We are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting.
Monday, July 30, 2018
Sunday, July 29, 2018
still the heart a bird
still
note:
though i learned better
to stay with love
like an eagle in the wind,
i can be filled with doubt
of where i 'belong'.
in reflection and in the mirror of you
i see how much nothing means anything,
what i do, feel, think, say.
this makes me humble.
though i will stay vulnerable,
i grow stronger and stronger.
i wait for your often fickle heart
and your confusion, your ingenious muddled head
to let go and clear and come. i can accept and love-
and also i know i can go away if you should cut
the newborn branches,
they will be only cut for you but not for me.
i grow anyway, but this is not I.
since birth and maybe before i felt i do not belong here.
it is a strange feeling which i indeed share with
most western educated humans, probably even with many
domestic animals.
by now i feel much more home in the here and now
which must be mine as it must,
it is neither place nor time.
and i'd like to share,
even if with seagulls and horses.
not in any language i learned.
the heart a bird,
broken-winged,
hopes for release,
needs to fly.
to rise above the
seeds of dandelion,
shimmering with light,
shimmering with light,
above the smoke of fires.
above the stink and noise
of men and cities,
the wailing of newborns
and the terrors of war,
through words,
beyond the cage
in which all means nothing,
not only to birds.
i‘d tear off the bandages,
feel the pain, keep it mine,
fight and be free,
no fear to fail, to crash.
no bird fears the sky
nor to fly, no heart
fears love nor closeness,
only the human mind brings
torture, blocks the unfolding
of wonder, the growth of
weeds, stops and circles
in its own tracks, blind.
no bird fears the sky
nor to fly, no heart
fears love nor closeness,
only the human mind brings
torture, blocks the unfolding
of wonder, the growth of
weeds, stops and circles
in its own tracks, blind.
but still, being a man
i long for this kiss,
the falling away of
bonds, of language,
the doors to open,
the sky to come
as caress, the wild
wind to take us home,
the storm shaking
prophecies and signs,
destroying the paths,
uprooting the desert,
rains to wash the soul,
the earth, to soak in
my blood the seeds
of all what can be,
me neither human nor
bird nor i,
me must be reborn
alone and not alone,
must die and be dream.
though i learned better
to stay with love
like an eagle in the wind,
i can be filled with doubt
of where i 'belong'.
in reflection and in the mirror of you
i see how much nothing means anything,
what i do, feel, think, say.
this makes me humble.
though i will stay vulnerable,
i grow stronger and stronger.
i wait for your often fickle heart
and your confusion, your ingenious muddled head
to let go and clear and come. i can accept and love-
and also i know i can go away if you should cut
the newborn branches,
they will be only cut for you but not for me.
i grow anyway, but this is not I.
since birth and maybe before i felt i do not belong here.
it is a strange feeling which i indeed share with
most western educated humans, probably even with many
domestic animals.
by now i feel much more home in the here and now
which must be mine as it must,
it is neither place nor time.
and i'd like to share,
even if with seagulls and horses.
not in any language i learned.
Saturday, July 28, 2018
Admonitions to a special person, Anne Sexton
Watch out for power,
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.
Watch out for hate,
it can open its mouth and you'll fling yourself out
to eat off your leg, an instant leper.
Watch out for friends,
because when you betray them,
as you will,
they will bury their heads in the toilet
and flush themselves away.
Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth.
Watch out for games, the actor's part,
the speech planned, known, given,
for they will give you away
and you will stand like a naked little boy,
pissing on your own child-bed.
Watch out for love
(unless it is true,
and every part of you says yes including the toes) ,
it will wrap you up like a mummy,
and your scream won't be heard
and none of your running will end.
Love? Be it man. Be it woman.
It must be a wave you want to glide in on,
give your body to it, give your laugh to it,
give, when the gravelly sand takes you,
your tears to the land. To love another is something
like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall
into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
Special person,
if I were you I'd pay no attention
to admonitions from me,
made somewhat out of your words
and somewhat out of mine.
A collaboration.
I do not believe a word I have said,
except some, except I think of you like a young tree
with pasted-on leaves and know you'll root
and the real green thing will come.
Let go. Let go.
Oh special person,
possible leaves,
this typewriter likes you on the way to them,
but wants to break crystal glasses
in celebration,
for you,
when the dark crust is thrown off
and you float all around
like a happened balloon.
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.
Watch out for hate,
it can open its mouth and you'll fling yourself out
to eat off your leg, an instant leper.
Watch out for friends,
because when you betray them,
as you will,
they will bury their heads in the toilet
and flush themselves away.
Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth.
Watch out for games, the actor's part,
the speech planned, known, given,
for they will give you away
and you will stand like a naked little boy,
pissing on your own child-bed.
Watch out for love
(unless it is true,
and every part of you says yes including the toes) ,
it will wrap you up like a mummy,
and your scream won't be heard
and none of your running will end.
Love? Be it man. Be it woman.
It must be a wave you want to glide in on,
give your body to it, give your laugh to it,
give, when the gravelly sand takes you,
your tears to the land. To love another is something
like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall
into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.
Special person,
if I were you I'd pay no attention
to admonitions from me,
made somewhat out of your words
and somewhat out of mine.
A collaboration.
I do not believe a word I have said,
except some, except I think of you like a young tree
with pasted-on leaves and know you'll root
and the real green thing will come.
Let go. Let go.
Oh special person,
possible leaves,
this typewriter likes you on the way to them,
but wants to break crystal glasses
in celebration,
for you,
when the dark crust is thrown off
and you float all around
like a happened balloon.
love
love which may
grow
never a tree nor fruit,
nameless,
lives in
the non-word-
world of a
pause
between
wind and forest,
in the
ripples of a lake,
coming with
the birds as
witness to
silent growth,
in
forgetting and in being
one with
their songs and
the green
leaves exhaling
and when all ’if as’ will stop,
it will
come through pain
like fresh
bread comes out
of the oven’s
heat,
like an
apple falling
into the grass, sweet
in its own
time.
Sam Shepard, If you were still around
If you were still around
I’d hold you
Shake you by the knees
Blow hot air in both ears
I’d hold you
Shake you by the knees
Blow hot air in both ears
You, who could write like a Panther Cat
Whatever got into your veins
What kind of green blood
Swam you to your doom
Whatever got into your veins
What kind of green blood
Swam you to your doom
If you were still around
I’d tear into your fear
Leave it hanging off you
In long streamers
Shreds of dread
I’d tear into your fear
Leave it hanging off you
In long streamers
Shreds of dread
I’d turn you
Facing the wind
Bend your spine on my knee
Chew the back of your head
Til you opened your mouth to this life
Facing the wind
Bend your spine on my knee
Chew the back of your head
Til you opened your mouth to this life
source unknown
link: If you were still around
Found today on G+ .
Read before.
Thinking of dead and living.
And feel more for an alive person-
alive meaning still incarnated. Touchable.
Vulnerable.
En abril, las aguas mil, Antonio Machado
Son de abril las aguas mil.
Sopla el viento achubascado,
y entre nublado y nublado
hay trozos de cielo añil.
Agua y sol. El iris brilla.
En una nube lejana,
zigzaguea
una centella amarilla.
La lluvia da en la ventana
y el cristal repiqueteo.
A través de la neblina
que forma la lluvia fina,
se divisa un prado verde,
y un encinar se esfumina,
y una sierra gris se pierde.
Los hilos del aguacero
sesgan las nacientes frondas,
y agitan las turbias ondas
en el remanso del Duero.
Lloviendo está en los habares
y en las pardas sementeras;
hay sol en los encinares,
charcos por las carreteras.
Lluvia y sol. Ya se oscurece
el campo, ya se ilumina;
allí un cerro desparece,
allá surge una colina.
Ya son claros, ya sombríos
los dispersos caseríos,
los lejanos torreones.
Hacia la sierra plomiza
van rodando en pelotones
nubes de guata y ceniza.
Sopla el viento achubascado,
y entre nublado y nublado
hay trozos de cielo añil.
Agua y sol. El iris brilla.
En una nube lejana,
zigzaguea
una centella amarilla.
La lluvia da en la ventana
y el cristal repiqueteo.
A través de la neblina
que forma la lluvia fina,
se divisa un prado verde,
y un encinar se esfumina,
y una sierra gris se pierde.
Los hilos del aguacero
sesgan las nacientes frondas,
y agitan las turbias ondas
en el remanso del Duero.
Lloviendo está en los habares
y en las pardas sementeras;
hay sol en los encinares,
charcos por las carreteras.
Lluvia y sol. Ya se oscurece
el campo, ya se ilumina;
allí un cerro desparece,
allá surge una colina.
Ya son claros, ya sombríos
los dispersos caseríos,
los lejanos torreones.
Hacia la sierra plomiza
van rodando en pelotones
nubes de guata y ceniza.
Anoche cuando dormía, Antonio Machado
Anoche cuando dormía
soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!,
que una fontana fluía
dentro de mi corazòn.
Di: ¿por qué acequia escondida,
agua, vienes hasta mí,
manantial de nueva vida
en donde nunca bebí?
Anoche cuando dormía
soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!,
que una colmena tenía
dentro de mi corazòn;
y las doradas abejas
iban fabricando en él,
con las amarguras viejas,
blanca cera y dulce miel.
Anoche cuando dormía
soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!,
que un sol ardiente lucía
dentro de mi corazòn.
Era ardiente porque daba
calores de rojo hogar,
y era sol porque alumbraba
y porque hacía llorar.
Anoche cuando dormía
soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!,
que era Dios lo que tenía
dentro de mi corazòn.
note: didn't quite like any translation found
soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!,
que una fontana fluía
dentro de mi corazòn.
Di: ¿por qué acequia escondida,
agua, vienes hasta mí,
manantial de nueva vida
en donde nunca bebí?
Anoche cuando dormía
soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!,
que una colmena tenía
dentro de mi corazòn;
y las doradas abejas
iban fabricando en él,
con las amarguras viejas,
blanca cera y dulce miel.
Anoche cuando dormía
soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!,
que un sol ardiente lucía
dentro de mi corazòn.
Era ardiente porque daba
calores de rojo hogar,
y era sol porque alumbraba
y porque hacía llorar.
Anoche cuando dormía
soñé, ¡bendita ilusiòn!,
que era Dios lo que tenía
dentro de mi corazòn.
note: didn't quite like any translation found
Wayfarer, there is no path, Caminante no hay Camino , Antonio Machado
Traveler, your footprints
are the only road, nothing else.
Traveler, there is no road;
you make your own path as you walk.
As you walk, you make your own road,
and when you look back
you see the path
you will never travel again.
Traveler, there is no road;
only a ship's wake on the sea
Caminante no hay Camino
Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino y nada más;
Caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace el camino,
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante no hay camino
sino estelas en la mar.
Sunday, July 22, 2018
Thursday, July 19, 2018
Wednesday, July 18, 2018
Om Nashi Me, Tom Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros
"Om nashi me
I love you
And I love you forever
And I'm loving you now"
And I love you forever
And I'm loving you now"
Tuesday, July 17, 2018
Monday, July 16, 2018
Sunday, July 15, 2018
Saturday, July 14, 2018
Clavis Artis
Zoroaster, riding on the back of a fire-breathing salamander, with three roses in his hand representing body, soul and spirit. 18th century alchemical manuscript - Clavis Artis. Biblioteca dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, Roma, vol. 1.
on love, Kahlil Gibran
'When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.
Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.
Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God’s sacred feast.
All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.'
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.'
...
'Think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.'
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.'
Friday, July 13, 2018
Vivaldi, Sovente il sole
Sovente il sole
Sovente, il sole
risplende in cielo,
più bello e vago (caro)
se oscura nube
già l'offuscò.
E il mar, tranquillo,
quasi senza onda
talor si scorge,
si ria procella
pria lo turbò...
Thursday, July 12, 2018
Blade Runner Blues , Vangelis
me, i don't live in a city for long..and now maybe not yet again.
you never know. you never know the next steps after the next,
the turnings, the signs. i remember such moments..
cities have a pull - but at night many are a dead place.
all these lights show us that many many people live there-and
banks, offices, industry-and a lot of ugliness hidden.
we may be reminded of how we deal with nature, with us ourselves,
how we are depending on what we have invented and constructed more against nature than with it,
too fast, think of how fast these cities have grown in the wilderness,
the chaos of this growth being more a sign of life than the construction,
also a wild growth of greed, humanity seeing all in terms of use, utility, profit:
buildings, body, other bodies, sleep, food, love, soul and life.
we may see people sleeping under bridges, people not seeing each other,
their eyes averted. human creation controls humans from without,
a history of abuse, abuse by very rich people pushing the buttons.
reflecting how we let us be abused and how we abuse each other and ourselves.
and there, at night, when the last drunkards leave the city, in the starwars kind of beauty
of science fiction come true we can feel helpless and more isolated than we are-
we made these cities because we feel too much alone in the face of death-
they are an effect of our small egos building the illusion of ruling the world-
and in this moment we could , we could see that we are not rulers, that all our violence
is nothing, each flower is more perfect than our creation. and we even are more perfect and
more interdependent and connected and more alive inside than these walls and illusions allow
us to perceive. we are not this creation nor the rulers nor the cities nor the systems of doom.
there is a special beauty in ruins overgrown by weeds and small flowers, by bushes, walls bursting with roots in the cracks-we can imagine the crumbling away and the decay of our cities, of us ourselves, of the crust of civilization, culture, education, of the delusion of eternity in blocks of concrete and wooden crosses with nails.
even though some of these ruins may be only there because speculators leave houses rotting on purpose we can experience a more spiritual insight, quite sensual, coming to our senses.
this is the magic of ruins.
memory of life illuminating perception.
at day when the city is flooded with people and traffic, in the midst of all this
we can observe the complete spectrum of human behaviour , the stickiness, the resilience,
the clumsiness, the brutality,laughters unheard because a bus passes, smiles cut off by a taxi,
small ants carrying notebooks and umbrellas, rituals of reproduction, the smell of sweat and perfume and shit and old cooking fat, pornographic advertisements
on big walls , noise and noise slowly turning into the hum of a beehive.
there is a kind of weird synchronicity even in the sound of ambulances and police sirens,
the rhythm of day and night showing a mix of science fiction and human weakness and
again and again also the last dance and joy of the gladiators, these small robots are after all alive.
and you walk, a small child sits with naked feet in a fountain thoroughly enjoying the water and a first ice cream, laughing , each mouthful wonder and joy, ready for surprise and astonishment and for now and now. but they wouldn't phrase this nor need to.
small children don't make plans, they live in the present.
now i start to smile with this child, the next moment i imagine what we teach:
how to build a life and houses and things without pleasure, how we teach them to lose interest
and awareness and only learn control and adaptation to an ugly estranged and senseless life
following the rule of survival. this is what they are told..
animals don't follow the rule of survival, they live.
no. we are not alone.
it is an illusion.
Mercedes Sosa , Yo vengo a ofrecer mi corazón (Fito Páez)
..who wants a heart? life is hard, people need bread and money.
nothing is so easy. simple feeling and spontaneous action are in a cul-de-sac.
for now, i leave it there, for another while. i invent me after more death.
i have green wings to sleep in the wind, i am a painting, a carpet of colours and holes and gaps and threads going through and such woven into a knot, fine and gross patterns, all moves.
i can just leave or not or be ashes and flowers on a wall or a field of golden wheat
or a bird or a stone covered with moss, all is possible, why not.
i talk to me endlessly, i talk me, i am the story and the narrator, i live and grow from inside as much as i can when i want to and when i don't want to. i react, fuse, blow up, re-group, i drink and eat and first of all, i am alive and never alone.
not when i am alone.because there is no alone.
we are dream and dreamer, breather and breath.
communion...is not in words. or least of all in words.
more in skin, in touch, in music, in listening, in silence.
communion...is sacred. it does not refer to a church.
people say one thing and feel another.
they close. we all do, again and again.
emotional depth does not mean hell but honesty
and seeing through the soul ,allowing to be seen and seeing.
it is not a demand but to try is better than to miss the dance.
experience and faith do not come to cynical , desperate or bitter conclusions: this is thought.
thought just comes and goes like hunger, thirst, pissing, shitting, death.
when it comes from inside life it will be precious.
what i see as human reason and thought is ugly buildings and distorted
persons, lost, zombies with painted nails and faces.
but, but. when i see from inside i am aware of all,
the buildings stay ugly and foreign to my soul, but the humans are more alive
as soon as i open my mind, it is all about going through the wall.
out of reaction and through the gate.
it is open. or not.
unfortunately the most intelligent and , alas, educated persons are often totally unable
to be happy, to laugh, to radiate humour.
so, look at the shit i wrote and laugh~i do or say, i smile...
and admit that hope is the most incredible form of madness,
faith a need, humour radiates humility, grace and presence
in listening are qualities which do not grow without suffering.
Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds , Distant Sky - Live in Copenhagen
Let us go now, my one true love
Call the gasman, cut the power out
We can set out, we can set out for the distant skies
Watch the sun, watch it rising in your eyes
Call the gasman, cut the power out
We can set out, we can set out for the distant skies
Watch the sun, watch it rising in your eyes
Let us go now, my darling companion
Set out for the distant skies
See the sun, see it rising
See it rising, rising in your eyes
Set out for the distant skies
See the sun, see it rising
See it rising, rising in your eyes
They told us our gods would outlive us
They told us our dreams would outlive us
They told us our gods would outlive us
But they lied
They told us our dreams would outlive us
They told us our gods would outlive us
But they lied
Let us go now, my only companion
Set out for the distant skies
Soon the children will be rising, will be rising
This is not for our eyes
Set out for the distant skies
Soon the children will be rising, will be rising
This is not for our eyes
Wednesday, July 11, 2018
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