Saturday, November 12, 2016
wake up, little fox
wake up,
little fox
at the edge
of the woods
wake up,
you sleep in snow
and bitter cold.
your sisters have gone
too far to play
hide and seek.
don't dream of warmth
when you freeze.
please, wake up,
survive,
run to the burrow
and hide.
wake up,
open your eyes,
lift your brush
and follow
the scent,
find your place
underground,
then sleep, sleep
down in the deep.
the hunters move,
the ice makes you slow,
wake up, wake up,now
little fox
at the edge
of the woods
wake up,
you sleep in snow
and bitter cold.
your sisters have gone
too far to play
hide and seek.
don't dream of warmth
when you freeze.
please, wake up,
survive,
run to the burrow
and hide.
wake up,
open your eyes,
lift your brush
and follow
the scent,
find your place
underground,
then sleep, sleep
down in the deep.
the hunters move,
the ice makes you slow,
wake up, wake up,now
anger, complaint, Maria Popova, Seung Sahn Soen-sa
"I have long believed that most constructive action comes as a form of complaint — an urge to effect positive change that arises out of dissatisfaction with the way things are and an active desire to steer them toward a more satisfying version."
Maria Popova
https://www.brainpickings.org/2016/09/01/only-dont-know-seung-sahn-anger/
so, gone but perceived.
Maria Popova
https://www.brainpickings.org/2016/09/01/only-dont-know-seung-sahn-anger/
so, gone but perceived.
Leonard Cohen ,The Future
o Leonard, i didn't hear this one before,
or cannot remember,
this you wrote a long time ago..
it is mere despair put in front of me
to make me discover my last reserves of faith
or cannot remember,
this you wrote a long time ago..
it is mere despair put in front of me
to make me discover my last reserves of faith
Pink Floyd , Fearless
You say the hill's too steep to climb
Chiding
You say you'd like to see me try
Climbing
You pick the place and I'll choose the time
And I'll climb
The hill in my own way
Just wait a while, for the right day
And as I rise above the treeline and the clouds
I look down hearing the sound of the things you said today
Chiding
You say you'd like to see me try
Climbing
You pick the place and I'll choose the time
And I'll climb
The hill in my own way
Just wait a while, for the right day
And as I rise above the treeline and the clouds
I look down hearing the sound of the things you said today
Fearlessly the idiot faced the crowd, smiling
Merciless, the magistrate turns 'round, frowning
And who's the fool who wears the crown
Go down in your own way
And everyday is the right day
And as you rise above the fear lines in his frown
You look down
Hear the sound of the faces in the crowd
Merciless, the magistrate turns 'round, frowning
And who's the fool who wears the crown
Go down in your own way
And everyday is the right day
And as you rise above the fear lines in his frown
You look down
Hear the sound of the faces in the crowd
μύειν, mystic
Yesterday i stumbled on meta-physics.
and talked on it.
today i wonder about the closing of lips and eyes.
this is what the mystic means to be doing.
it is the root of the word, mystic.
it irritates me that i write.
i prefer listening and talking,
communication.
here and in other areas,
i stay alone anyway,
individuated in all interdependence,
in inter-being.
the words lose flesh and blood,
i do not think they reach,
they lose substance as arrows
falling to the ground before reaching their target.
maybe, maybe this is good.
i don't know.
when i reach out,
i do not reach out for all
and i do as i am not as different
from anybody else.
i reach out to you
and to me
and to this in between.
this is what makes
language meta-physical.
words and kisses and hands
and music are all woven from
the fabric out of and through
which we are alive, touching,
maybe loving.
and i need the mystic too,
the solitude,
to be still and go inside,
not to anything imagined as higher
but to the truly central, the substance
and energy of flow and dance
coming through me like a breath.
and in this i see.
and i see that i cannot
close my eyes and lips forever:
i am not alone
and i am changing,
i try to touch, this is part
of essence moving,
sound and silence.
pause.
i must find meaning
in the pauses,
this is rhythm,
the rhythm of seasons,
moon, tides, life, death.
and talked on it.
today i wonder about the closing of lips and eyes.
this is what the mystic means to be doing.
it is the root of the word, mystic.
it irritates me that i write.
i prefer listening and talking,
communication.
here and in other areas,
i stay alone anyway,
individuated in all interdependence,
in inter-being.
the words lose flesh and blood,
i do not think they reach,
they lose substance as arrows
falling to the ground before reaching their target.
maybe, maybe this is good.
i don't know.
when i reach out,
i do not reach out for all
and i do as i am not as different
from anybody else.
i reach out to you
and to me
and to this in between.
this is what makes
language meta-physical.
words and kisses and hands
and music are all woven from
the fabric out of and through
which we are alive, touching,
maybe loving.
and i need the mystic too,
the solitude,
to be still and go inside,
not to anything imagined as higher
but to the truly central, the substance
and energy of flow and dance
coming through me like a breath.
and in this i see.
and i see that i cannot
close my eyes and lips forever:
i am not alone
and i am changing,
i try to touch, this is part
of essence moving,
sound and silence.
pause.
i must find meaning
in the pauses,
this is rhythm,
the rhythm of seasons,
moon, tides, life, death.
this is about
this is about stones
on high land,
open to the winds,
eroded by rain
this is about
the seed in the soil
sleeping in winter
under ice and snow
this is about
aeroplanes
navigating a storm
sinking and rising
this is about birds
following instinct
as we follow myth
and the tides of blood
this is about love,
a light in the cave,
a shelter at night,
a fire for warmth
this is about
blowing into flames
and getting singed,
about hunger and thirst
this is about life
and death, both one
stage in the waves
of the universe
which is not ours
but is within
and without
and in between
this is about us,
apart and not,
far and near,
and i sing
sing to me, to you
i am a trumpet
and a lullaby
a changing mystery
preacher, caller,
wounded healer
incarnated,sad,
living joy inside
with nails through
my arms and hands.
you should, maybe,
not ask: how are you,
you don't want to know.
once the flesh falls
from my bones,
i will be free
because i shall not be,
will be only breath
without voice
returning to lost stars.
on high land,
open to the winds,
eroded by rain
this is about
the seed in the soil
sleeping in winter
under ice and snow
this is about
aeroplanes
navigating a storm
sinking and rising
this is about birds
following instinct
as we follow myth
and the tides of blood
this is about love,
a light in the cave,
a shelter at night,
a fire for warmth
this is about
blowing into flames
and getting singed,
about hunger and thirst
this is about life
and death, both one
stage in the waves
of the universe
which is not ours
but is within
and without
and in between
this is about us,
apart and not,
far and near,
and i sing
sing to me, to you
i am a trumpet
and a lullaby
a changing mystery
preacher, caller,
wounded healer
incarnated,sad,
living joy inside
with nails through
my arms and hands.
you should, maybe,
not ask: how are you,
you don't want to know.
once the flesh falls
from my bones,
i will be free
because i shall not be,
will be only breath
without voice
returning to lost stars.
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