Charles Bukowski , The Shoelace

Secret Garden,Song from a Secret Garden

Joan Baez , Tears in my eyes

Moondog , Dog Trot

Costa da Caparica, Lisboa

Light On Water, John Hassell (Live)

Down by the Seaside, Led Zeppelin

Tibor Szemző, Let's go out and dance (1987)

Adiemus , Amate Adea

neighbours...as they are

Thelonious Monk , Misterioso

Abel Korzeniowski , Come, Gentle Night

walks in Lisboa, lessons of karma

i took this day quietly.

starting with heartburn from too much booze. the night before..

then various tasks of daily life, small

pleasures such a going for coffee or cooking okra curry,

a small but slow dinner out, walking home..

at lunch my mind still centered on age, on growing old, on being old.
well, i just don't like it.
and i do not like to recognize my heart slowly adapting to the lessons of frustration more than

doing anything else.

my mind , my thoughts- these expect frustration anyway, but  can be surprised by sudden
bursts of enjoying life. there is a certain elasticity, a remaining plasticity going along with being
awake, with the process of authentic imagination and , rarely, with intuition too.

it is the way, this kind of adaptation, the process during which we crystallize all pain suffered,

it is branded in our flesh and soul during our strife for survival.

and when we are old we get more and more rigid in the movements

of soul and heart, joy is much more faint in memory, vague, always,

so much so that we most times prefer nostalgia and melancholia to the opening and touch

which could wound us once more-and this though we ache all the time...incredible.
o, i don't like to say we.
but sometimes a bit of generalization may be allowed and forgiven.

for the last years all i learned is to deal better with frustration and with being alone.

my heart grew older but not because it was what i wanted, just because this is the lesson

fate taught me.
when wisdom is adaptation to failure, to non-fulfillment in longing and love,
a withdrawal in solitude and a retreat in acceptation of 'as it is' and of the lack of a response i can feel: i am wiser now.

but is wisdom not something very different, to stay alive and shine with kindness
and let happiness win over fear which is so terribly useless?
i try. i try.

for love one cannot fight.
for another person's problems one can stand up
and act, not to win but to be present and to give.

still, it is sad, where i love most i cannot be near,
i cannot ask for help when i am down and low and ill.
and i am not asked, not called :even worse.
this sadness is terrible. i will not remain in it,
and most times i don't.

and i learned more these years: i learned who i am.
it was a hard way learning to laugh...

now, peacefully went home, posting my useless photos,
i don't think much.

but one i know:
silence is an omen today.

silence is not always stillness,
it can be the occult workings of
the Norns, threading and weaving
my present , my future, and it can have
also a quality of misfortune and hidden danger.

in the end, there is nothing to do.
love and life are out of bonds for force
and control.
i just go on, go on on my way as it opens
and shows itself.
not a slave of the storms or bad weather, not a straw-
no, i walk. i walk to the end.
and talk to the wind.

good night. wind.

it rained only for a short time. then

the wind settled, it was warm here.

here..walking with my shadow.

sim..

all goes down the drain..

up or down..ask me

Eivor , Dansadu Vindur

around on the motorbike:Parque Nacional de Sintra-Cascais, Cabo da Roca

Nina Simone, Who knows where the time goes

Eivør , Morning Song (Official Audio)

Last night I crawled into bed
With the darkest thoughts in my head
Could not find peace of mind

The night was so long and so unkind

Morning has finally come
All my worries are undone
Wounded, but stronger than before
Morning clears the sky once more

Yesterday's pain and misery
I won't let it get a hold of me
I'm one with my sorrow, we walk hand in hand
But it's not who I am
It's not who I am

Morning has finally come
Shadows vanish in the sun
A new beginning, now I'm sure
Morning clears the sky once more

Last night I crawled into bed
With the darkest thoughts in my head
Sometimes my clouded mind holds me down
But it's not who I am
It's not who I am

Morning has finally come
All my worries are undone
Wounded, but stronger than before
Morning clears the sky once more

Morning has finally come
Shadows vanish in the sun
A new beginning, now I'm sure
Morning clears the sky once more
I don't ask for more
I don't ask for more

cycles, recycling, transformation and transcendence

all human life is a journey through purgatory, it has never been after or outside.
in the end, all what remains is essence, part vinegar and part wine distilled into spirit on a flame we do not control.
all molecules will be released by death to dance and whirl with the cosmic wind.
all is crucifixion and dance and a walk to purity, humbly or not, a narrow path
between joy and suffering, a journey we cannot plan. all what has been returns, all what will be happens now.
between cycles and recycling life has its space, blossoming and withering,
all happens within and without, all is inter-connected and inter-dependent.
nobody is outside however much  we imagine to be exclusive individuals, however much we do not wish to be understood and however much we long to stay out of context: we are but emanations of another dance and cycle, we are children of stars and relatives of the earth, the sun, the moon.
this is all. nothing at all is about survival, all is about the moment, all is about consciousness, about memory and about the gift of forgetting, about letting go and  keeping faith and courage, all is personal experience, all is not about giving up but about giving in, all is about "how" we are alive and dying and not about survival, not about fight, not about goals to reach and possessions to harvest and keep. we die as we are born: naked. to live naked in the present is best.
we share this, so we "can" understand each other and be kind.
no more to say.
transcendence is to see and walk, it is an experience in the present moment.
Our blood flows and flows. transformation happens all the time, we cannot escape,
death makes life precious and rich.
there is no reason for fear. or to say it another way: fear does not make sense.
all of us carry the seed of good and bad: here is our only choice.
When we start to think, we should always laugh about ourself-
laugh as the recognition of human limits. This is what makes us human and takes us out of the animal realm. we are not plants dreaming nor animals just being. we do think, but only humor wakes us
alive to humanity.
and possibly to love each other just a bit better recognizing the relatedness, the me in the other, the other in me.
end.

Vorübungen für ein Wunder, Erich Fried

Vor dem leeren Baugrund
mit geschlossenen Augen warten
bis das alte Haus
wieder dasteht und offen ist

Die stillstehende Uhr
so lange ansehen
bis der Sekundenzeiger
sich wieder bewegt

An dich denken
bis die Liebe
zu dir
wieder glücklich sein darf

Das Wiedererwecken
von Toten
ist dann
ganz einfach

Quelle: Erich Fried "Liebesgedichte" Berlin 1995.

Ungewiß,Erich Fried

Aus dem Leben
bin ich
in die Gedichte gegangen
Aus den Gedichten
bin ich
ins Leben gegangen
Welcher Weg
wird am Ende
besser gewesen sein?

Quelle: Erich Fried "Liebesgedichte", Berlin 1995.

Aria , André Gagnon

Eivør ,Salt (Lyric Video)

"The salt in my body
The ocean inside of me
An intoxicating tide
A current of aching"...

Abel Korzeniowski , Ariel's Dance

a letter found on the road

i cannot write today.
i should be acid, spreading black prophecies, a stray heart
howling in the empty streets, all instinct of my blood, each fibre of
of soul and body in rebellion.
so i went to see a film at cinema, Toni Erdmann, fairly good, maybe a bit better.
i laughed a bit and felt it was good to me that my children are not so cramped up and so obsessed with "success" as this daughter there. poor slave, all too human traits . a helpless father trying his best, at least he managed to give his daughter a smile,
but when is the best good enough?
from personal experience : never.

On my way home i found a letter on the road, weirdly addressed to sleeping beauty behind seven hills.
This is it:

Bureau of Internal Affairs
Rua da Boa-Fé , 7
Lisboa
                                                Lisboa, February 27, 2017

re: matter of a lost heart

Dear Citizen!

The office of universal investigations , branch office of cosmic police, planet Alpha-Omega, has brought a matter to our attention.
We are obliged to inform you officially on charges and administrative procedures.

Some time ago you left a shirt on a hanger in your wardrobe.
In its front pocket were some cigarettes of the make 'Benson&Hedges", specified as "gold", some little marihuana and a heart which may have escaped your memory.

The owner asked on the quality of care given.
He claims to have a reason to ask.
By human rights standards a heart must be returned when surroundings are not adequate and appropriate anymore.
We would like to ask you politely your opinion on this matter.

It may have caught too much dust amongst your clothes and between forgotten thoughts and dreams, possibly too far from the fresh air of green grass, flowers, freedom , joy and courage.
Of course we regard you as quite innocent if this turns out to be just a  misplacement by chance or a lack of
proper memory.
You will excuse us if we remind you that hearts need to run wild and free and that they need
warmth and tenderness, water, a space to grow and a human to be trusted and to trust.

We are aware that you are very busy with yourself, with relatives and friends, with so many matters (as all of us), with depression, with mere survival and with various procedures of difficult adaptation to a harsh and troubling life.
From our secret karma files from Alpha-Omega we know your essence. You are a kind person
on a good way, and although you suffer in the bardo with all of us, you learned to dance with light and butterflies inside.

This office is not in the habit of accusations.
We draw your awareness to possibilities of a solution
of which you will kindly inform us.

Maybe you own a garden in which you can plant the heart and give it a hand growing,
maybe you can warm it under your sheets. a heart must first of all be wanted,
and we cannot tolerate it to be left in a wardrobe awaiting further disposal and use.
Please open the door, let light come in and respond to the heart, the owner and our office.

Off record we can inform you that the owner wishes to visit as he left his heart for a reason.

Please do not hesitate to call  on us for any assistance you may need in this matter.

Yours sincerely
S. Rã do Sábado
Head of Department

Eivør Pálsdóttir , Heyr Himna Smiður

stories..lighthouses...faros..

between two graves

increasingly often i go to bed to sleep between two graves.

i see and feel my dismemberment, i  stay awake, stiff and unable to move.

i don't usually need nightmares in sleep. i know them and i live with them.

i am older already than my grandfather had been at the time of his death.

i live, i age, it is not just a fact, this is personal experience and it is relative only when thinking.

and this goes for everybody.

in this i am fortunate, there is a certain freedom in the way of a limited independency to move

and see the world. this is what a bit of self-owned time and presently  spare money can do.

it is not freedom. freedom i cannot buy nor happiness.

last night again awake in the cage of my mind.

above no sky, the ceiling in the dark painted with memories, under the bed a grid , down a cellar

in which my heart must have been beating on.

between two graves:

the left my own to be, i snipped nose-pickings into it, it looked like

a bath tub. memories of desire , longing, hurt , birth and deaths crept like snakes, dropped from above.

wasted blood collected in my grave ,despair boiling like acid.

the right grave harbouring old loves at the bottom, sighing, covered with hope

and roses withering,crippled birds,abortions of dreams, messages from far spirits, rabbits carrying clocks, letters from ghosts,  the tips of my fingers never far and never near.

the room, my skin, like a drum from inside, fate beating it, my breath very soft , withheld, not to wake a sound from inside to reverberate and deafen my last minutes.  my skin , my soul, my borders stretched taught, alone in all pain.

when i woke up this morning, my heart still buried and far, two graves to take into the day,

i took a coffee as there was nobody to tell nor to lift my heart and bring it back to warm me.

but of course,i always take my coffee, black and sweet.

all day i will be next to me until i find me smiling to see:

all this is true and untrue in the same time , in the same breath.

Otis Taylor ,They Wore Blue

Simon’s Cat, A Day In The Life Of A Cat Owner

Lisboa, yesterday

Moondog, I'm this, I'm that

Jon Hassell , Amsterdam Blue

....stolen..:-)

Moondog , Elf dance (piano)

Jon Hassell , Blue Period , Light On Water

a thin line

hope is a thin line
it snaps so easily
but with time
truly in hands

it will catch dreams,
lift us up
from our heaviness
towards heavens

of course we will
fall again and fail,
sinking and rising
like the waves at sea

this is not futile
but the law of life
in the tidal now
which is endless,

the music flowing
and ebbing
with a rhythm
following pauses

when we do not swim
we will float,
when we do neither
we will drown

heaven is the other
side of heavy.
birds sleeping
in the trees, on water,

they chirp on sky,
fishes sing rivers,
my heart beats on
talking back to all.

wind takes all sound,
transformed to silence,
all flowers open,
light came in.

when truth is ugly
it is not truth
but memory, thought.
when we are still

all is not as it is:
but it is.
where the voice breaks
life meets death -and it begins.

Dylan Thomas ,reciting, Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night

Benjamin Clementine ,I won't complain

Eivør , Silvitni (Lyric Video)

Eivør , Verð Mín (Lyric Video)

Arvo Part , Salve Regina (Full)

Arvo Pärt , For Alina , 1976

Arvo Pärt ,Silentium

Mazzy Star ,Into dust

Eivør Pálsdóttir ,I Tokuni (Slor 2015) + Lyric + Lyric Eng

excellent...

Kemal , Xatzidakis (the original)

Jethro Tull ,Bourée

Camille Saint-Saëns , Danse Macabre

distance is not space: the internet

distance to breathe

is not a space

we give to each other:

but life we take out

life we take from

the other, bleeding out,

to circle around 

old paths and patterns

self centered, in balance

with the dizzy lightness

of nothing to disturb.

we only throw food

through worm holes,

an astrophysical 

relationship: paradox

and nursing this

estrangement of humans,

pornographic fragments

ruling the silent hum

of how not to say

what we will not like

and how to keep

not in touch

but out of trouble

nice, without burden,

and facing sudden risk

to meet in honesty

we will fail and retire

to a galaxy far out,

short-sightedly

floating in fish tanks.

waiting for death

we assume to live:

but this is questionable.

we know that all life

parts in black holes,

nothing and nobody

comes out to say

hello, just particles

and invisible waves

distance is not space

we give and allow,

time is not a glue

but it takes us apart

what could be presence

dies at the root,

and nobody sees

the blossoms

coming the other side.

the sound of flowers

opening from far

does not carry their scent.

although...

there is magic in poems,

it is my blood living there

as a dead thing. they are

open to interpretation, but i

know how much this gift

is a poison.

and i say:

as long as none of my legs

will be cut off, i walk the earth

as a man, dressed as a human, i am soul, spirit, earth and fire:

i don't want to be boiled in a

kettle, my essence distilled through

copper tubes by witches in reclining

chairs clapping their hands, nodding

rhythmically with the burbling steam,breathing my earthly life through their spoiled nostrils, humming a 'how nice he suffers' as if i was a frog to end in a fishsoup for degustation.

so, why publish.

i don't want to write poems, i hate all of them for wasting my life , to write instead of kissing, embrace, the sharing of days and nights: how poor.

i write, i die. i have no choice.

is it true?

the water is wide, bob dylan, joan baez

Grieg ,Peace of the woods

Vivaldi,Concerto for 4 Violins , B minor, RV 580

Vivaldi ,Concerto for Two Violins , A Minor, RV522

Nico , All that is my own

the way of the gods

the way of the gods
is not mine,
they dance silently
across the skies

they walk clouds
with a laughter
and rain comes
to bless the soil

me means stumbling
across stumps and stones,
carrying luggage
out in the cold

my suffering is earthly
and such is my joy.
other humans in despair,
loaded with misfortune,

bleeding and in pain,
show me how small i am,
they teach me to be
and to ignore the gods

seeking truth, i fail,
my journey, erring
within the medusa
of the mind,

leads to the heart
which cries out
like a bird at night,
wounded in terror

until i find,
clearing the bushes,
my tongue kissing
springwater

in the stillness
of wild roses,
breathing,
alone and not alone.

Alberto Savinio

3.32...



also feel surreal ..just now i do anyway

bardo, yes, cage no: today the bitterness of reflection

i may be very wrong.
maybe i am.
now i do not see you.
i see me.

by now i had felt caged
for too long,
bound where i wanted to flow,
i cannot go on.

i find evasion. evasion. evasion.
and i am tired.

i cannot be silent.

i must go away.

all is impermanent,
my mind changes like the weather.

but bardo is bardo.
i must accept my inconsistency
as there is no choice.

i am sad in my soul.
sad for loss, sad for hope,
sad for my freedom:
it feels like a shame.

i will light a candle
and watch the rising heat.

i go, i will go,
i am not made to stay.

The Tibetan Book Of The Dead ,Bardo Thodol, Leonard Cohen (reading)

Vaughan Williams,The Lark Ascending

Solitude , Sakamoto Ryuichi

Dvorak , Romance for piano and violin, Op.11

my soul is filled with  a pain..not filled but..and i feel i am bad

but i can only be me ...

Jan Toorop, Goldmund

a laugh: a zen master vs. Sartre

It is quite clear,

a zen master would have only

one answer to  this Nausea,

to egocentricity, to our

unending idiotic search for meaning,

each one so illusionary alone and  important

in all absurdity:

he would erupt with true laughter

                             
                               and laugh and laugh until we are awake

Beethoven: Missa Solemnis - Benedictus (Janowitz - Ludwig - Wunderlich -...

"Moonless, this June night is all the more alive with stars. Its darkness is perfumed with faint gusts from the blossoming lime trees, with the smell of wetted earth and the invisible greenness of the vines. There is silence; but a silence that breathes with the soft breathing of the sea and, in the thin shrill noise of a cricket, insistently, incessantly harps on the fact of its own deep perfection. Far away, the passage of a train is like a long caress, moving gently, with an inexorable gentleness, across the warm living body of the night."

Aldous Huxley


Aldous Huxley, music,silence

A good night to Nausea: letter to Jean-Paul Sartre

Dear M. Sartre,
my French is so bad that you would never have understood.
Your Nausea, i read it as a very young man, i read it several times after.
I assure you: you did well. It nauseates. It is the shared nausea of humanity.
It is not, i repeat, not the nausea of life, of earth, grass, flowers, dogs.
I don't know for sure, my friend may think that i must be stupid and blind
not to feel your nausea all the time. Well, after all you said that we are free
and free to give a meaning to our life if and  as we wish to do. So, i must
inform you just as well as i informed my friend: I have no time to
spend in nausea. It comes, it goes. It is perfectly useless to kneel
in front of the toilet waiting for the next reason to vomit.
I see life as offering a rich travel, dangerous, ending with death of course.
Why should it concern me so much that i cannot think up a meaning
of life itself? What i feel is enough to me because it has to.
I have not been born to think but to live and to be alive.
And would it be true in your opinion that to be a communist was a therapy
against your nausea of existence? Well, maybe it was. I remember, you didn't like
Albert Camus that much. Were you jealous that he saw the abyss , the
loneliness and the absurdity of human existence clearly but without nausea?
I guess you must have  been. A person who could say

"It is disgusting -- Why must we have bodies" : you suffered from acrophobia, no?

This is why i will turn my attention to other experiences in my present moment.

My best wishes , wherever you are now,

yours absurdly

Conrad Feder


note:
i my own way i define the nausea in Sartre's book as
the obvious result of total sick Western egocentricity.
there is no way to compare this with Buddhist teachings.
It could have only been written here in Europe, and
this nausea is a very real experience for all of us,
it really should not be our only and our most important 
experience at all: this then should be avoiding the lesson of life
itself, it should be avoiding life.

Siberia ,The Frozen Forest

Thelonious Monk, Rhythm a Ning (live)

Disturbed ,The Sound Of Silence [Official Music Video]

"And in the naked light I saw

Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence

Fools, said I, you do not know
Silence like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you
But my words, like silent raindrops fell
And echoed in the wells of silence"

another version..not so bad

Witch's Promise,Jethro Tull

..a world without promises may be better...

Pentangle,Sweet Child

You've been working so hard all day won't you take your rest
You 've been driving my blues away
Now it is my turn
Come climb beneath my wings
Sweet child it may not be for long

Well I may be a-drinking hard
Like a fish that swims
And I could be riding high
Like a floating cloud
And if the rain does fall
Sweet child I would not let you drown

Well, I would not care to see untruth in your eyes
I would not care to know
Where your heart does lie
I've tried to trust my heart
But my eyes are failin' me

Sweet child come to me now
Let me take your hand
Well I do not know you well yet I've tried so hard
Through four and twenty years
Sweet child, I still don't understand

Well, I've heard there are great men
Who could save our soul
With kind and gentle hearts
And love is their goal
I really want to know
Sweet child, who could shoot them down

And I've a-thought about a man
Who does sing his life
Who sheds his tears upon every mortal soul
And I wonder does he yearn
Sweet child, for death to come for him

And I once did see a child, she did sit and cry
Where has the pretty flower in the darkness gone?
In summer you shall see
Sweet child, I guess it won't be long

Won't you lay yourself down and rest
Let your mind relax
Won't you cuddle into the night
I will guide your path
Well, I may not be here long
'Cause I got a feeling to be gone

addressing my itch

my itch, i talk to you,
words dropping
into no mans land,
into dead water

i cross my legs
i confront you, itch,
i cross my arms,
i refuse to call you

i will not give
a name to you:
there is too much
blindness in detail

maybe my legs are
as hairy as a spider's,
my smile is crooked
and my teeth are false

maybe you have a pimple
on your cheek, a wart
on your heart, but why
should i be concerned

through the microscope
i can see only small
parts of  you and me,
i put it in the cellar

not wishing to name
pornographically parts
but kissing you,
my arms embracing

each naked wrinkle,
softly singing warmth,
tickling the cicadas
in your head and hair

this is my itch, beyond
the edge of your eyes,
far from your vision
and so near to mine

i want to sleep
and wake with you,
the humming stillness
coming to life with a smile

in mornings embroidered
with golden light,
silvery bird song
and long long breath

silent, no words
spoiling the day
where it begins,
i talk to you

now with words
and with an itch,
and maybe
this is all

to take to my end,
people to dance
and to eat herrings,
to be happy once in a while.

good night, itch,
i ate and i drank,
it was good,
the time has come.

Van Morrison , I Forgot that Love Existed

I forgot that love existed troubled in my mind.
Heartache after heartache, worried all the time.
I forgot that love existed
Then I saw the light
Everyone around me make everything alright.

Oh, oh Socrates and Plato they
Praised it to the skies.
Anyone who's ever loved
Everyone who's ever tried.

If my heart could do my thinking
And my head begin to feel
I would look upon the world anew
And know what's truly real.

Van Morrison , Wonderful Remark

Pauline Julien , L'âme à la tendresse (LIVE)

Saint Saëns , 3e symphonie (Orgue), Daniel Barenboim et le Chicago Sympho...

Pentangle, Dragonfly

Bert Jansch , Morning brings peace of mind

...wish the night shall bring peace too..

Renaissance - Things I Don't Understand (# 2) - Turn of the Cards (1974)

Changing moods and stranger feelings
In my dealings with the world
Faces that I've seen before am I sure
Or has my brain turned

Thinking about things I don't understand
Thinking about things I don't understand

Dreams and omens of my future
Like a sculpture finely molded
Stars that guide my destiny
Tell me what I will be
A chart unfolded

Thinking about things I don't understand
Thinking about things I don't understand

Da da ... la la ... oh oh oh ...
Seems there's plans for everyone
The day will come and we will know
We all are tied in with each other
Everyone brothers
One great flow

Thinking about things I don't understand
Thinking about things I don't understand

La la la ...
And in the morning of my time
I'll try to understand
I learn by what I find
And love you if I can

We don't need to know the answers
To hope and pray for peace
And each by what he can
To make us all complete

Oh oh oh ...

John Donne Song , Pentangle,Sweet Child

The Byrds,Turn! Turn! Turn! (To Everything There Is A Season) (Audio)

To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heaven

A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep

To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heaven

A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together

To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heaven

A time of love, a time of hate
A time of war, a time of peace
A time you may embrace, a time to refrain from embracing

To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heaven

A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time for love, a time for hate
A time for peace, I swear it's not too late

Thelonious Monk , Boo Boo's Birthday

No exit, Pentangle

Living In The Past,Jethro Tull

Happy, and I'm smiling, walk a mile to drink your water.
You know I'd love to love you, and above you there's no other
We'll go walking out while others shout of war's disaster.
Oh, be forgiving, let's go living in the past.

Once I'd used to join in every boy and girl was my friend.
Now there's revolution but they don't know what they're fighting.
Let us close our eyes. Outside their lives go on much faster
Oh, be forgiving, we'll keep living in the past.

Oh, be forgiving, let's go living in the past.
Oh, no, no, be forgiving, let's go living in the past.

Altai, Nature Reserve

Divna Ljubojević , Song of Songs , Shir ha-Shirim

Nothing Is Easy, Jethro Tull

Nothing is easy.
Though time gets you worrying
My friend, it's OK.
Just take your life easy
And stop all that hurrying,
Be happy my way.

When tension starts mounting
And you've lost count
Of the pennies you've missed,
Just try hard and see why they're not worrying me,
They're last on my list.
Nothing's easy.

Nothing is easy, you'll find
That the squeeze won't turn out so bad.
Your fingers may freeze, worse things happen at sea,
There's good times to be had.
So if you're alone and you're down to the bone,
Just give us a play.
You'll smile in a while and discover
That I'll get you happy my way
Nothing's easy.

Quotes, Simone de Beauvoir, on Love

never wanted another love...this is not a feminist approach,

it has nothing at all to do with any sociological movement at all,

it is about the true meeting of equals. it is on love..

and i cannot see that her premises are impossible -

just nearly sounds as if..

anyway, i guess i am tired of the subject and of talking on love,

who will define it if not by inter-acting , allowing it to enter?

Miriam Makeba , Ask the Rising Sun

Ted Hughes,Lovesong

excellent and very horrible too...i knew, re-found...

CROW written and read by Ted Hughes

Hole in the Coal ,Pentangle ,Sweet Child

Marina Tsvetaeva, poetry in English

ELP ,The Only Way (Hymn) And Infinite Space

Jethro Tull, Rocks on the Road

Beethoven,Ode To Joy,Symphony No.9, Karajan

"Letter to a neurotic"

Dear friend,
maybe my story here will help understanding our relationship with ourself ,
with us and with each other in another light.

I begin not with the story  but with talking about neurosis, a term no longer used in psychiatry and psychology. It can mean various ways of behaviour originating in a failure of adaptation to whichever mostly early environment, a regressive way of being going along with fear and the all present defence of an ego which doesn't really exist. 
The methods of this defence are invariably not allowing much change nor communication which could at any deeper level touch one's vulnerability. One can not find this vulnerability because without any balance points one is always vulnerable, and each opening will at the same time be a closing. 
It equals a flower which cannot open.
Such a person will always prefer the safety of unhappiness to the charge of joy and to the exposure to the sky, to life. But he or she will see it another way. They will always only see "I cannot". 
Besides, neurotic persons will always ask what to fear and whose fault it is.
Deeply inside,they mostly know it is their own closure to suffering which makes
them suffer even more: another reason to be even more unhappy.


It is quite clear that each such hurtful accumulation and willful continuation 
of unhappiness will lead to an organic presence in one's life, to so called symptoms, to psychosomatic disorders.
Unfortunately, even if our neurotic friends know it is themselves causing their own stomach pain, heart pain, asthma attacks, 
they see no way to change for feeling better-
simply because they don't really want to.

My story shows that the aim of neurosis and psychosomatic illness
is death itself. 
Obviously one can reach a point where illness and death are preferable to memories of pain and to monotonous circles of fear, defence and retirement.

Psychosomatic disorder is not a perpetuum mobile, it will end  with death:
the afflicted person knows but doesn't wish to know. 
Death is present all the time,
it is the greatest healer and it is the very secret of change.

Apart from this, psychosomatic suffering is a continuous creation, 
a human fertilizing the ground, life, others with unhappiness, 
leveling down all experience to one's own prison, 
meeting each moment fearfully with the always same fixed solution,
one taking human experience out of presence, into unreachable hiding. 
No, a neurotic does not want to change.

Others cannot influence this, they can only try to bear it with tolerance,
empathy can only exist in understanding the root of  the other's
individual trauma.

And whatever you do for or with a purpose will not result in a flow of a kinder, richer, happier, conscious and mindful life: 
nobody should stay a patient. 
I read this somewhere, and it is true.
So much about therapy....

Carl Jung said(on politics): 
"Our world is, so to speak, dissociated like a neurotic".

In this, all of us show strong traits of neurosis, of being fixed in unhappiness 
and defence of illusionary egos. 

Why? Because our culture taught us behaviour 
from inside the cruel cooking pot of family and school. 
It taught us to be unkind to ourselves, to carry our own mask and prison, marked us with violence. 

And most of all, it rewards us for our distorted functioning
with attention, with consumption, with poisoned sweeties.

Each step out of long ago inside fixed solutions is liberation.

And believe me or not, no religion will take us out, no leader,
no guru, no other fixed way. All will be only false relief, 
harden our wrong ways and possibly bring on fanaticism,
create the illusion to be saved or to be able to develop into a super-being.

Meditation can help to go out of fixed ego bubbles, it is the best way for this-
also it will bring temporary relief like drugs, as a side effect only. 
You cannot gain a higher self: this would mean still staying inside your 
ego-trap and in splendid isolation, just feeling superior.
You should not be be so blind as to imagine a way towards that purpose 
will make you happier. 

You still have to consciously change: 
and first of all you have to want
to do so.

You have to gain your self, step for step, with a new kindness,
meeting your fear,  with mercy, grace, compassion, consolation and embrace.
When you cannot be kind to yourself, you cannot be kind to others.


The neurotic person is stuck, defining impossibility and unwillingness
to change as a first rule to control fear and preservation of integrity,
the integrity of a tinned fish.

All starts and ends with death.
Unlike dolphins, we breathe even when we are unconscious,
but to be alive consciously is an act of human choice, 
a human on a sofa is very unlike a cat on the very same sofa.

Now, with a bad end, the story:

Now i am old, but i remember my first job as a pre-registration
medical house officer in a  hospital in the borders region of the UK.
We had long shifts, many on-call duties. The area had a high
unemployment rate for young people nearing 50%. There was a dense despair amongst people, a palpable ghostly unhappiness. Throughout the
nights we were always busy, in-patients with difficulties, 
many normal emergencies coming in with always 2-5 suicide attempts in between, sleep was mostly impossible.

On one ward we had an in-patient constantly complaining about chest
pain, he had been kept there already for near to four weeks. He had
gone through all at that time possible examinations, nothing could be found
physically wrong with him. Our consultant had kept him on  half for
the fear of legal problems following discharge, half for curiosity.

He for sure was an unpleasant person quite obviously used to terrorize others, 
always complaining, demanding, unkind, throwing tempers, insulting carers and staff. 

One extremely busy night in between treating patients with
suicide attempts i had been running there the third time, 
already having been called for the next emergency. 

It was the third Electrocardiography i did on him this night, 
and all on-calls had previously been like that for every doctor. 
I run there, sweating, looked at his face, into his eyes, i didn't see fear 
but only a man trying to terrorize me. 
All he immediately knew to do was to tell me that nobody ever has time for him.

Applying the electrodes to his arms, legs and chest , 
me being stressed and my hair rising, i told him off, clearly and
not with a soft voice at all, that he is only complaining about chest pain
so people come running for him. 
The ECG was about finished already, all normal.
He reacted, stopped to breathe and turned nearly blue as if to explode any moment with rage at me. In this very moment i really had waited for just this,
wondering what to do.
Then - he was just dead, from one moment to the other. 

The emergency team was with me within 2 minutes.
There was nothing to do. 

The next day he was on the table, cut open: 
there was nothing, nothing at all. No cause for death. 
No blood clot, no coronary artery which didn't look completely healthy,
a normal heart and good lungs.
He could have decided to live, he preferred to die with a spectacle,
the last scene in a final act.
My guess was and is a temporary coronary artery spasm 
caused by rage imploding. 

A black magic kind of death.

The patient who got the most attention on the ward
was the one who just wanted to die.


I had been unkind, reacted, he reacted. He was dead. I was alive.
Nothing to add.


Dear friend, excuse my lengthy letter, but when i talked to you here
i had to talk to me first. Mind you, following this incident i had some bad dreams,  i learned that to lose my temper could kill somebody. And though only possible if they want to die anyway: i had to look into me and face
my own ways.

Do the same, and my story has reached.