good night
Monday, September 7, 2015
Asaf Avidan & The Mojos - your anchor
without irony, each relationship including the one with oneself needs...:
a good touch of humour
a good touch of humour
vision about nightmares: we haunt ourselves
because we are blind when we are alive means that we have to die.
we have to do this each and every moment when we want to live in presence.
from a certain age onwards, different for each one of us, we feel the approach of
and an end to life in our diminishing energy and changing physical structure.
it can cloud our perspective of life and death, and it can make it either easier
or more difficult to let us walk in presence and to let go into the moment.
It is mostly about this: to let go.
ghosts and haunted places, it is said they form when somebody dies who has not finished
with his life, who is still attached to place, a person, an unfinished business,
a strong emotion or else.
and i think nightmares are generated in us like this. we haunt ourselves.
i conclude for now, and my opinion may change in a few minutes, that therapeutic
approaches with techniques of learning to give less importance to nightmares,
fear and anxiety are not always well suited and can muddle up a clear path,
in fact lead into later spiritual disaster.
i guess that in fact these dreams and fears are there for a reason,
and we should honour their presence because we must honour ourselves,
and we must find out where they stem from, find what we are sticking to,
where we started punishing ourselves to suffer a fate such as Prometheus.
we must find out WHAT we must let go.
it is not the nightmares,
it must be another thing, a loss,
a way of thinking about ourselves of having no worth, of viewing us in a prison
somewhere, of having been hurt or of hurting ourselves continuously
or of having done so and of not getting over and out of it.
we must forgive and we must forgive ourselves and we must let go.
not everything, just this sore place hidden inside even from our own eyes, the place
where we cannot bear to see ourselves,
which glues us to ghouls and ghosts who may appear as very real persons in our dreams:
but they are not. they are emissions of our own unconscious struggle to escape suffering,
taking us deeper and depper into it at the same time.
This is the story about Ariadne's thread too...
there is no general solution, only a personal one.
to meet oneself and to embrace oneself with all
the weakness, stupidity, ugliness, badness, past and decay,
with all the warmth and love and kindness and wisdom we are: now.
then let go...and live.
this is why another one cannot really help. he or she can draw attention
to other sides of life, but he or she, the other one, though they can embrace
you with more ease than you can yourself,
they cannot solve a shit.
Psychoanalysis with its quite reduced view of humans,
an anatomy of functions and emotions, a history of deprivation and estrangement,
is not a path of or for the soul but one of vivisection. this is still my firm opinion.
even this may change but rather not.
In another view and perspective, bad dreams at night can be bearers of light,
they show us our dark roots in the light of fear and pain, and they lead us to find
what we should not carry onwards as a burden or a guilt.
what i don't know is if this preliminary vision can help anybody at all.
but i will meditate more on it, and i hope it can, some time to come.
in the meantime i dare to enter here one of my own dreams, it happened about
14 years ago, and i could see what it meant for me:
we have to do this each and every moment when we want to live in presence.
from a certain age onwards, different for each one of us, we feel the approach of
and an end to life in our diminishing energy and changing physical structure.
it can cloud our perspective of life and death, and it can make it either easier
or more difficult to let us walk in presence and to let go into the moment.
It is mostly about this: to let go.
ghosts and haunted places, it is said they form when somebody dies who has not finished
with his life, who is still attached to place, a person, an unfinished business,
a strong emotion or else.
and i think nightmares are generated in us like this. we haunt ourselves.
i conclude for now, and my opinion may change in a few minutes, that therapeutic
approaches with techniques of learning to give less importance to nightmares,
fear and anxiety are not always well suited and can muddle up a clear path,
in fact lead into later spiritual disaster.
i guess that in fact these dreams and fears are there for a reason,
and we should honour their presence because we must honour ourselves,
and we must find out where they stem from, find what we are sticking to,
where we started punishing ourselves to suffer a fate such as Prometheus.
we must find out WHAT we must let go.
it is not the nightmares,
it must be another thing, a loss,
a way of thinking about ourselves of having no worth, of viewing us in a prison
somewhere, of having been hurt or of hurting ourselves continuously
or of having done so and of not getting over and out of it.
we must forgive and we must forgive ourselves and we must let go.
not everything, just this sore place hidden inside even from our own eyes, the place
where we cannot bear to see ourselves,
which glues us to ghouls and ghosts who may appear as very real persons in our dreams:
but they are not. they are emissions of our own unconscious struggle to escape suffering,
taking us deeper and depper into it at the same time.
This is the story about Ariadne's thread too...
there is no general solution, only a personal one.
to meet oneself and to embrace oneself with all
the weakness, stupidity, ugliness, badness, past and decay,
with all the warmth and love and kindness and wisdom we are: now.
then let go...and live.
this is why another one cannot really help. he or she can draw attention
to other sides of life, but he or she, the other one, though they can embrace
you with more ease than you can yourself,
they cannot solve a shit.
Psychoanalysis with its quite reduced view of humans,
an anatomy of functions and emotions, a history of deprivation and estrangement,
is not a path of or for the soul but one of vivisection. this is still my firm opinion.
even this may change but rather not.
In another view and perspective, bad dreams at night can be bearers of light,
they show us our dark roots in the light of fear and pain, and they lead us to find
what we should not carry onwards as a burden or a guilt.
what i don't know is if this preliminary vision can help anybody at all.
but i will meditate more on it, and i hope it can, some time to come.
in the meantime i dare to enter here one of my own dreams, it happened about
14 years ago, and i could see what it meant for me:
nightmare and second face: dream
I woke in a sweat this night, trembling and crying with fear and horror.
I had walked into a huge cave, a sightseeing group just returned to the entrance,
disappeared behind.
disappeared behind.
I felt hesitatingly something which made me wait and tarry.
Whilst the last visitors stepped into daylight
Whilst the last visitors stepped into daylight
behind , somebody jumped me, a boy, maybe twelve years old, dark, slender,
clung to me like a monkey.
clung to me like a monkey.
a faint reminiscence of a sexual pose drew my attention for a moment,
and I thought, what does this poor boy want, and then the boy fingered around my clothes,
tried to take my purse, and I wanted to push him off, managed only part of it with an effort,
the boy stuck to me like glue, like a woman, one of these who would
put one leg around your hip, standing, spreading her crotch wide open,
to show you to the others, this one is mine, my cock, this is where i piss,
put one leg around your hip, standing, spreading her crotch wide open,
to show you to the others, this one is mine, my cock, this is where i piss,
yes, in this way the boy had enveloped and fixated me with all his limbs,
then from one moment to the other he began to strangle my throat,
without a transition, no warning.
then from one moment to the other he began to strangle my throat,
without a transition, no warning.
Out of the very darkness, out of nothing, two other ones materialized,
one an obese small boy between ten and twelve years old,
a face maybe a little coarse but nearly good-natured.
a face maybe a little coarse but nearly good-natured.
The other one a boy or a being, a demon, rather around fourteen,
café au lait spots in his face under short frizzy hair, and this one watched me,
stared into me and through and through, explored my deepest hidden inside.
he was pure malicious spawn,
stared into me and through and through, explored my deepest hidden inside.
he was pure malicious spawn,
this boy's eyes burned out of a blurred sick face, and now, this moment,
I knew that these three beings didn't just want to rob but to kill and torture me.
In despair I cast off the slender dark one, hit him with my fist, made him lie at first
unconscious and then listless throughout on the ground.
unconscious and then listless throughout on the ground.
And the spotted one looked at me, and I knew that unimaginable bad
would happen to me if I stayed quiet and evasive,
I knew there was no room for negotiation. In my dilemma I saw
would happen to me if I stayed quiet and evasive,
I knew there was no room for negotiation. In my dilemma I saw
a picket, took it from the circle of an old fireplace.
Deep inside i felt that the ceremony had started in which I would have to sell my soul.
The spotted one sent the plump and quiet boy, not even using one word, and
this one came with a knife now, and I beat him with the picket and beat him,
and the boy never put away the knife, and I beat him and beat him more,
the beats on the boy's head turned into sound reverberating in the cave, into rhythm,
the rhythm of my very own heart.
and the spotted one looked at me and through me as through old glass,
and this one new that he only had to wait.
The beating got weaker, I tired out, my arms pained, I didn't want to kill him,
the plump one began to turn blue skinned, couldn't breathe,
large bruises showed on his breast, lumps on his head, and I knew what I had done
to the boy, the bones I had broken, and I felt sick and sicker ,
why did this boy not fall down,
large bruises showed on his breast, lumps on his head, and I knew what I had done
to the boy, the bones I had broken, and I felt sick and sicker ,
why did this boy not fall down,
why did I have to kill a child.
and the spotted one looked at me and knew that he had won,
this way or another one.
this way or another one.
Shortly before life left the boy and he finally fell, I woke up..
Pablo Neruda, On the Blue Shore of Silence
THE SEA
Pablo Neruda, On the Blue Shore of Silence
I need the sea because it teaches me,
I don’t know if I learn music or awareness,
if it’s a single wave or its vast existence,
or only its harsh voice or its shining
suggestion of fishes and ships.
The fact is that until I fall asleep,
in some magnetic way I move in
the university of the waves.
I don’t know if I learn music or awareness,
if it’s a single wave or its vast existence,
or only its harsh voice or its shining
suggestion of fishes and ships.
The fact is that until I fall asleep,
in some magnetic way I move in
the university of the waves.
It’s not simply the shells crunched
as if some shivering planet
were giving signs of its gradual death;
no, I reconstruct the day out of a fragment,
the stalactite from a sliver of salt,
and the great god out of a spoonful.
as if some shivering planet
were giving signs of its gradual death;
no, I reconstruct the day out of a fragment,
the stalactite from a sliver of salt,
and the great god out of a spoonful.
What it taught me before, I keep. It’s air
ceaseless wind, water and sand.
ceaseless wind, water and sand.
It seems a small thing for a young man,
to have come here to live with his own fire;
nevertheless, the pulse that rose
and fell in its abyss,
the cracking of the blue cold,
the gradual wearing away of the star,
the soft unfolding of the wave
squandering snow with its foam,
the quiet power out there, sure
as a stone shrine in the depths,
replaced my world in which were growing
stubborn sorrow, gathering oblivion,
and my life changed suddenly:
as I became part of its pure movement.
to have come here to live with his own fire;
nevertheless, the pulse that rose
and fell in its abyss,
the cracking of the blue cold,
the gradual wearing away of the star,
the soft unfolding of the wave
squandering snow with its foam,
the quiet power out there, sure
as a stone shrine in the depths,
replaced my world in which were growing
stubborn sorrow, gathering oblivion,
and my life changed suddenly:
as I became part of its pure movement.
not to stop listening within
is found myself following a trail of memory, running into a chain of thoughts.
and this is what it is, thought: a chain which works like an adhesive to past.
better to stay in the present, better to feel than to think.
better to listen to the music, better to listen within.
and this is what it is, thought: a chain which works like an adhesive to past.
better to stay in the present, better to feel than to think.
better to listen to the music, better to listen within.
Kahlil Gibran's 'Pleasure', narrated by Bonita Nuttall.
note: this background music disturbs my peace of mind,
i should read it myself maybe...
On Pleasure "Then a hermit, who visited the city once a year, came forth and said, "Speak to us of Pleasure." And he answered, saying: Pleasure is a freedom song, But it is not freedom. It is the blossoming of your desires, But it is not their fruit. It is a depth calling unto a height, But it is not the deep nor the high. It is the caged taking wing, But it is not space encompassed. Ay, in very truth, pleasure is a freedom-song. And I fain would have you sing it with fullness of heart; yet I would not have you lose your hearts in the singing. Some of your youth seek pleasure as if it were all, and they are judged and rebuked. I would not judge nor rebuke them. I would have them seek. For they shall find pleasure, but not her alone: Seven are her sisters, and the least of them is more beautiful than pleasure. Have you not heard of the man who was digging in the earth for roots and found a treasure? And some of your elders remember pleasures with regret like wrongs committed in drunkenness. But regret is the beclouding of the mind and not its chastisement. They should remember their pleasures with gratitude, as they would the harvest of a summer. Yet if it comforts them to regret, let them be comforted. And there are among you those who are neither young to seek nor old to remember; And in their fear of seeking and remembering they shun all pleasures, lest they neglect the spirit or offend against it. But even in their foregoing is their pleasure. And thus they too find a treasure though they dig for roots with quivering hands. But tell me, who is he that can offend the spirit? Shall the nightingale offend the stillness of the night, or the firefly the stars? And shall your flame or your smoke burden the wind? Think you the spirit is a still pool which you can trouble with a staff? Oftentimes in denying yourself pleasure you do but store the desire in the recesses of your being. Who knows but that which seems omitted today, waits for tomorrow? Even your body knows its heritage and its rightful need and will not be deceived. And your body is the harp of your soul, And it is yours to bring forth sweet music from it or confused sounds. And now you ask in your heart, "How shall we distinguish that which is good in pleasure from that which is not good?" Go to your fields and your gardens, and you shall learn that it is the pleasure of the bee to gather honey of the flower, But it is also the pleasure of the flower to yield its honey to the bee. For to the bee a flower is a fountain of life, And to the flower a bee is a messenger of love, And to both, bee and flower, the giving and the receiving of pleasure is a need and an ecstasy. People of Orphalese, be in your pleasures like the flowers and the bees."
i should read it myself maybe...
On Pleasure "Then a hermit, who visited the city once a year, came forth and said, "Speak to us of Pleasure." And he answered, saying: Pleasure is a freedom song, But it is not freedom. It is the blossoming of your desires, But it is not their fruit. It is a depth calling unto a height, But it is not the deep nor the high. It is the caged taking wing, But it is not space encompassed. Ay, in very truth, pleasure is a freedom-song. And I fain would have you sing it with fullness of heart; yet I would not have you lose your hearts in the singing. Some of your youth seek pleasure as if it were all, and they are judged and rebuked. I would not judge nor rebuke them. I would have them seek. For they shall find pleasure, but not her alone: Seven are her sisters, and the least of them is more beautiful than pleasure. Have you not heard of the man who was digging in the earth for roots and found a treasure? And some of your elders remember pleasures with regret like wrongs committed in drunkenness. But regret is the beclouding of the mind and not its chastisement. They should remember their pleasures with gratitude, as they would the harvest of a summer. Yet if it comforts them to regret, let them be comforted. And there are among you those who are neither young to seek nor old to remember; And in their fear of seeking and remembering they shun all pleasures, lest they neglect the spirit or offend against it. But even in their foregoing is their pleasure. And thus they too find a treasure though they dig for roots with quivering hands. But tell me, who is he that can offend the spirit? Shall the nightingale offend the stillness of the night, or the firefly the stars? And shall your flame or your smoke burden the wind? Think you the spirit is a still pool which you can trouble with a staff? Oftentimes in denying yourself pleasure you do but store the desire in the recesses of your being. Who knows but that which seems omitted today, waits for tomorrow? Even your body knows its heritage and its rightful need and will not be deceived. And your body is the harp of your soul, And it is yours to bring forth sweet music from it or confused sounds. And now you ask in your heart, "How shall we distinguish that which is good in pleasure from that which is not good?" Go to your fields and your gardens, and you shall learn that it is the pleasure of the bee to gather honey of the flower, But it is also the pleasure of the flower to yield its honey to the bee. For to the bee a flower is a fountain of life, And to the flower a bee is a messenger of love, And to both, bee and flower, the giving and the receiving of pleasure is a need and an ecstasy. People of Orphalese, be in your pleasures like the flowers and the bees."
Adele - One and only
.........
for long time i refused myself the pleasure to like this kind of songs...
well, she has something, she is a real person....and she says it
for long time i refused myself the pleasure to like this kind of songs...
well, she has something, she is a real person....and she says it
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