves us-
by taking everything.'

https://www.brainpickings.org/2015/03/31/ongoingness-sarah-manguso/





Von meinem iPhone gesendet

on suffering and meaning

it is a sad world when we believe in the possibilty for treatment of suffering as an illness, classified as depression or whatsoever.

suffering cannot be treated and it should in the end turn out to be meaningful, personal, intimately so in our soul and perception.
it should wake us up to life, to growth and to the immense possibilities and strength and resilience we carry in us.




Von meinem iPhone gesendet

Little Gidding, T.S.Eliot

Little Gidding
I
Midwinter spring is its own season
Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown,
Suspended in time, between pole and tropic.
When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire,
The brief sun flames the ice, on pond and ditches,
In windless cold that is the heart's heat,
Reflecting in a watery mirror
A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.
And glow more intense than blaze of branch, or brazier,
Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind, but pentecostal fire
In the dark time of the year. Between melting and freezing
The soul's sap quivers. There is no earth smell
Or smell of living thing. This is the spring time
But not in time's covenant. Now the hedgerow
Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom
Of snow, a bloom more sudden
Than that of summer, neither budding nor fading,
Not in the scheme of generation.
Where is the summer, the unimaginable
Zero summer?
                        If you came this way,
Taking the route you would be likely to take
From the place you would be likely to come from,
If you came this way in may time, you would find the hedges
White again, in May, with voluptuary sweetness.
It would be the same at the end of the journey,
If you came at night like a broken king,
If you came by day not knowing what you came for,
It would be the same, when you leave the rough road
And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade
And the tombstone. And what you thought you came for
Is only a shell, a husk of meaning
From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled
If at all. Either you had no purpose
Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured
And is altered in fulfilment. There are other places
Which also are the world's end, some at the sea jaws,
Or over a dark lake, in a desert or a city—
But this is the nearest, in place and time,
Now and in England.
                                      If you came this way,
Taking any route, starting from anywhere,
At any time or at any season,
It would always be the same: you would have to put off
Sense and notion. You are not here to verify,
Instruct yourself, or inform curiosity
Or carry report. You are here to kneel
Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more
Than an order of words, the conscious occupation
Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying.
And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
Here, the intersection of the timeless moment
Is England and nowhere. Never and always.
II
Ash on an old man's sleeve
Is all the ash the burnt roses leave.
Dust in the air suspended
Marks the place where a story ended.
Dust inbreathed was a house-
The walls, the wainscot and the mouse,
The death of hope and despair,
         This is the death of air.
There are flood and drouth
Over the eyes and in the mouth,
Dead water and dead sand
Contending for the upper hand.
The parched eviscerate soil
Gapes at the vanity of toil,
Laughs without mirth.
         This is the death of earth.
Water and fire succeed
The town, the pasture and the weed.
Water and fire deride
The sacrifice that we denied.
Water and fire shall rot
The marred foundations we forgot,
Of sanctuary and choir.
         This is the death of water and fire.
In the uncertain hour before the morning
    Near the ending of interminable night
    At the recurrent end of the unending
After the dark dove with the flickering tongue
    Had passed below the horizon of his homing
    While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin
Over the asphalt where no other sound was
    Between three districts whence the smoke arose
    I met one walking, loitering and hurried
As if blown towards me like the metal leaves
    Before the urban dawn wind unresisting.
    And as I fixed upon the down-turned face
That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge
    The first-met stranger in the waning dusk
    I caught the sudden look of some dead master
Whom I had known, forgotten, half recalled
    Both one and many; in the brown baked features
    The eyes of a familiar compound ghost
Both intimate and unidentifiable.
    So I assumed a double part, and cried
    And heard another's voice cry: "What! are you here?"
Although we were not. I was still the same,
    Knowing myself yet being someone other—
    And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed
To compel the recognition they preceded.
    And so, compliant to the common wind,
    Too strange to each other for misunderstanding,
In concord at this intersection time
    Of meeting nowhere, no before and after,
    We trod the pavement in a dead patrol.
I said: "The wonder that I feel is easy,
    Yet ease is cause of wonder. Therefore speak:
    I may not comprehend, may not remember."
And he: "I am not eager to rehearse
    My thoughts and theory which you have forgotten.
    These things have served their purpose: let them be.
So with your own, and pray they be forgiven
    By others, as I pray you to forgive
    Both bad and good. Last season's fruit is eaten
And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail.
    For last year's words belong to last year's language
    And next year's words await another voice.
But, as the passage now presents no hindrance
    To the spirit unappeased and peregrine
    Between two worlds become much like each other,
So I find words I never thought to speak
    In streets I never thought I should revisit
    When I left my body on a distant shore.
Since our concern was speech, and speech impelled us
    To purify the dialect of the tribe
    And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight,
Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age
    To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort.
    First, the cold friction of expiring sense
Without enchantment, offering no promise
    But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit
    As body and soul begin to fall asunder.
Second, the conscious impotence of rage
    At human folly, and the laceration
    Of laughter at what ceases to amuse.
And last, the rending pain of re-enactment
    Of all that you have done, and been; the shame
Of things ill done and done to others' harm
    Which once you took for exercise of virtue.
    Then fools' approval stings, and honour stains.
From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit
    Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire
    Where you must move in measure, like a dancer."
The day was breaking. In the disfigured street
    He left me, with a kind of valediction,
    And faded on the blowing of the horn.
III
There are three conditions which often look alike
Yet differ completely, flourish in the same hedgerow:
Attachment to self and to things and to persons, detachment
From self and from things and from persons; and, growing between them, indifference
Which resembles the others as death resembles life,
Being between two lives - unflowering, between
The live and the dead nettle. This is the use of memory:
For liberation - not less of love but expanding
Of love beyond desire, and so liberation
From the future as well as the past. Thus, love of a country
Begins as an attachment to our own field of action
And comes to find that action of little importance
Though never indifferent. History may be servitude,
History may be freedom. See, now they vanish,
The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them,
To become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern.
Sin is Behovely, but
All shall be well, and
All manner of thing shall be well.
If I think, again, of this place,
And of people, not wholly commendable,
Of not immediate kin or kindness,
But of some peculiar genius,
All touched by a common genius,
United in the strife which divided them;
If I think of a king at nightfall,
Of three men, and more, on the scaffold
And a few who died forgotten
In other places, here and abroad,
And of one who died blind and quiet,
Why should we celebrate
These dead men more than the dying?
It is not to ring the bell backward
Nor is it an incantation
To summon the spectre of a Rose.
We cannot revive old factions
We cannot restore old policies
Or follow an antique drum.
These men, and those who opposed them
And those whom they opposed
Accept the constitution of silence
And are folded in a single party.
Whatever we inherit from the fortunate
We have taken from the defeated
What they had to leave us - a symbol:
A symbol perfected in death.
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
By the purification of the motive
In the ground of our beseeching.
IV
The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one discharge from sin and error.
The only hope, or else despair
    Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre-
    To be redeemed from fire by fire.
Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
    We only live, only suspire
    Consumed by either fire or fire.
V
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

orchid at night

what do i see and how?
i see beauty.

A.Ramos Rosa, from: Génese & Constelações

e essa distância somos nós..

Sunday, September 18, 2016

Gurdjieff, de Hartmann,Meditation

Lost Loves ,Gurdjieff,de Hartmann

'The Unconventional Cellist's' Bicycle Cello of Tasmania 2012

Paulo Coelho, quote

"We need to love. Even when it leads us to the land where the lakes are made of tears, to that secret, mysterious place, the land of tears!
Tears speak for themselves. And when we feel that we have cried all we needed to cry, they still continue to flow. And just when we believe that our life is destined to be a long walk through the Vale of Sorrows, the tears suddenly vanish.
Because we managed to keep our heart open, despite the pain.
Because we realised that the person who left us did not take the sun with them or leave darkness in their place. They simply left, and with every farewell comes a hidden hope.
It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."

the time has not yet come...but i feel the taste of bitterness in my soul growing stronger

Ceramic Dog, Bread and Roses

Albert Camus, quote

"There lay all my love of life: a silent passion for what would perhaps escape me, a bitterness beneath a flame. Each day I would leave this cloister like a man lifted from himself, inscribed for a brief moment in the continuance of the world… There is no love of life without despair of life."

Albert Camus, quote

https://www.brainpickings.org/2015/11/30/albert-camus-travel-lyrical-critical-essays/

armand amar, kadish





Kadish is to say when it is time...when it will be the right time,

not now, but not to forget

Levon Minassian , Der Vorghormia, duduk, Merciful Lord

Levon Minassian - Im Ayrogh Veuchlitz & Sareri Hovin Mernem

voyage: the fifth candle

today
you may dive
into the ocean of you
and come out

in flight
propelled from
deep currents,
breathing

with joy,
to my home.
it is yours
when you make it so.

you can have a ride,
a walk, laughter,
good night stories,
and a fire burning.

most of all
we can meet
with a smile
and embrace.

no arms, no hands
can hold forever,
but loving clearness
can take us through

space and time
when you will
want it so.

waiting at the other side
sincerely yours








Hol Ara Yéze ,Call of the Earth,Levon Minassian,Doudouk

james taylor , joni mitchell ,rainy day man

Diablo Swing Orchestra , Aurora

Diablo Swing Orchestra , Guerilla Laments







Taken by force but they kept it with pride
And now we can't breathe in the world they describe
Where silence is golden, resistance is numb
We scream our hope straight into the sun

Broken is the world they refuse to see
We won't bow down to a word remembered as liberty
They are preaching on now their time is yet to come
How long before we can make them undone?

In the name of believing
In the name of us all
We sing to tell you the stories untold
Can you hear our mourning?
They've taken our rights
Don't let the truth out of your sight

Deceiving appearance, they're dressed up as gods
Fake that they care, their conscience is lost
Denial their craft, and riots our goal
They lead those who follow and break those who fall

A future blackened by a change of heart
They'll try to fool us that they will greet us with open arms
A promise as empty as when we were sent astray
Our blood on the pen they used to sign our lives away

In the name...

Honesty replaced by greed, they gave us the reason to fight and bleed
They try to torch our faith and hope, spit at our presence and detest our goals

They are preaching on how their time is yet to come
How long before we make them undone?

Vieo Abiungo , What Lay To Waste ,Featuring Joan Jeanrenaud (Kronos Quartet)

Break Train Blues (bottleneck guitar)

Krbi-Wild Horse Blues (bottleneck guitar)

raining and thoughts

all happens now, rain here, solar magnetic explosions there,
and it will be the same when i sleep.
we are all breathing through and in the same essence
but the essence is not present much in all of us,
as a possibility it is always inside each one.
we are alone together and together alone
but we are all interdependent beings.
my faith is in the sun rising tomorrow
because and in spite of, faith has no reason,
there can be no trust in repetition nor in patterns
because all changes and flows. in this lies the only
root for hope but also for despair.
so, in the end, i have to read the birds' flight
as a sign for my way.





Rain ,Jose Feliciano (original vrs 1969 - high quality)

Hypnotic Solar Explosions 4K

NASA , Fiery Looping Rain on the Sun

Saturday, September 17, 2016

Richard Galliano Septet ,Milonga Del Angel

Morse, the fourth day

Morse
sending me,
astral journey on
the fourth day of the candle

i'll come to your bed,
your dog will not bark
and your cat will not scratch,
an invisible man

carrying my heart
and moonlight
and dust from the desert,
a scent of sandalwood

and the one flower
you can see,
nobody can see
all flowers in time.

i will see your face
naked in sleep,
you breathing
and dreaming

and i will instill
a smile in you
which cannot leave
and you will not know









Kristin Rule ,Clarity

an effort to stay at the surface, it is called swimming

good morning, how are you,
what a nice photo, wish you are well,
relax, please shut up, all will be good,
o summer is unbearable,
spring is  pain,
autumn is all color
and so much nearer
to winter, to death,
full moon today,
wish you can sleep, good night
i love you, bonjour

Genesis ,That's All





not..quite

Genesis , Home By The Sea





is this...so?

Delphine Dora ,Fragments Of Dreams Are Only Echoes Of Memories

Motohiro Nakashima ,Shh

Kristin Rule ,Impermanence

Möwen im Wind

Vesterålen ,Bird Watching, Whale Watching

Choosing a path, Paulo Coelho

“Choosing a path meant having to miss out on others. She had a whole life to live, and she was always thinking that, in the future, she might regret the choices she made now.
“I’m afraid of committing myself,” she thought to herself.
She wanted to follow all possible paths and so ended up following none. Even in that most important area of her life, love, she had failed to commit herself. After her first romantic disappointment, she had never again given herself entirely. She feared pain, loss, and separation. These things were inevitable on the path to love, and the only way of avoiding them was by deciding not to take that path at all. In order not to suffer, you had to renounce love.
It was like putting out your own eyes not to see the bad things in life.”

http://paulocoelhoblog.com/2016/09/16/choosing-a-path/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+PauloCoelhosBlog+%28Paulo+Coelho%27s+Blog%29

Feeling Good, Nina Simone


Feeling Good, Nina Simone

You Make It Easy,AIR

Bill Evans, Solo Piano ,Peace, Piece

Friday, September 16, 2016

wings of silence

i listen to the rain,
inside silence
with soft wings
in now solitude.

my mind filled
with restlessness
had taken me
to lonely places

where i talk
too much
to escape me,
my skin.

i see clear,
orchids in flower,
slowness of life.
now is only

the calm sound
of drops falling
and breathing
in candle light.





inwards-another way

each time i write and talk i say too much
where i feel words have no place,
nothing is about words.

human beings are not wells of crystal
clear water, they ex-press shit just the
same:
let me learn to be silent.

Break of reality ,Anodynia 1 Tranquillo

Arms And Sleepers ,Butterflycatcher

Clitoris, as i just noticed how unkwnown this is even with educated people



    http://www.etereaestudios.com/docs_html/nbyn_htm/about_index.htm

    Based on urologist's Helen O'Toole research 1998 (!),
    followed later by modern research methods (MRI), O'Connell et al., 2005
 
    http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/16145367

 
 

   

Thursday, September 15, 2016

life at home, parts

associations on a kind of haiku

"under a full moon
i eat silence
with a silver spoon"

to write poems is childish, the need to write is born
with pain. as my  love said: unwanted children.

i could try not to present the placenta and the blood
going with birth, but it is hard to distill crucifixion into
honey scented spirit.

and even growth after seed has sprung open
is crooked and not straightforward as in a fairy story.

and it is clear why people do generally not much like to read poems:
who adopts unwanted children easily?

tonight is full moon, still bright and somehow incredible
as all can appear. it is there anyway.

and tonight a candle burns, and tomorrow another one will
give light and scent.


Genesis ,Where The Sour Turns To Sweet

Genesis ,Follow You Follow Me

Wednesday, September 14, 2016

Yasushi Yoshida ,Lullaby for Rainsongs

Eddie Vedder,Hard Sun, + lyrics

Ólafur Arnalds ,This Place Is A Shelter

Woodlock , Lemons





LEMONS SONGTEXT

Tainting a picture of us now
Forever forgive
'Cause Little Missy Misery set foot in the ocean
But never the sea
I'll bury her under the ground
Next to the old lemon tree
For the fruits have grown sour and bitter
That no one would eat

Call her back and call myself a freak
Bend the rules so I can show her home
Shave my head and change the way i think of
The way I feel
The way I feel
The way i feel

Call to her heart I will offer my shield
The sour has turned into sweet
Let not the wheat in this garden grow tall
For they will choke the lemon tree

Months will go on
like sand to stone
maybe I'll grow old
Maybe I won't

Call her back and call myself a freak
Bend the rules so I can show her home
Shave my head and change the way i think of
The way I feel
The way I feel
The way i feel

Call to her heart I will offer my shield
The sour has turned into sweet
Let not the wheat in this garden grow tall
For they will choke the lemon tree

Jóhann Jóhannsson ,They Imagine the City Growing out Into the Ocean

for seven nights: ritual

for seven nights
i will light a candle
for you
without and with 

ego as this is
me giving light.
tonight is the first
wishing you peace

tomorrow it will
be the second,
wishing you
feel me close

the third will be
to wish happiness
for you
and for us

the fourth will
send me
through the night
to you

the fifth
will call you
to be here
with joy

the sixth will
ask me to
be patient
and wait

the seventh
will show
only light
coming from inside