Wednesday, October 31, 2018
Monday, October 29, 2018
sacred truth: the bird flies because it flies
there is no death and no life
as separate experiences, all happens at the same time. the apple matures, falls
into the grass, insects feast on it, the tree sheds its leaves for the winter
and under the snow the green buds come out. the apples fertilize the soil or
may be eaten to keep another alive. somebody dies who has lived and died for
long, next house a child is born. when we think life and death in any line
through time we imagine gates.
but in truth and in experience these gates are
open all through, life and death are one process.
and though Alan Watts
describes us in a parable as ships crossing the ocean of time, it is not about drawing a straight line
from birth to death, what he wants to tell us is that we are not driven by the
wake, we move and doing this we create past and future,
and we can at any moment create a
new past.
we should not limit us to be
driven by an inescapable past, this is a trap.
i know we can change memory only by making
better experiences, each moment changes the past and the future.
all therapeutic interventions
for these poor and bad children in us can only be a preparation to take us to
the point from where the bird flies. without flying he will ruminate that he
cannot and be stuck.
we can experience joy looking
into wide skies and pain being imprisoned, but when we accept our condition all
as one process and manifestation of cosmic origin, we will be as free as we can
ever be.
one way to experience the
mystery unfolding can be making love, when we are open and give us, life and
death can be experienced in one. and this is a release into being one with all,
our origin.
not only a release by ‘small
death’ but by life just the same, one.
this can happen in love and trust in the presence of the other, in a state of readiness to experience
mystery.
and it cannot happen in
repetition. such as holiness will not come to us by turning prayer wheels. this
does not make all meaningless, there are ways to remind us of ‘holy’ being reality and us stuck in clouds,
illusion, trouble, illness, worry, grief and anger. and ways to find solace and
wings. there is tenderness, grace, the gift of forgetting and sleep.
but there are other ways too.
all of them are not books. they are acts and experience. moving, outside,
inside.
walking, music, dance, being with friends. all what is fully done or experienced. moments to open us, through
terrible pain or through sudden overwhelming joy.
meditation without being
opened like a tin can will not let us feel this.
we must give us, in life, in
death, in joy, in pain, in love-or we cannot be free.
there is no risk in giving, we
die anyway and will experience loss,
no moment to cling to. no wall
around, no fixed branch to hold.
on the other side it is quite
clear to all of us that life cannot be experienced as mere and constant joy and
death is an ongoing and in the end unfolding release.
this is the first to see,
the basis of all meditation.
not stressing death as something dark and bad and so important-it is not more
important than life, it does not exist independently.
i have more problems with the
integration of badness than with death in my soul. death belongs to
me just as life. and -there is
very real badness, cruelty and monstrous killing egomania. i cannot forgive
where forgiveness is not sought, even not when i may understand.
i am not ashamed to be human,
to be temporary, limited.
i am ashamed when i do wrong
and know.
i stand to that the only sin
is to harm oneself or others though knowing one does.
Sunday, October 28, 2018
Saturday, October 27, 2018
yesterday, St. Johann, Albtrauf, Wolfsfelsen
sleeps hiding in a tree.
crows call the night.
Thursday, October 25, 2018
Tuesday, October 23, 2018
倩女幽魂_殇, Jaqueline du Pre, Lamentation
another version...translation taken from comments, thx...:
If you died, would I miss you?
No, I wouldn't because I'd go with you.
Now standing at the edge of the world,
I look at a sea of violets spreading in the distance,
Rustling in a gentle sea breeze.
In my ears I could hear your voice singing in undertone,
Talking about our fate that could not be foretold.
In the shade of the trees I can see dots of stars winking.
They represent the regrets of our life together.
Your voice sounds forlorn like a butterfly at rest.
From the seashell I could hear the sea sobbing.
Who is keeping watch over whom?
I only understand long after you're gone
That you never belonged to me.
Let the fallen glistening leaves float and scatter,
Pouring out all the pent-up feelings.
They represent the regrets of our life together.
Your voice sounds forlorn and silent like a butterfly at rest.
From the seashell I could hear the sea sobbing.
Sunday, October 21, 2018
Only Love Can Break Your Heart , Neil Young
love does not break hearts,...it may make egos break open...
Jacqueline's Tears , Jacques Offenbach, Op.76 No.2 / Harmonies du soir Op.68, Jacqueline Du Pre
and so we walk from loss through loss to loss....but the sun shines
on the other side when we see night
on the other side when we see night
Before The Deluge, Joan Baez
Some of them were dreamers
And some of them were fools
Who were making plans and thinking of the future
With the energy of the innocent
They were gathering the tools
They would need to make their journey back to nature
While the sand slipped through the opening
And their hands reached for the golden ring
With their hearts they turned to each other's heart for refuge
In the troubled years that came before the deluge
Some of them knew pleasure
And some of them knew pain
And for some of them it was only the moment that mattered
And on the brave and crazy wings of youth
They went flying around in the rain
And their feathers, once so fine, grew torn and tattered
And in the end they traded their tired wings
For the resignation that living brings
And exchanged love's bright and fragile glow
For the glitter and the rouge
And in the moment they were swept before the deluge
Now let the music keep our spirits high
And let the buildings keep our children dry
Let creation reveal it's secrets by and by
By and by...
When the light that's lost within us reaches the sky
Some of them were angry
At the way the earth was abused
By the men who learned how to forge her beauty into power
And they struggled to protect her from them
Only to be confused
By the magnitude of her fury in the final hour
And when the sand was gone and the time arrived
In the naked dawn only a few survived
And in attempts to understand a thing so simple and so huge
Believed that they were meant to live after the deluge
Now let the music keep our spirits high
And let the buildings keep our children dry
Let creation reveal it's secrets by and by
By and by...
When the light that's lost within us reaches the sky
Lay Me Down, Crosby,Stills and Nash
Driving out through the windmills
And some of them were still
Sometimes it's hard to catch the wind
And bend it to your will
Even though it's hard to know
Just how the story ends
The road is long and it takes its time
On that you can depend
Lay me down in the river
And wash this place away
Break me down like sand from a stone
Maybe I'll be whole again one day
Lay me down, lay me down
Maybe I'll be whole again
Lay me down, lay me down
Maybe I'll be whole again
Somewhere between Heaven and Hell
A soul knows where it's been
I want to feel my spirit lifted up
And catch my breath again
Lay me down in the river
And wash this place away
Break me down like sand from a stone
Maybe I'll be whole again one day
Lay me down, lay me down
Maybe I'll be whole again
Lay me down, lay me down
Maybe I'll be whole again
Lay me down, lay me down
Maybe I'll be whole again one day
Saturday, October 20, 2018
Friday, October 19, 2018
Mary Black and Joan Baez , Ring Them Bells
Ring them bells, ye heathen
From the city that dreams
Ring them bells from the sanctuaries
Cross the valleys and streams
For they're deep and they're wide
And the world's on it's side
And time is running backwards
And so is the bride
From the city that dreams
Ring them bells from the sanctuaries
Cross the valleys and streams
For they're deep and they're wide
And the world's on it's side
And time is running backwards
And so is the bride
Ring the bells st.peter
Where the four winds blow
Ring them bells with an iron hand
For the people will know
Oh it's rush hour now
On the wheel and the plow
And the sun is going down
Upon the sacred cow
Where the four winds blow
Ring them bells with an iron hand
For the people will know
Oh it's rush hour now
On the wheel and the plow
And the sun is going down
Upon the sacred cow
Ring them bells sweet martha
For the poor man's son
Ring them bells so the world will know
That God is one
Oh the shepherd is asleep
Where the willows weep
And the mountains they are filled
With lost sheep
For the poor man's son
Ring them bells so the world will know
That God is one
Oh the shepherd is asleep
Where the willows weep
And the mountains they are filled
With lost sheep
Ring them bells for the blind and the deaf
Ring them bells for all of us who are left
Ring them bells for the chosen few
Who will judge the many when the day is through
Ring them bells, for the time that flies
For the child that cries
When the innocence dies
Ring them bells for all of us who are left
Ring them bells for the chosen few
Who will judge the many when the day is through
Ring them bells, for the time that flies
For the child that cries
When the innocence dies
St. Jerome in the wilderness, diary
our body is not just our body, it is us, holds all memories and moving
it finds experience and creates consciousness. we are this body. we are in incarnation.
we are this body, soul, spirit, consciousness, all of this.
no anatomy, scientist, philosopher , therapist or priest can make us forget:
we are this, our presence is coming with past and going with memory,
we are not separated in a body we have, a soul we have, a spirit we have. we have nothing. we just can do only one thing: be ourselves and move.
we find a limited range for movement, forks where to decide which path to go,
we will always make mistakes, if repeating past choices or making different ones.we will always be vulnerable and we will always err: we must accept this , our mortality shows it clearly. but there is nothing to deny us when we can be free within this knowledge. wisdom is not only to stay inside and and for sure not to seek shelter in rigid mantras,
the greatest wisdom is to be a fool filled and involved with all presence, smiling or crying or still. it is to overflow with the joy of creation and to despair with compassion. a fool such wise cannot be unkind, love is not something he seeks, he is. and acts.
alas, i am taken out of the depth too often, i fail and i give up.
education and conditioning cut their soulless holes in us, inflict a crippled
perception and separate us from our cosmic life, truly from us.
the estrangement we often feel is the price of individuality, of ego.
also we know that fools get hurt. but, just for the sake of truth, we get hurt anyway.
again and again i stay more blind than foolish.
but then, even fools must run when the soles of their feet burn.
'Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow'
"T.S.Eliot
St. Jerome i the wilderness, Mantegna
This man sought ascetic penance: for what?
he had been ill ....
Crosby, Stills & Nash ,Guinnevere
Guinnevere had green eyes
Like yours, mi'lady like yours
When she'd walk down
Through the garden
In the morning after it rained
Peacocks wandered aimlessly
underneath an orange tree
Why can't she see me?
Like yours, mi'lady like yours
When she'd walk down
Through the garden
In the morning after it rained
Peacocks wandered aimlessly
underneath an orange tree
Why can't she see me?
Guinnevere
Drew pentagrams
Like yours, mi'lady like yours
Late at night
When she thought
that no one was watching at all
She shall be free
As she turns her gaze
Down the slope
to the harbor where I lay
Anchored for a day
Drew pentagrams
Like yours, mi'lady like yours
Late at night
When she thought
that no one was watching at all
She shall be free
As she turns her gaze
Down the slope
to the harbor where I lay
Anchored for a day
Guinnevere
Had golden hair
Like yours, mi'lady like yours
Streaming out when we'd ride
Through the warm wind down by the bay
Yesterday
Seagulls circle endlessly
I sing in silent harmony
We shall be free
Had golden hair
Like yours, mi'lady like yours
Streaming out when we'd ride
Through the warm wind down by the bay
Yesterday
Seagulls circle endlessly
I sing in silent harmony
We shall be free
Thursday, October 18, 2018
sometimes i hum
sometimes i
hum
walking
through bushes,
hum like
the last
bumblebee
in my garden
sometimes i
sing out
hiding
behind stones
and rocks
like a bird
out of
sight in his tree
and
sometimes i call
across a
valley
waiting for
my echo
and when it
comes i laugh
the river
gurgles and murmurs
and does
not know,
it wouldn’t
care why
but it
streams and flows
it does not
know
where to it
goes,
it is the
way of rivers
not to know
the way
it always
arrives,
it always
leaves,
forever
changes
alive in each
moment
and now i
would sing
to you, you, you,
but my
voice is lost
between the
dunes
of deserts
i cannot see,
and the
wind brings dust,
fine, red,
my throat dries,
i am too thirsty
to sing.
i left my
shoes at the shore,
the grass
is soft, i tried
to cross
the waters,
the current
took me
and now i
don’t know
where i am,
not lost,
stranded like a
message in
a bottle.
i dance, on
my head
a fool’s
cap, the invisible
finally
visible,
my ear
listening
into a
shell,
the sound
of a far sea,
here i
found peace
Wednesday, October 17, 2018
Nicole Krauss, Letter to Vincent Van Gogh
'Dear Vincent,
You write about fear: Fear of the blank canvas, but also, on a larger scale, of the “infinitely meaningless, discouraging blank side” that life itself always turns toward us, and which can only be countered when a person “steps in and does something,” when he “breaks” or “violates.”
It’s extraordinary that I should have been given your letter now, because it is exactly that act of breaking that has been on my mind this last year, and which I feel has everything to do with how I want to make art, and how I want to live.
It’s a strange thing about the human mind that, despite its capacity and its abundant freedom, its default is to function in a repeating pattern. It watches the moon and the planets, the days and seasons, the cycle of life and death all going around in an endless loop, and unconsciously, believing itself to be nature, the mind echoes these cycles. Its thoughts go in loops, repeating patterns established so long ago we often can’t remember their origin, or why they ever made sense to us. And even when these loops fail over and over again to bring us to a desirable place, even while they entrap us, and make us feel anciently tired of ourselves, and we sense that sticking to their well-worn path means we’ll miss contact with the truth every single time, we still find it nearly impossible to resist them. We call these patterns of thought our “nature” and resign ourselves to being governed by them as if they are the result of a force outside of us, the way that the seas are governed — rather absurdly, when one thinks about it — by a distant and otherwise irrelevant moon.
And yet it is unquestionably within our power to break the loop; to “violate” what presents itself as our nature by choosing to think — and to see, and act — in a different way. It may require enormous effort and focus. And yet for the most part it isn’t laziness that stops us from breaking these loops, it’s fear. In a sense, one could say that fear is the otherwise irrelevant moon that we allow to govern the far larger nature of our minds.
And so before we can arrive at the act of breaking, we first have to confront our fear. The fear that the blank canvas and the blank side of life reflects back to us, which is so paralyzing, as you put it, and seems to tell us that we can’t do anything.” It’s an abstract fear, though it finds a way to take on endless shapes. Today it may be the fear of failure, but tomorrow it will be the fear of what others will think of us, and at a different time it will be fear of discovering that the worst things we suspect about ourselves are true. My lover says that the fear, which seems always to be there when one wakes up in the morning, and which he feels in the hollow between his ribs (above his stomach and below his heart) comes from the “other world,” a phrase that always brings tears to his eyes, and by which he means the awareness of our finitude, our lack of the infinite and eternal. I think he’s right, but I would also add to that that fear, being anticipatory, is always without knowledge. It is a mental calculation based on the future unknown. And yet the experience of fear is the experience of being in the grip of a sensation that seems to possess an unassailable conviction in itself. To be afraid that the plane will crash is, in a sense, to assume that the plane will crash. And yet even if we could scrape away the many forms our fear takes and get to the underlying source-our mortality, our division from the infinite — we would still discover that our fear is not based on actual knowledge, unlike the part of us that chooses to be free. Bravery is always more intelligent than fear, since it is built on the foundation of what one knows about oneself: the knowledge of one’s strength and capacity, of one’s passion. You implied as much in your letter: “However meaningless and vain, however dead life appears to be, the man of faith, of energy, of warmth, and who knows something, doesn’t let himself be fobbed off like that,” you wrote. “He steps in and does something, and hangs on to that, in short, breaks, “violates.”
And so we find ourselves, once again, in front of the blank canvas. The blank canvas, which reflects both our fear and our opportunity to break it. In Jewish mysticism, the empty space — the Chalal Panui, in Hebrew — has tremendous importance, because it was the necessary pre-condition for God’s creation of the world. How did the Ein Sof — the being without end, as God is called in Kabbalah — create something finite within what is already infinite? And how can we explain the paradox of God’s simultaneous presence and absence in the world? And the answer to this, according to the Kabbalah, is that when it arose in God’s will to create the world, He first had to withdraw Himself, leaving a void. To create the world, God first had to create an empty space.
And so we might say: The first act of creation is not a mark, it is the nullification of the infinity that exists before the first mark. To make a mark is to remember that we are finite. It is to break, or violate, the illusion that we are nature that goes around in a loop forever. But it is also a confirmation of our knowledge and freedom, which is all we have in this world.
Sincerely,
Nicole Krauss'
Tuesday, October 16, 2018
The flowers of autumn days, A.S. Pushkin
The flowers of autumn days Are sweeter than the firsts of plains. For they awaken an impression, That’s strong, although it may be sad, Just as the pain of separation Is stronger than the sweet of date.
I've lived to see my longings die, A.S.Pushkin
I've lived to see my longings die:-
My dreams and I have grown apart;
Now only sorrow haunts my eye,
The wages of a bitter heart.
Beneath the storms of hostile fate,
My flowery wreath has faded fast;
I live alone and sadly wait
To see when death will come at last.
Just so, when the winds in winter moan
And snow descends in frigid flakes,
Upon a naked branch, alone,
The final leaf of summer shakes!
Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
(stolen..)
note:
who wants to stay alone will be alone.
and sometimes there is no answer.
where i bleed, i cannot stay friend
but must keep away.
friends live their own life, they do not concentrate for each
day and for each night all their awareness on the other one,
do not give all their energy as lovers do.
friends are happy to see us, happy to be with us,
give, receive, care and be cared for, happy to share and happy to go.
love wants eternity. but it is not in our hands.
sometimes there is no choice, i do not know the right way,
but i just have to walk.
My dreams and I have grown apart;
Now only sorrow haunts my eye,
The wages of a bitter heart.
Beneath the storms of hostile fate,
My flowery wreath has faded fast;
I live alone and sadly wait
To see when death will come at last.
Just so, when the winds in winter moan
And snow descends in frigid flakes,
Upon a naked branch, alone,
The final leaf of summer shakes!
Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
(stolen..)
note:
who wants to stay alone will be alone.
and sometimes there is no answer.
where i bleed, i cannot stay friend
but must keep away.
friends live their own life, they do not concentrate for each
day and for each night all their awareness on the other one,
do not give all their energy as lovers do.
friends are happy to see us, happy to be with us,
give, receive, care and be cared for, happy to share and happy to go.
love wants eternity. but it is not in our hands.
sometimes there is no choice, i do not know the right way,
but i just have to walk.
Monday, October 15, 2018
gate
though energy cannot be lost, all structures , all mediums will be destroyed,
by fire, water, salt, rust, wind and weeds, animals, humans, all suffer death.
all moves, changes appearance, dissolves, crystallizes, mutates, rots, not one stone will remain on the other. life builds, grows, forms, and death changes each face, each tree and each grass. all tears rise into rain and flow into the sea. all is happening without one word. our eternity stares at us out of ruins, it is constant metamorphosis
and that is all we can perceive. each corn of dust is rebirth. nothing will ever be the same again, it is to me consoling to see this. me who wishes to walk into another evening can never be the me who i am now. it is a chance, a grace , a blessing and a curse. but so it is. ‚it‘ is just a name for the ineffable. and death will be an unavoidable release, in its own time. it is an ultimate love, to melt into forgetting self.
this is what the gate told me.
Tuesday, October 9, 2018
presence
after some time
we fill a past
and then
feel each moment
gliding in another moment
tick tock
it is only the clock
not our time
but after some time
it reminds us of death
we flow in the present
with past and future
and after some time
time does not exist
we are time
we ride waves
walk cycles
tread water
stand still
we err
come my bird
don‘t freeze in fear
you are not a captive
but take shelter
for this moment
flow in tenderness
into your future,
your sky and your end,
sleep and fly,
unfold wings and grace
after some time
nothing else to do.
presence is past,
now, and future
just now or now...
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