Monday, December 31, 2018
Friday, December 28, 2018
no problem
so what's the problem? there is none.
Wednesday, December 26, 2018
emancipation, precise language, smog
the root of this word meant for a father to let his boy go from being under his control and then also to make a slave a free man.
its original meaning has nothing at all to do with gender politics.
easily forgotten.
i still think what cannot be said in one's own language can only stay vague in translation and
gets sucked in half knowledge.
New Age, again all
my alarm systems are on red alert. It sells ok.
but it doesn't tell
me anything, just wrapping paper.
in the end for the John.
all goes up in smog, also what is important and maybe ‚good'.
Von meinem iPhone gesendet
its original meaning has nothing at all to do with gender politics.
easily forgotten.
i still think what cannot be said in one's own language can only stay vague in translation and
gets sucked in half knowledge.
New Age, again all
my alarm systems are on red alert. It sells ok.
but it doesn't tell
me anything, just wrapping paper.
in the end for the John.
all goes up in smog, also what is important and maybe ‚good'.
Von meinem iPhone gesendet
Tuesday, December 25, 2018
Monday, December 24, 2018
Sunday, December 23, 2018
Saturday, December 22, 2018
Japanese Maple, Clive James
Your death, near now, is of an easy sort.
So slow a fading out brings no real pain.
Breath growing short
Is just uncomfortable. You feel the drain
Of energy, but thought and sight remain:
So slow a fading out brings no real pain.
Breath growing short
Is just uncomfortable. You feel the drain
Of energy, but thought and sight remain:
Enhanced, in fact. When did you ever see
So much sweet beauty as when fine rain falls
On that small tree
And saturates your brick back garden walls,
So many Amber Rooms and mirror halls?
So much sweet beauty as when fine rain falls
On that small tree
And saturates your brick back garden walls,
So many Amber Rooms and mirror halls?
Ever more lavish as the dusk descends
This glistening illuminates the air.
It never ends.
Whenever the rain comes it will be there,
Beyond my time, but now I take my share.
This glistening illuminates the air.
It never ends.
Whenever the rain comes it will be there,
Beyond my time, but now I take my share.
My daughter's choice, the maple tree is new.
Come autumn and its leaves will turn to flame.
What I must do
Is live to see that. That will end the game
For me, though life continues all the same:
Come autumn and its leaves will turn to flame.
What I must do
Is live to see that. That will end the game
For me, though life continues all the same:
Filling the double doors to bathe my eyes,
A final flood of colors will live on
As my mind dies,
Burned by my vision of a world that shone
So brightly at the last, and then was gone.
A final flood of colors will live on
As my mind dies,
Burned by my vision of a world that shone
So brightly at the last, and then was gone.
Friday, December 21, 2018
Ben l'Oncle Soul, I've got you under my skin
comments say it is a Cole Porter song.
and i do not carry another under my skin but in my soul and
so just the same in my skin, in my heart, in my breathing, in my mind, in all i am...
just not just under my skin....o how we must divide all, for this there no 'divide et impera'...
so, he may well cry
Manfred Mann's Earth Band , You Angel You (Live in Budapest 1983)
o god...all this time..(B.Dylan song)
Thursday, December 20, 2018
Benjamin Clementine , Eternity
stolen with enthusiasm...an inspiration, thx to anonymous
Thou knowest all; I seek in vain
What lands to till or sow with seed -
The land is black with briar and weed,
Nor cares for falling tears or rain.
Thou knowest all; I sit and wait
With blinded eyes and hands that fail,
Till the last lifting of the veil
And the first opening of the gate.
Thou knowest all; I cannot see.
I trust I shall not live in vain,
I know that we shall meet again
In some divine eternity.
Oscar Wilde in The complete works of Oscar Wilde
Thou knowest all; I seek in vain
What lands to till or sow with seed -
The land is black with briar and weed,
Nor cares for falling tears or rain.
Thou knowest all; I sit and wait
With blinded eyes and hands that fail,
Till the last lifting of the veil
And the first opening of the gate.
Thou knowest all; I cannot see.
I trust I shall not live in vain,
I know that we shall meet again
In some divine eternity.
Oscar Wilde in The complete works of Oscar Wilde
Wednesday, December 19, 2018
quote, love, sex, Victor Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning, Dostoyevsky
"THE MEANING OF LOVE"
Love is the only way to grasp another human being in the innermost core of his personality.
No one can become fully aware of the very essence of another human being unless he loves him.
By his love he is enabled to see the essential traits and features in the beloved person; and even more, he sees that which is potential in him, which is not yet actualized but yet ought to be actualized.
Furthermore, by his love, the loving person enables the beloved person to actualize these potentialities. By making him aware of what he can be and of what he should become, he makes these potentialities come true.
In logotherapy, love is not interpreted as a mere epiphe-nomenon of sexual drives and instincts in the sense of a so-called sublimation.
Love is as primary a phenomenon as sex.
Normally, sex is a mode of expression for love.
Sex is justified, even sanctified, as soon as, but only as long as, it is a vehicle of love.
Thus love is not understood as a mere side-effect of sex; rather, sex is a way of expressing the experience of that ultimate togetherness which is called love.
The third way of finding a meaning in life is by suffering."
Victor Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning
"To love somebody means to see them as God intended them."
Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Reduktionismus
man's search for meaning.pdf
Love is the only way to grasp another human being in the innermost core of his personality.
No one can become fully aware of the very essence of another human being unless he loves him.
By his love he is enabled to see the essential traits and features in the beloved person; and even more, he sees that which is potential in him, which is not yet actualized but yet ought to be actualized.
Furthermore, by his love, the loving person enables the beloved person to actualize these potentialities. By making him aware of what he can be and of what he should become, he makes these potentialities come true.
In logotherapy, love is not interpreted as a mere epiphe-nomenon of sexual drives and instincts in the sense of a so-called sublimation.
Love is as primary a phenomenon as sex.
Normally, sex is a mode of expression for love.
Sex is justified, even sanctified, as soon as, but only as long as, it is a vehicle of love.
Thus love is not understood as a mere side-effect of sex; rather, sex is a way of expressing the experience of that ultimate togetherness which is called love.
The third way of finding a meaning in life is by suffering."
Victor Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning
"To love somebody means to see them as God intended them."
Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Reduktionismus
"Hier begegnete Frankl erstmals dem Reduktionismus, einem Thema, das er ein Leben lang bekämpfen sollte. Wenn Psychotherapie die Ebene der menschlichen Begegnung aus methodischen Gründen verlassen muss, und wenn im Zentrum des Interesses die Pathologie steht und nicht mehr die Person, und wenn diese Pathologie als alles bestimmend angesehen wird, dann wollte er nicht Psychotherapeut sein. Durch diese persönliche Erfahrung von Reduktionismus und Pathologismus fiel es ihm wie „Schuppen von den Augen“ (Frankl), und er wusste, dass Psychoanalyse für ihn nicht die Methode sei.
Er wandte sich der Individualpsychologie Alfred Adlers zu und absolvierte dort seine Ausbildung und Examen. Doch auch dort sollte ihn schon bald dasselbe Schicksal ereilen. Anläßlich eines Vortrags beim 3. Internationalen Kongress der Individualpsychologie vertrat Frankl die Ansicht, dass das neurotische Arrangement und der sekundäre Krankheitsgewinn nicht die einzige Motivationskraft des neurotischen Menschen sein können, sondern dass er auch als Person zu sehen sei, die ihr Dasein zu verstehen trachtet und auch nach einem Sinn im Leben sucht."
man's search for meaning.pdf
roots in mud, Lotus
not calling myself a buddhist, but rooted in mud and opening to the light,
this will do. or could the lotus do anything better? the lotus is not living in its head. how much grace...in not seeking enlightenment, 'just ' simply opening.
i pray for this to be my way.
is there any person without roots, mud, darkness? no.
it is not making any sense to negate roots.
only the human mind can do this.
and gets hit. hit. hit. something tells us to wake up.
Tuesday, December 18, 2018
Monday, December 17, 2018
Nathalie Stutzmann , Philippe Jaroussky , Handel, duet,Son nata a lagrimar
....e il dolce mio conforto,
ah, sempre piangerò.
Se il fato ci tradì,
sereno e lieto dì
mai più sperar potrò. ....
Espera-me, sophia de mello breyner andresen
Nas praias que são o rosto branco das amadas mortas
Deixarei que o teu nome se perca repetido
Mas espera-me
Pois por mais longos que sejam os caminhos
Eu regresso.
sophia de mello breyner andresen
coral
obra poética
assírio & alvim
2015
Deixarei que o teu nome se perca repetido
Mas espera-me
Pois por mais longos que sejam os caminhos
Eu regresso.
sophia de mello breyner andresen
coral
obra poética
assírio & alvim
2015
Emma Stevenson, Growing Up
Growing, Up
The grass lies hungry, waiting
to swallow up water, worms,
seeds.
I scatter them. One by one
they are plunged into the
dampened fingers of fertile
earth,
and guzzled down into
the belly of mother nature
herself.
She wraps them up in the
reeds of her fine green
hair,
and holds them in the
safety of her bare skinned
breasts.
Seedlings germinate into
little realities, growing like
time,
with the urgency to sprout
a leaf which extends into the
expanse,
beyond the confines of
innocence.
Sunday, December 16, 2018
Mercedes Sosa , Yo vengo a ofrecer mi corazón
Pero no tenía nada más que dar.
tal vez...para ojos que puedan ver.
tal vez ... para oídos que puedan escuchar.
tal vez...tal vez ... por un alma que sabe.
Emily Dickinson, love letters, Susan Gilbert , brainpickings
"But when Susan returned from Baltimore on that long-awaited Saturday, something had shifted between them. Perhaps the ten-month absence, filled not with their customary walks in the woods but with letters of exponentially swelling intensity, had revealed to Susan that Emily’s feelings for her were not of a different hue but of a wholly different color — one that she was constitutionally unable to match. Or perhaps Emily had always misdivined the contents of Susan’s heart, inferring an illusory symmetry of feeling on the basis not of evidence but of willfully blind hope.
Few things are more wounding than the confounding moment of discovering an asymmetry of affections where mutuality had been presumed. It is hard to imagine how Dickinson took the withdrawal — here was a woman who experienced the world with a euphoria of emotion atmospheres above the ordinary person’s and who therefore likely plummeted to the opposite extreme in equal magnitude. But she seems to have feared it all along — feared that her immense feelings would never be wholly met, as is the curse of those who love with unguarded abandon. Five months earlier, she had written to Susan:"
"I would nestle close to your warm heart… Is there any room there for me, or shall I wander away all homeless and alone?"
Emily Dickinson, Susan Gilbert, letters, brainpickings
The Creative Process, James Baldwin
THE CREATIVE PROCESS
By
James Baldwin
from Creative America, Ridge Press, 1962.
" Perhaps the primary distinction of the artist is that he must actively cultivate that state which most men, necessarily, must avoid; the state of being alone. That all men are, when the chips are down, alone, is a banality—a banality because it is very frequently stated, but very rarely, on the evidence, believed. Most of us are not compelled to linger with the knowledge of our aloneness, for it is a knowledge that can paralyze all action in this world.
There are, forever, swamps to be drained, cities to be created, mines to be exploited, children to be fed. None of these things can be done alone. But the conquest of the physical world is not man’s only duty.
He is also enjoined to conquer the great wilderness of himself.
The precise role of the artist, then, is to illuminate that darkness, blaze roads through that vast forest, so that we will not, in all our doing, lose sight of its purpose, which is, after all, to make the world a more human dwelling place.
The state of being alone is not meant to bring to mind merely a rustic musing beside some silver lake. The aloneness of which I speak is much more like the aloneness of birth or death. It is like the fearless alone that one sees in the eyes of someone who is suffering, whom we cannot help. Or it is like the aloneness of love, the force and mystery that so many have extolled and so many have cursed, but which no one has ever understood or ever really been able to control.
I put the matter this way, not out of any desire to create pity for the artist—God forbid!—but to suggest how nearly, after all, is his state the state of everyone, and in an attempt to make vivid his endeavor.
The state of birth, suffering, love, and death are extreme states—extreme, universal, and inescapable. We all know this, but we would rather not know it.
The artist is present to correct the delusions to which we fall prey in our attempts to avoid this knowledge.
It is for this reason that all societies have battled with the incorrigible disturber of the peace—the artist. I doubt that future societies will get on with him any better.
The entire purpose of society is to create a bulwark against the inner and the outer chaos, in order to make life bearable and to keep the human race alive.
And it is absolutely inevitable that when a tradition has been evolved, whatever the tradition is, the people, in general, will suppose it to have existed from before the beginning of time and will be most unwilling and indeed unable to conceive of any changes in it. They do not know how they will live without those traditions that have given them their identity. Their reaction, when it is suggested that they can or that they must, is panic. And we see this panic, I think, everywhere in the world today, from the streets of New Orleans to the grisly battleground of Algeria.
And a higher level of consciousness among the people is the only hope we have, now or in the future, of minimizing human damage.
The artist is distinguished from all other responsible actors in society—the politicians, legislators, educators, and scientists—by the fact that he is his own test tube, his own laboratory, working according to very rigorous rules, however unstated these may be, and cannot allow any consideration to supersede his responsibility to reveal all that he can possibly dis all our action and achievement rest on things unseen.
A society must assume that it is stable, but the artist must know, and he must let us know, that there is nothing stable under heaven.
One cannot possibly build a school, teach a child, or drive a car without taking some things for granted. The artist cannot and must not take anything for granted, but must drive to the heart of every answer and expose the question the answer hides.
I seem to be making extremely grandiloquent claims for a breed of men and women historically despised while living and acclaimed when safely dead. But, in a way, the belated honor that all societies tender their artists proven the reality of the point I am trying to make.
I am really trying to make clear the nature of the artist’s responsibility to his society. The peculiar nature of this responsibility is that he must never cease warring with it, for its sake and for his own.
For the truth, in spite of appearances and all our hopes, is that everything is always changing and the measure of our maturity as nations and as men is how well prepared we are to meet these changes, and further, to use them for our health.
Now, anyone who has ever been compelled to think about it—anyone, for example, who has ever been in love---knows that the one face that one can never see is one’s own face.
One’s lover—or one’s brother, or one’s enemy—sees the face you wear, and this face can elicit the most extraordinary reactions.
We do the things we do and feel what we feel essentially because we must---we are responsible for our actions, but we rarely understand them.
It goes without saying, I believe, that if we understood ourselves better, we would damage ourselves less.
But the barrier between oneself and one’s knowledge of oneself is high indeed. There are so many things one would rather not know! We become social creatures because we cannot live any other way.
But in order to become social, there are a great many other things that we must not become, and we are frightened, all of us, of these forces within us that perpetually menace our precarious security. Yet the forces are there: we cannot will them away. All we can do is learn to live with them.
And we cannot learn this unless we are willing to tell the truth about ourselves, and the truth about us is always at variance with what we wish to be.
The human effort is to bring these two realities into a relationship resembling reconciliation.
The human beings whom we respect the most, after all---and sometimes fear the most—are those who are most deeply involved in this delicate and strenuous effort, for they have the unshakable authority that comes only from having looked on and endured and survived the worst.
That nation is healthiest which has the least necessity to distrust or ostracize these people—whom, as I say, honor, once they are gone, because somewhere in our hearts we know that we cannot live without them.
The dangers of being an American artist are not greater than those of being an artist anywhere else in the world, but they are very particular. These dangers are produced by our history. They rest on the fact that in order to conquer this continent, the particular aloneness of which I speak—the aloneness in which one discovers that life is tragic, and therefore unutterably beautiful—could not be permitted. And that this prohibition is typical of all emergent nations will be proved, I have no doubt, in many ways during the next fifty years. This continent now is conquered, but our habits and our fears remain. And, in the same way that to become a social human being one modifies and suppresses and, ultimately, without great courage, lies to oneself about all one’s interior, uncharted chaos, so have we, as a nation, modified or suppressed and lied about all the darker forces in our history.
We know, in the case of the person, that whoever cannot tell himself the truth about his past is trapped in it, is immobilized in the prison of his undiscovered self.
This is also true of nations. We know how a person, in such a paralysis, is unable to assess either his weaknesses or his strengths, and how frequently indeed he mistakes the one for the other.
And this, I think, we do. We are the strongest nation in the Western world, but this is not for the reasons that we think. It is because we have an opportunity that no other nation has in moving beyond the Old World concepts of race and class and caste, to create, finally, what we must have had in mind when we first began speaking of the New World. But the price of this is a long look backward when we came and an unflinching assessment of the record. For an artist, the record of that journey is most clearly revealed in the personalities of the people the journey produced.
Societies never know it, but the war of an artist with his society is a lover’s war, and he does, at his best, what lovers do, which is to reveal the beloved to himself and, with that revelation, to make freedom real. "
By
James Baldwin
from Creative America, Ridge Press, 1962.
" Perhaps the primary distinction of the artist is that he must actively cultivate that state which most men, necessarily, must avoid; the state of being alone. That all men are, when the chips are down, alone, is a banality—a banality because it is very frequently stated, but very rarely, on the evidence, believed. Most of us are not compelled to linger with the knowledge of our aloneness, for it is a knowledge that can paralyze all action in this world.
There are, forever, swamps to be drained, cities to be created, mines to be exploited, children to be fed. None of these things can be done alone. But the conquest of the physical world is not man’s only duty.
He is also enjoined to conquer the great wilderness of himself.
The precise role of the artist, then, is to illuminate that darkness, blaze roads through that vast forest, so that we will not, in all our doing, lose sight of its purpose, which is, after all, to make the world a more human dwelling place.
The state of being alone is not meant to bring to mind merely a rustic musing beside some silver lake. The aloneness of which I speak is much more like the aloneness of birth or death. It is like the fearless alone that one sees in the eyes of someone who is suffering, whom we cannot help. Or it is like the aloneness of love, the force and mystery that so many have extolled and so many have cursed, but which no one has ever understood or ever really been able to control.
I put the matter this way, not out of any desire to create pity for the artist—God forbid!—but to suggest how nearly, after all, is his state the state of everyone, and in an attempt to make vivid his endeavor.
The state of birth, suffering, love, and death are extreme states—extreme, universal, and inescapable. We all know this, but we would rather not know it.
The artist is present to correct the delusions to which we fall prey in our attempts to avoid this knowledge.
It is for this reason that all societies have battled with the incorrigible disturber of the peace—the artist. I doubt that future societies will get on with him any better.
The entire purpose of society is to create a bulwark against the inner and the outer chaos, in order to make life bearable and to keep the human race alive.
And it is absolutely inevitable that when a tradition has been evolved, whatever the tradition is, the people, in general, will suppose it to have existed from before the beginning of time and will be most unwilling and indeed unable to conceive of any changes in it. They do not know how they will live without those traditions that have given them their identity. Their reaction, when it is suggested that they can or that they must, is panic. And we see this panic, I think, everywhere in the world today, from the streets of New Orleans to the grisly battleground of Algeria.
And a higher level of consciousness among the people is the only hope we have, now or in the future, of minimizing human damage.
The artist is distinguished from all other responsible actors in society—the politicians, legislators, educators, and scientists—by the fact that he is his own test tube, his own laboratory, working according to very rigorous rules, however unstated these may be, and cannot allow any consideration to supersede his responsibility to reveal all that he can possibly dis all our action and achievement rest on things unseen.
A society must assume that it is stable, but the artist must know, and he must let us know, that there is nothing stable under heaven.
One cannot possibly build a school, teach a child, or drive a car without taking some things for granted. The artist cannot and must not take anything for granted, but must drive to the heart of every answer and expose the question the answer hides.
I seem to be making extremely grandiloquent claims for a breed of men and women historically despised while living and acclaimed when safely dead. But, in a way, the belated honor that all societies tender their artists proven the reality of the point I am trying to make.
I am really trying to make clear the nature of the artist’s responsibility to his society. The peculiar nature of this responsibility is that he must never cease warring with it, for its sake and for his own.
For the truth, in spite of appearances and all our hopes, is that everything is always changing and the measure of our maturity as nations and as men is how well prepared we are to meet these changes, and further, to use them for our health.
Now, anyone who has ever been compelled to think about it—anyone, for example, who has ever been in love---knows that the one face that one can never see is one’s own face.
One’s lover—or one’s brother, or one’s enemy—sees the face you wear, and this face can elicit the most extraordinary reactions.
We do the things we do and feel what we feel essentially because we must---we are responsible for our actions, but we rarely understand them.
It goes without saying, I believe, that if we understood ourselves better, we would damage ourselves less.
But the barrier between oneself and one’s knowledge of oneself is high indeed. There are so many things one would rather not know! We become social creatures because we cannot live any other way.
But in order to become social, there are a great many other things that we must not become, and we are frightened, all of us, of these forces within us that perpetually menace our precarious security. Yet the forces are there: we cannot will them away. All we can do is learn to live with them.
And we cannot learn this unless we are willing to tell the truth about ourselves, and the truth about us is always at variance with what we wish to be.
The human effort is to bring these two realities into a relationship resembling reconciliation.
The human beings whom we respect the most, after all---and sometimes fear the most—are those who are most deeply involved in this delicate and strenuous effort, for they have the unshakable authority that comes only from having looked on and endured and survived the worst.
That nation is healthiest which has the least necessity to distrust or ostracize these people—whom, as I say, honor, once they are gone, because somewhere in our hearts we know that we cannot live without them.
The dangers of being an American artist are not greater than those of being an artist anywhere else in the world, but they are very particular. These dangers are produced by our history. They rest on the fact that in order to conquer this continent, the particular aloneness of which I speak—the aloneness in which one discovers that life is tragic, and therefore unutterably beautiful—could not be permitted. And that this prohibition is typical of all emergent nations will be proved, I have no doubt, in many ways during the next fifty years. This continent now is conquered, but our habits and our fears remain. And, in the same way that to become a social human being one modifies and suppresses and, ultimately, without great courage, lies to oneself about all one’s interior, uncharted chaos, so have we, as a nation, modified or suppressed and lied about all the darker forces in our history.
We know, in the case of the person, that whoever cannot tell himself the truth about his past is trapped in it, is immobilized in the prison of his undiscovered self.
This is also true of nations. We know how a person, in such a paralysis, is unable to assess either his weaknesses or his strengths, and how frequently indeed he mistakes the one for the other.
And this, I think, we do. We are the strongest nation in the Western world, but this is not for the reasons that we think. It is because we have an opportunity that no other nation has in moving beyond the Old World concepts of race and class and caste, to create, finally, what we must have had in mind when we first began speaking of the New World. But the price of this is a long look backward when we came and an unflinching assessment of the record. For an artist, the record of that journey is most clearly revealed in the personalities of the people the journey produced.
Societies never know it, but the war of an artist with his society is a lover’s war, and he does, at his best, what lovers do, which is to reveal the beloved to himself and, with that revelation, to make freedom real. "
Untitled, James Baldwin
Lord,
when you send the rain
think about it, please,
a little?
Do
not get carried away
by the sound of falling water,
the marvelous light
on the falling water.
I
am beneath that water.
It falls with great force
and the light
Blinds
me to the light.
when you send the rain
think about it, please,
a little?
Do
not get carried away
by the sound of falling water,
the marvelous light
on the falling water.
I
am beneath that water.
It falls with great force
and the light
Blinds
me to the light.
Saturday, December 15, 2018
Mercedes Sosa , Se equivocó la paloma
Se equivocó la paloma. Se equivocaba. Por ir al Norte, fue al Sur. Creyó que el trigo era agua. Se equivocaba. Creyó que el mar era el cielo; que la noche la mañana. Se equivocaba. Que las estrellas eran rocío; que la calor, la nevada. Se equivocaba. Que tu falda era tu blusa; que tu corazón su casa. Se equivocaba. (Ella se durmió en la orilla. Tú, en la cumbre de una rama.)
magie, 2012
magie
wortkrank und schweißbrüstig liegt amor
neben mir, neben der fernbedienung
ich trinke pinot blanc. er ist neidisch,
ich schaue nicht hin
was muss er sich überall einmischen,
in innere angelegenheiten.
warum mich pieksen, in dunkle augen leuchten?
mich zum lachen bringen?
der kleine nacktarsch!
gleich weinen wäre besser gewesen, oder?
wenn ich mein glas leer haben werde,
knipse ich ihm das licht aus
und im schlaf will ich ein feuer machen,
seine pfeile verbrennen
ihm seine flügel versengen, und dann
werde ich doch wie eine motte verglühen.
und das sei magie?
ich bin so müde, deck mich zu
und heute hilft kein pinot:
nur meindein lächeln. punkt.
(weird, but it won a competition-
just found this clearing out my house)
wortkrank und schweißbrüstig liegt amor
neben mir, neben der fernbedienung
ich trinke pinot blanc. er ist neidisch,
ich schaue nicht hin
was muss er sich überall einmischen,
in innere angelegenheiten.
warum mich pieksen, in dunkle augen leuchten?
mich zum lachen bringen?
der kleine nacktarsch!
gleich weinen wäre besser gewesen, oder?
wenn ich mein glas leer haben werde,
knipse ich ihm das licht aus
und im schlaf will ich ein feuer machen,
seine pfeile verbrennen
ihm seine flügel versengen, und dann
werde ich doch wie eine motte verglühen.
und das sei magie?
ich bin so müde, deck mich zu
und heute hilft kein pinot:
nur meindein lächeln. punkt.
(weird, but it won a competition-
just found this clearing out my house)
Thursday, December 13, 2018
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
Monday, December 10, 2018
Sunday, December 9, 2018
proverb
Wie man in den Wald hinein ruft, so schallt es heraus.
(german proverb)
in the end you meet whom you call.
Von meinem iPhone gesendet
(german proverb)
in the end you meet whom you call.
Von meinem iPhone gesendet
Saturday, December 8, 2018
Marc Chagall
following all my writing, one old grotesque novel in German and now my fifth book
of English poems....i will only say that dreams are not forbidden
but unlike as in many European fairy stories they will not all
come true.
what do i see? peace and tenderness.
not a fight between genders, domination nor romantic kitschy untrue stuff.
Chagall was a great painter with a poetic vision.
to talk away archetypes, anima and animus, to dissect the nuclear
and elementary force of eros as a revelation of the divine
is merely another kind of crippling:
no experience and no word will change essence.
i keep for me the right to dream.
dream and imagination is so much more than scientific analysis,
it is enough to observe ones conditioning and mind:
there is no need to remain in destruction.
What we call Buddha or God or other names
reveals itself in each moment and in a multitude of ways
and shapes.
I allow me to rather suffer because of dreams than because of reason,
i do not seek salvation from my incarnation: why?
only death will bring this about and i will be ready when i am ready.
Friday, December 7, 2018
L'Arpeggiata & Lucilla Galeazzi - Diridindin :) Voglio Una Casa
Voglio una casa, la voglio bella
Piena di luce come una stella
Piena di sole e di fortuna
E sopra il tetto spunti la luna
Piena di riso, piena di pianto
Casa ti sogno, ti sogno tanto
Diridindindin, Diridindin...
Voglio una casa, per tanta gente
La voglio solida ed accogliente,
Robusta e calda, semplice e vera
Per farci musica matina e sera
E la poesia abbia il suo letto
Voglio abitare sotto a quel tetto.
Diridindindin, Diridindin...
Voglio ogni casa, che sia abitata
E più nessuno dorma per strada
Come un cane a mendicare
Perchè non ha più dove andare
Come una bestia trattato a sputi
E mai nessuno, nessuno lo aiuti.
Diridindindin, Diridindin...
Voglio una casa per i ragazzi,
che non sanno mai dove incontrarsi
e per i vecchi, case capienti
che possano vivere con i parenti
case non care, per le famiglie
e che ci nascano figli e figlie.
Diridindindin, Diridindin...
Agim Sulaj, painting,
born naked, dying naked, why not living naked:
there is nothing to take away
Thursday, December 6, 2018
Wednesday, December 5, 2018
Sunday, December 2, 2018
Friday, November 30, 2018
Ursula K. Le Guin, on suffering and pain
"Suffering is a misunderstanding.
"It is our suffering that brings us together. It is not love. Love does not obey the mind, and turns to hate when forced. The bond that binds us is beyond choice. We are brothers. We are brothers in what we share. In pain, which each of us must suffer alone, in hunger, in poverty, in hope, we know our brotherhood. We know it, because we have had to learn it. We know that there is no help for us but from one another, that no hand will save us if we do not reach out our hand. And the hand that you reach out is empty, as mine is. You have nothing. You possess nothing. You own nothing. You are free. All you have is what you are, and what you give."
.....
"If you evade suffering you also evade the chance of joy. Pleasure you may get, or pleasures, but you will not be fulfilled. You will not know what it is to come home… Fulfillment… is a function of time. The search for pleasure is circular, repetitive, atemporal… It has an end. It comes to the end and has to start over. It is not a journey and return, but a closed cycle, a locked room, a cell… The thing about working with time, instead of against it, …is that it is not wasted. Even pain counts."
brainpickings LeGuin
[…]
It exists… It’s real. I can call it a misunderstanding, but I can’t pretend that it doesn’t exist, or will ever cease to exist. Suffering is the condition on which we live. And when it comes, you know it. You know it as the truth. Of course it’s right to cure diseases, to prevent hunger and injustice, as the social organism does. But no society can change the nature of existence. We can’t prevent suffering. This pain and that pain, yes, but not Pain. A society can only relieve social suffering, unnecessary suffering. The rest remains. The root, the reality. All of us here are going to know grief; if we live fifty years, we’ll have known pain for fifty years… And yet, I wonder if it isn’t all a misunderstanding — this grasping after happiness, this fear of pain… If instead of fearing it and running from it, one could… get through it, go beyond it. There is something beyond it. It’s the self that suffers, and there’s a place where the self—ceases. I don’t know how to say it. But I believe that the reality — the truth that I recognize in suffering as I don’t in comfort and happiness — that the reality of pain is not pain. If you can get through it. If you can endure it all the way."
"It is our suffering that brings us together. It is not love. Love does not obey the mind, and turns to hate when forced. The bond that binds us is beyond choice. We are brothers. We are brothers in what we share. In pain, which each of us must suffer alone, in hunger, in poverty, in hope, we know our brotherhood. We know it, because we have had to learn it. We know that there is no help for us but from one another, that no hand will save us if we do not reach out our hand. And the hand that you reach out is empty, as mine is. You have nothing. You possess nothing. You own nothing. You are free. All you have is what you are, and what you give."
.....
"If you evade suffering you also evade the chance of joy. Pleasure you may get, or pleasures, but you will not be fulfilled. You will not know what it is to come home… Fulfillment… is a function of time. The search for pleasure is circular, repetitive, atemporal… It has an end. It comes to the end and has to start over. It is not a journey and return, but a closed cycle, a locked room, a cell… The thing about working with time, instead of against it, …is that it is not wasted. Even pain counts."
brainpickings LeGuin
Thursday, November 29, 2018
Eckhart Tolle , Über die Probleme in Liebesbeziehungen
it is..interesting, but not as good to take in as when he speaks freely....
Wednesday, November 28, 2018
Tuesday, November 27, 2018
frost , first snow: silentium
in the nights after full moon
grass and leaves and buds freeze,
first snow powders a white
into dark and then all
slowly disappears in fog,
mysteriously veiled,
an opalescent milkiness
where stars and ugliness
may be born and revealed
when the sun shines through
in the mornings to come
with the crowing of the cock.
there is mercy in fog,
in the hiding of outlines,
all sharpness forgotten,
a soft grace for my soul.
but there is danger too
lurking unseen, demons
and wild ghosts may come
through allees, down chimneys
the grimace of torture
in a child's face, the murder
of souls, the slaughter of
all these wonders, of spirit,
the boredom of adult life,
flat emotions, contained
in garments of fear, in
systems of belief and doom
the devil of indifference
roasting small minds,
suspicion and intolerance
and lack of imagination
in all these repressed hearts,
no sails of courage and hope,
acts and words all doomed,
we must set fire to masks
and it must be by the sword,
sword of light and love, because
without pain, without pain
nothing will open and grow.
nothing can be understood
when we avoid suffering,
it is there as we are
as real as must be,
as impermanent as all.
and though we kill each other,
we dance, we love, we seek,
we live: but now, but now
sleep will come, the grace
of forgetting, the rhythmic
cycles of rest, beds
of flowers and release,
for a time, for a time,
preparing our death,
learning to let go
in the breath of wind.
silentium.
grass and leaves and buds freeze,
first snow powders a white
into dark and then all
slowly disappears in fog,
mysteriously veiled,
an opalescent milkiness
where stars and ugliness
may be born and revealed
when the sun shines through
in the mornings to come
with the crowing of the cock.
there is mercy in fog,
in the hiding of outlines,
all sharpness forgotten,
a soft grace for my soul.
but there is danger too
lurking unseen, demons
and wild ghosts may come
through allees, down chimneys
the grimace of torture
in a child's face, the murder
of souls, the slaughter of
all these wonders, of spirit,
the boredom of adult life,
flat emotions, contained
in garments of fear, in
systems of belief and doom
the devil of indifference
roasting small minds,
suspicion and intolerance
and lack of imagination
in all these repressed hearts,
no sails of courage and hope,
acts and words all doomed,
we must set fire to masks
and it must be by the sword,
sword of light and love, because
without pain, without pain
nothing will open and grow.
nothing can be understood
when we avoid suffering,
it is there as we are
as real as must be,
as impermanent as all.
and though we kill each other,
we dance, we love, we seek,
we live: but now, but now
sleep will come, the grace
of forgetting, the rhythmic
cycles of rest, beds
of flowers and release,
for a time, for a time,
preparing our death,
learning to let go
in the breath of wind.
silentium.
Christ on the Cross ,Timken Museum.,Murillo
see last post, John O'Donohue talking on imagination:
John O‘Donohue:
‚the most neglected dimension of the divine
is the Eros‘......
John O'Donohue, February 2005, Part 2
'Plato said, one of the greatest privileges of a human being is to become midwife of the birth of a soul in another person.'
Monday, November 26, 2018
Alan Watts , Don't Force Anything , Wu Wei
that's all true, and when i cannot see lines to follow i can go away, isn't it?
and leave any attempt of doing what i intended to do.
when the axe hits back from a hard piece of timber: stop.
i enjoy zen without too much buddhism or christianity in its pure way, and i enjoy
the way of the dao.
Master Joshu, quote
Joshu said, "I can make one blade of grass a sixteen foot golden Buddha, and I can make a sixteen foot gold Buddha into one blade of grass.
Buddha is compulsive passions.
Compulsive passions are Buddha." A monk asked, "How can compulsive passions be escaped?" Joshu said, "What's the use of escaping?"
Buddha is compulsive passions.
Compulsive passions are Buddha." A monk asked, "How can compulsive passions be escaped?" Joshu said, "What's the use of escaping?"
Sunday, November 25, 2018
Alan Watts , Zen Koans
me..deeply not buddhist nor christian...no system of beliefs..no dogma
..spirituality cannot be institutionalized..
no church or religion has the only and one way..
i don't need to learn Sanskrit or Hindu terminology ..
what cannot be said in german or English to me needs not be said..
....
Zen is beyond all words.
it is practice.
a way to see the truth , the one which is ineffable.
Friday, November 23, 2018
full moon
when you were sky
and i was earth,
when i was wind
and you were sea
out of time
and out of names
we never could be
without each other
touching and feeling
even in each drop
of rain, in the fire,
the ashes, in all
then they called us,
sent us branded into
the arena , with clothes
and veils and questions
we fabricated numbness
and called it adult,
we penetrated all
and called it knowledge
and now after slavery
the desert has become
our refuge, we will be
one with each grain of sand
will be blown East and West,
fine dust, very slowly
we will settle
into release
the moon is full,
it talks into me:
all is cycles, all
coming, all going
and i was earth,
when i was wind
and you were sea
out of time
and out of names
we never could be
without each other
touching and feeling
even in each drop
of rain, in the fire,
the ashes, in all
then they called us,
sent us branded into
the arena , with clothes
and veils and questions
we fabricated numbness
and called it adult,
we penetrated all
and called it knowledge
and now after slavery
the desert has become
our refuge, we will be
one with each grain of sand
will be blown East and West,
fine dust, very slowly
we will settle
into release
the moon is full,
it talks into me:
all is cycles, all
coming, all going
Tuesday, November 20, 2018
Monday, November 19, 2018
Sunday, November 18, 2018
Friday, November 16, 2018
Friedrich Gulda, Claude Debussy , Reflets dans l'eau (1981)
hum. i am sure i posted long ago Gulda here, several times,
playing Debussy, maybe not this here or another version...
diary note
the pain felt in and after ending a relationship is on the loss of possibilities,
loss following an end of hope however difficult a relationship may have been:
it is cutting off of past, presence and future, an amputation.
it is like cutting a tree all the wrong way so that no blossoms will exist to be pollinated,,
nothing can bear fruit.
it cuts two.
my pain is grief, my reaction to it suffering.
but, as i read one day:
'pain is light'.
(Karl König, The Human Soul)
loss following an end of hope however difficult a relationship may have been:
it is cutting off of past, presence and future, an amputation.
it is like cutting a tree all the wrong way so that no blossoms will exist to be pollinated,,
nothing can bear fruit.
it cuts two.
my pain is grief, my reaction to it suffering.
but, as i read one day:
'pain is light'.
(Karl König, The Human Soul)
Thursday, November 15, 2018
Woody Guthrie , I Ain't Got Nobody
i ain't got nobody ain't nobody got me i'm just like a little apple hangin' on the tree don't nobody want me i can plainly see i ain't got nobody and ain't nobody got me i ain't got nobody ain't nobody got me i'm just like a chunk of wood floatin' on the sea don't nobody want me i can plainly see i ain't got nobody and ain't nobody got me
Wednesday, November 14, 2018
diary note
all what looks simple is deeply complex,
and all what is complex can be so simple within one single moment
and all what is complex can be so simple within one single moment
rites of passage
leaving in-between
to be nowhere,
porous, still numb,
i sit, a candle flickers,
i listen to my heart,
my breath touching
something in a void,
you or me, gone.
ghosts come and go,
i know them, let them be,
all is to pass,
nothing to hold.
i read to you, to me,
voice near breaking,
i stumble, i fall,
nothing holds me,
nothing is right,
nothing is wrong,
i can hear me,
i forget who.
i let all go,
all comes back
and all noise
is so loud in silence.
do i feel pain?
i don't know.
not to know,
not to define,
but it must be me
who sits at the edge,
listening, listening,
the candle flickers.
and i wonder who
i will be
when i break the
cocoon i have spun.
i cannot feel you,
i have missed you
until i left
missing you.
what i let go,
what i give away,
it comes back in
waves of pain.
rites of passage,
a candle, a voice,
a place i don't know,
i broke the flow
and rivers take me,
maybe to islands,
maybe to the sea,
here i sit and breathe,
here i grow dreams,
roots, leaves and rings,
all i have found
is rites of passage
to be nowhere,
porous, still numb,
i sit, a candle flickers,
i listen to my heart,
my breath touching
something in a void,
you or me, gone.
ghosts come and go,
i know them, let them be,
all is to pass,
nothing to hold.
i read to you, to me,
voice near breaking,
i stumble, i fall,
nothing holds me,
nothing is right,
nothing is wrong,
i can hear me,
i forget who.
i let all go,
all comes back
and all noise
is so loud in silence.
do i feel pain?
i don't know.
not to know,
not to define,
but it must be me
who sits at the edge,
listening, listening,
the candle flickers.
and i wonder who
i will be
when i break the
cocoon i have spun.
i cannot feel you,
i have missed you
until i left
missing you.
what i let go,
what i give away,
it comes back in
waves of pain.
rites of passage,
a candle, a voice,
a place i don't know,
i broke the flow
and rivers take me,
maybe to islands,
maybe to the sea,
here i sit and breathe,
here i grow dreams,
roots, leaves and rings,
all i have found
is rites of passage
Tuesday, November 13, 2018
Canción de las simples cosas, María Dolores Pradera
Uno se despide insensiblemente de pequeñas cosas,
lo mismo que un árbol que en tiempo de otoño se queda sin hojas.
Al fin la tristeza es la muerte lenta de las simples cosas,
esas cosas simples que quedan doliendo en el corazón.
Uno vuelve siempre a los viejos sitios donde amó la vida,
y entonces comprende como están de ausentes las cosas queridas.
Por eso muchacho no partas ahora soñando el regreso,
que el amor es simple, y a las cosas simples las devora el tiempo.
Demórate aquí, en la luz mayor de este mediodía,
donde encontrarás con el pan al sol la mesa tendida.
Por eso muchacho no partas ahora soñando el regreso,
que el amor es simple, y a las cosas simples las devora el tiempo.
Monday, November 12, 2018
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