Walter Lippmann, stereotypes

‚What a myth never contains is the critical power to separate its truths from its errors. For that power comes only by realizing that no human opinion, whatever its supposed origin, is too exalted for the test of evidence, that every opinion is only somebody’s opinion. And if you ask why the test of evidence is preferable to any other, there is no answer unless you are willing to use the test in order to test it.‘

walter lippmann, brainpickings

note:
he talks on stereotypes..,
there is this other class of stereotypes,
adult rebels, often half-educated or over-educated,
they hold for truth all what is to be called special, out of
the existing normative culture, esoteric,
they behave like youths in puberty, all seen as normal
is boring and bad and all else is true...nearly everybody
can so be stamped with ‘all the same’, ‘just this’,
a source for inhuman indifference-and ignorance.
the value of special is zero.

Buddha was not special, he gained enlightenment
giving his awareness to all, even the smallest being.
his aim was to look for a way out of suffering, not for
not being reborn. in fact, Siddharta didn’t stay in
Nirvana but took rebirth in the moment for all of us.
whatever Nirvana means.

we must be humble.
to see stereotypes is important but does not elevate
one  human being above the other.
to find the singularity in the stereotype
with loving presence sounds more rewarding to
me.

Rubinstein,Chopin,Piano Concerto No.2 (HD)

bardo, always in between

even between the owl
and the silence, even
between the waves
rising and falling

even between tears
and with long walks,
climbing, walking down,
always, and always between,

this thorn of missing,
missing you and me,
i took it with me,
living through bardo

between bark and soul,
dusk and dawn, between
stars and the scent of earth,
your presence, your absence

i tear papers and words,
i see a world in shreds,
scrape off my skin, scratch
my heart, in between,

i mutate into a stranger,
still am like a moth in light,
i carry the crown, the thorns,
i tried to carry yours

come and take me, life,
come and release me, death,
in between, i don't belong,
please take me home,

you. i hurt you
crying for you,
too much longing, too weak,
i fight windmills, me, you,
in between, bardo,
let me go

please, you, take me.
i am ready.
leave me, take me,
but bring more light,
let your doves fly


bardo is all illusion,.
nobody is dead,
all is mystery,
from where we come,
where we go

there are no names.
take my hand.
let us go.
out.

I carry your heart with me (carry it in), e.e.cummings, &me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go, my dear;a nd whatever is done

by only me is your doing, my darling)

                                                      i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

me:

..this is true, has been true..still i cannot bear this nor end this, and here i am helpless, have been helpless..meeting the other side i resisted love and

turned violent...felt like molesting you, my dear, you made me feel so, being unheard and ignored...

i hurt you, i hurt me...and never know your heart's way, never know it 

taking me in, never knew...not reaching i swim against the waves..maybe i rise, maybe i rise, maybe i fly...and still i carry your heart in me,

in midsummer nights, with the new moon, in hostile  cities , in the noise

of life, under my masks, with the falling leaves, the rain, on the snow,

with the cry of crows, in company and alone, wherever i will be. nobody dies. nobody loved ever dies...

Om Ah Hum Vajra Guru Padma Siddhi Hum

W.H.Auden, Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.