Richie Havens, Freedom , Woodstock 1969 (HD)

great song. moving, without any doubt.
freedom..this is a motherless state, to add context.
my own.
freedom is being alone and nobody is alone.
not depending, no obligations, no attachment.
so why moan? to be a motherless child is good enough.
why not? mother Mary smiles....is it all she ever does?
again. good enough. i don't care...
i am as free as i can be, not more not less.
as i am not me and as i am me at the same time,
what else can i say? nada.
still, wonderful song to listen to again...

Connemara Girl, Augustus Nicholas Burke

AUGUSTUS NICHOLAS BURKE

                     

Albert Camus, The Almond Trees, 1940, quote

"We have not overcome our condition, and yet we know it better. We know that we live in contradiction, but we also know that we must refuse this contradiction and do what is needed to reduce it. Our task as [humans] is to find the few principles that will calm the infinite anguish of free souls. We must mend what has been torn apart, make justice imaginable again in a world so obviously unjust, give happiness a meaning once more to peoples poisoned by the misery of the century. Naturally, it is a superhuman task. But superhuman is the term for tasks [we] take a long time to accomplish, that’s all.

Let us know our aims then, holding fast to the mind, even if force puts on a thoughtful or a comfortable face in order to seduce us. The first thing is not to despair. Let us not listen too much to those who proclaim that the world is at an end. Civilizations do not die so easily, and even if our world were to collapse, it would not have been the first. It is indeed true that we live in tragic times. But too many people confuse tragedy with despair. “Tragedy,” [D.H.] Lawrence said, “ought to be a great kick at misery.” This is a healthy and immediately applicable thought. There are many things today deserving such a kick."

Albert Camus, The Almond Trees

note:

some posts before i quoted Ferdinand Pessoa and Henry Miller,
i could have quoted Nietzsche, i mentioned Kafka.

i remember i juxtaposed Pessoa and Kafka to Miller in contrast,

and i thought of Camus then.

All of them were driven by a passion for inner freedom, all of them

went on a quest for truth, looking through the big lies of their time,

for all of them there has been this same strife, how to walk out of

decadence( a word loaded with the idea and implication that all had been better before, untrue) 

and how to walk through the cruelty of human kind with

open eyes through the continuous question: what good will and can remain?

should we abscond from living within society and remain observers, 

shall we create a superhuman and a new bible, shall we prefer our dreams to

what me must assume as reality and see this same reality as nightmares,

can keeping our spirit and heart transform our life and others, will reason

ever help in the blind human struggle. are we allowed to just enjoy life all the same

or is this a sin and just too boring and stagnation? is love a word or a truth?

i appreciate Camus better than all others coming out of existentialism. is this because i like 

to hear courage and persistence and hope and life having a voice? yes.

one must acknowledge despair, this way it can kick us into transformation and growth.

all the above mentioned were great writers. all wrote with blood.all cared.

and this way none of them said: nothing matters.

big snowflakes outside coming down.

all the world is white, here.

i don't know anything.

i write, think, reflect, meditate.

i am not so important.

i understand that some people tap themselves into the universal flow 

of life and love and think they can make a difference from inside there, meditating, re-radiating, 

still not understanding what a small part they are, maybe a delusion of grandeur kept in the holiness of nothing, the last stand of individuality.

no, i don't think i will make a great difference here.

and anyway, i am breathing under the snow.

Teho Teardo & Blixa Bargeld , Still Smiling (live)

Not at home , Wim Mertens

The Dead South-,The Dirty Juice

U2 , Love Is Bigger Than Anything In Its Way

don't know, maybe we are all too boring, and love maybe is just
another idea, when i must love i won't, i love when i love
and i don't when i don't.
i am running out of me...i am swimming deep inside..
i swim in a place where i arrived with a reason i don't know.
i will put wax in my ears and be an obnoxious arshole
as i have always been, don't object, it is making me do it
to perfection.
the music is inside, i don't need songs not reaching me
nor these  leading me to another waste land where no roses grow and
where the apples stay rotting on the trees so high.
when you try to remove the wax from my ears be careful what you tell me.
i carry steel inside and curses, i am sailing and i wish to arrive home
where i have always been in my arshole's heart.
we will see what is bigger, the truth or the idea,
the water or the construction, the trap or freedom,
love or Bable.
as i see it is the small things and the ability to concentrate on their negative aspécts
and forces, mediocrity just as well as the running after something special, the detachment from feeling, the estrangement from seeing without spectacles, the indifference of the mind, the dispersion of passion, the dilution of  essence which makes us all fail.
so. what is bigger. not who.
i am not for smaller nor for bigger.
i really don't care for such words.
we always hope for people to change, and they never do.
when they do we can hardly bear it.
maybe i go to live in a forest near a stream, and i will not be waiting
for anything but for what will happen by nature, the change of the seasons.
this here now is a change of seasons, and the days grow slowly longer, very slowly.

The Empty Boat , Blixa Bargeld & Teho Teardo

maybe..

Teho Teardo & Blixa Bargeld , Come up and see me

now is winter. spring will come. ice in the cracks thawing will break the cement,
and i'll walk to nowhere to be nobody , not to be heard of nor seen

Diane Ackerman,We are listening

WE ARE LISTENING

I.

As our metal eyes wake
to absolute night,
where whispers fly
from the beginning of time,
we cup our ears to the heavens.
We are listening

on the volcanic lips of Flagstaff
and in the fields beyond Boston
in a great array that blooms
like coral from the desert floor,
on highwire webs patrolled
by computer spiders in Puerto Rico.

We are listening for a sound
beyond us, beyond sound,

searching for a lighthouse
in the breakwaters of our uncertainty,
an electronic murmur
a bright, fragile I am.

Small as tree frogs
staking out one end
of an endless swamp,
we are listening
through the longest night
we imagine, which dawns
between the life and time of stars.

II.

Our voice trembles
with its own electric,
we who mood like iguanas
we who breathe sleep
for a third of our lives,
we who heat food
to the steaminess of fresh prey,
then feast with such baroque
good manners it grows cold.

In mind gardens
and on real verandas
we are listening,
rapt among the Persian lilacs
and the crickets,
while radio telescopes
roll their heads, as if in anguish.

With our scurrying minds
and our lidless will
and our lank, floppy bodies
and our galloping yens
and our deep, cosmic loneliness
and our starboard hearts
where love careens,
we are listening,
the small bipeds
with the giant dreams.