Memories, Maya Beiser , Djivan Gasparyan

to let them pass through~

diary note and music

i am sad tonight as often.
nothing i wished is given to me,
it is always something else and has been
most times. a complaint i share with most human beings.
i will not stick to the replication of sadness
nor to the past.

true, i also suffer and have been suffering from frequent and debilitating
physical pain, it does not worry me, but makes me
see all the more the passing through which we all go
and how important it is to be aware and present
whenever possible-
though it appears necessary
to leave gaps in this, in the flow of consciousness,
i learned to do this more often.
else there is no place for re-creation.

i must embrace my sadness as i feel it
and live with it, alone as i can see.
.
my lips must be closed, silence brings
what i can receive but not speak.
speaking and writing means either answering oneself
or looking for an answer or a response.
there is no answer.
a response is improbable.
even when my mind makes noise,
i can let it be- there is another me.


i do not cultivate sadness, i tend to
believe it has chosen me and it cultivates me.
the more we know the more we must forget,
with intelligence sadness goes as a couple,
too often, why?


would it not be so much better and much more intelligent
to let joy flow, to care for tenderness, to open the heart,
to go out and be wounded and kissed-
is there no passion in my world
anymore apart from a longing for clearness
and open spaces and wind?
is there only space inside and no dance?

i ask and i know i am passionate and attentive,
but i am neither missionary nor emperor,
today i looked into the water, not a mirror,
a river overflowing, flooding the meadows,
strong currents of winter time, no transparence,
grey with a shine of quicksilver, a strong wide running force,
driven by springs, rains and melting snow.
life hurrying to be swallowed by the sea.

it was cold, and i told passion to take a breath,
passion means suffering. i do carry a passion for beauty,
for kindness, for serenity, for humour, for being at least true to me.
i cannot define love, its meaning is eaten by culture and
experience, and when i give it words it dies.
i have no passion for culture and i have, a garden needs care
and my Kefir needs the same kind of care as me or another or each domestic animal
or it will be spoilt. i ate my Kefir today and it was good.
so i care for culture as in giving care to what i do.
beauty i will not define, i can say i don't see symmetry as beauty
nor the perfection of art nor outward colour and brilliance.
i see simplicity as beauty, it contains all the complexity and patterns of creation.
i see trees as beauty, i feel them and they talk a beautiful language.
i see beauty in a smile coming out of a creased,a tired,a worried, a sad face like a light.
and in whom i love i see  beauty in all. could i ever say i don't like this wrinkle or this spot
or these folds in your skin? i couldn't because i will love all just the same.
love and beauty touch the essence or they are untrue.

i wished so much to hold this hand in mine,
not salvation, but walking and sleeping in love's arms,
in good and in bad. both.
i try to love me, but it is quite hard, i am,
so easily said and not a replacement.
there is no replacement
for kisses nor for experiencing another to grow into a flower,
at times, eyes and voice and soul and body answering.
not an echo, no, but music and silence.

i have not grown bitter nor despaired,
but it is hard to be so clear and walk through
all these days and nights, knowing decay,
the clock, knowing more and deeper the less i read,
not being sidetracked by entertainment nor  complex
analysis.
with the best of philosophers and scientists
two results are constant- we know nothing, just enough
to build  nuclear weapons, there is no absolute truth
for us to see, and there is no freedom but the one we can take
according to our specific circumstances and conditioning
and the one we can find inside accepting constant change
and death.

i do not watch much news, but today i saw a short episode on Syria,
featuring a young woman, very much alive
in her spirit, showing bomb craters and near there a hospital, shots in the background,
saying with a bright smile  that here the good and the bad of humanity
exist so near to each other as one can rarely see.
as one can rarely see-but it is the same
everywhere and in everyone, the two are going together.


there is this music, fascinating, 'I will not be sad in this world',
it is so sad and so beautiful, beautifully embracing sadness
and joy together. harmony...

each day is to find astonishment, to meet the mystery-not
so solve it, to keep it and witness.

SING, SING, SING, BENNY GOODMAN

Jean-Luc Ponty , Gift of Time

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds , Death Is Not the End (Bob Dylan)

When you're sad and when you're lonely, and you haven't got a friend
Just remember that death is not the end
And all that you've held sacred, falls down and does not mend
Just remember that death is not the end
Not the end, not the end
Just remember that death is not the end

When you're standing on the crossroads that you cannot comprehend
Just remember that death is not the end
And all your dreams have vanished and you don't know what's up the bend
Just remember that death is not the end
Not the end, not the end
Just remember that death is not the end

When the storm clouds gather 'round you, and heavy rains descend
Just remember that death is not the end
And there's no one there to comfort you, with a helpin' hand to lend
Just remember that death is not the end
Not the end, not the end
Just remember that death is not the end

Oh, the tree of life is growing
Where the spirit never dies
And the bright light of salvation shines
In dark and empty skies

When the cities are on fire with the burning flesh of men
Just remember that death is not the end
And you search in vain to find just one law-abiding citizen
Just remember that death is not the end
Not the end, not the end
Just remember that death is not the end
Not the end, not the end
Just remember that death is not the end

The Pogues , A Pair of Brown Eyes

One summer evening drunk to hell
I stood there nearly lifeless
An old man in the corner sang
Where the water lilies grow
And on the jukebox Johnny sang
About a thing called love
And it's how are you kid and what's your name
And how would you bloody know?
In blood and death 'neath a screaming sky
I lay down on the ground
And the arms and legs of other men
Were scattered all around
Some cursed, some prayed, some prayed then cursed
Then prayed and bled some more
And the only thing that I could see
Was a pair of brown eyes that was looking at me
But when we got back, labeled parts one to three
There was no pair of brown eyes waiting for me

And a rovin' a rovin' a rovin' I'll go
For a pair of brown eyes

I looked at him he looked at me
All I could do was hate him
While Ray and Philomena sang
Of my elusive dream
I saw the streams, the rolling hills
Where his brown eyes were waiting
And I thought about a pair of brown eyes
That waited once for me
So drunk to hell I left the place
Sometimes crawling sometimes walking
A hungry sound came across the breeze
So I gave the walls a talking
And I heard the sounds of long ago
From the old canal
And the birds were whistling in the trees
Where the wind was gently laughing

And a rovin' a rovin' a rovin' I'll go
For a pair of brown eyes