... in the past few weeks have been overwhelming; unrest, violence, destruction, nuclear ... and somehow, the line "it's not the news, OK" in Ingrid Olava's song can be so soothing ...
I'm the words you can see when someone asks too much
I'm lights that are flashing I'm strangers passing by
I'm aeroplanes crashing I'm the guy explaining why
But hey hey it's not the news, OK?
So, hey hey, it's not the news
Cause all the headlines bow their heads and say
No there is nothing familiar but you've already been here
If God know no news today
Yet there is nothing familiar but you've already been here anyway
I'm the ink that is drying on pages torn apart
I'm the deer that is dying I'm the bullet in its heart
I am the golden street I am the stench
I am your nosebleed I am the revenge
But hey hey
It's not the news, OK?
So, hey hey, it's not the news
But all the headlines bow their heads and say
No there is nothing familiar but you've already been here
If God know no news today
Yet there is nothing familiar but you've already been here anyway
I've got so many things in my mind you won't believe
23 March 2011
22 January 2011
Snow ...
... by Orhan Pamuk is about a poet ... his wandering in Kars, searching for his silent soul, being lost together with the senseless politicians who are leading the courageous humanity to yet-another pitfall, while along the way, he encounters love, its associated pain, and the ever omnipotent presence of God ...
"After leaving Kars, Ka apparently read a number of books about snow. One of his discoveries was that once a six-pronged snowflake crystallises it takes between eight and ten minutes for it to fall through the sky, loses its original shape and vanish. When, with further enquiry, he discovered that the form of each snowflake is determined also by the temperature, the direction and strength of the wind, the altitude of the cloud, and any number of other mysterious forces, Ka decided that snowflakes have much in common with people ... ....
And by the time he was recording these thoughts in the notebooks, Ka was convinced that every life is like a snowflake: individual existences might look identical from afar, but to understand one's own eternally mysterious uniqueness one had only to plot the mysteries of one's own snowflake".
"After leaving Kars, Ka apparently read a number of books about snow. One of his discoveries was that once a six-pronged snowflake crystallises it takes between eight and ten minutes for it to fall through the sky, loses its original shape and vanish. When, with further enquiry, he discovered that the form of each snowflake is determined also by the temperature, the direction and strength of the wind, the altitude of the cloud, and any number of other mysterious forces, Ka decided that snowflakes have much in common with people ... ....
And by the time he was recording these thoughts in the notebooks, Ka was convinced that every life is like a snowflake: individual existences might look identical from afar, but to understand one's own eternally mysterious uniqueness one had only to plot the mysteries of one's own snowflake".
10 January 2011
Strawberries ...
.. by Edwin Morgan ... reminds me of summer lights, berries, daisies, blue sky ...
There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you
let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills
let the storm wash the plates
There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you
let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills
let the storm wash the plates
30 December 2010
The Immoralist ...
... by Andre Gide has some interesting presecptives while the search of one's true identity continues ...
There are thousands way of life and each of us can know only one. It's madness to envy other people's happiness. Happiness doesn't come off the peg, it has to be made to measure. I leave tomorrow. I know- I have tried to tailor this happiness to fit me ... You hang on to the comfortable happiness of home life.
People don’t want to be like themselves. They all choose a model to imitate, or, if they don’t choose a model themselves, they accept one ready-made.
There are thousands way of life and each of us can know only one. It's madness to envy other people's happiness. Happiness doesn't come off the peg, it has to be made to measure. I leave tomorrow. I know- I have tried to tailor this happiness to fit me ... You hang on to the comfortable happiness of home life.
People don’t want to be like themselves. They all choose a model to imitate, or, if they don’t choose a model themselves, they accept one ready-made.
29 December 2010
George Eliot ...
What greater thing is there for two human souls
than to feel that they are joined together to strengthen
each other in all labor, to minister to each other in all sorrow,
to share with each other in all gladness,
to be one with each other in the
silent unspoken memories?
than to feel that they are joined together to strengthen
each other in all labor, to minister to each other in all sorrow,
to share with each other in all gladness,
to be one with each other in the
silent unspoken memories?
13 December 2010
The beauty of psychiatry ...
... is wonderfully summed up by Lyall Watson ...
"If the brain were so simple we could understand it, we would be so simple we couldn't."
"If the brain were so simple we could understand it, we would be so simple we couldn't."
03 December 2010
Wislawa Szymborska ...
... "Going Home" describes my stay at my parents' during this snowy month, as my flat waits for its new coat to be perfectly tailored ...
He came home. Said nothing.
It was clear, though, that something had gone wrong.
He lay down fully dressed.
Pulled the blanket over his head.
Tucked up his knees.
He's nearly forty, but not at the moment.
He exists just as he did inside his mother's womb,
clad in seven walls of skin, in sheltered darkness.
Tomorrow he'll give a lecture
on homeostasis in metagalactic cosmonautics.
For now, though, he has curled up and gone to sleep.
... while "The Three Oddest Words" keeps you wonder about the beauty of languages ...
When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.
When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.
When I pronounce the word Nothing,
I make something no non-being can hold.
He came home. Said nothing.
It was clear, though, that something had gone wrong.
He lay down fully dressed.
Pulled the blanket over his head.
Tucked up his knees.
He's nearly forty, but not at the moment.
He exists just as he did inside his mother's womb,
clad in seven walls of skin, in sheltered darkness.
Tomorrow he'll give a lecture
on homeostasis in metagalactic cosmonautics.
For now, though, he has curled up and gone to sleep.
... while "The Three Oddest Words" keeps you wonder about the beauty of languages ...
When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.
When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.
When I pronounce the word Nothing,
I make something no non-being can hold.
01 December 2010
Beautiful winter ...
... wavers its magical wand among the silent falling snow flakes ...
"Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day." - Virginia Woolf ...
... while waiting for shopot zvyozd ("whispering of the stars", as your breaths freeze and fall onto the ground in Siberia) ...
"Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day." - Virginia Woolf ...
... while waiting for shopot zvyozd ("whispering of the stars", as your breaths freeze and fall onto the ground in Siberia) ...
22 November 2010
On the Road ...
... by Jack Kerouac ...
... "I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!' ...
... "I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!' ...
18 November 2010
The most difficult of all our tasks ...
For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
13 November 2010
Love in the Time of Cholera ...
... by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Together they had overcome the daily incomprehension, the instantaneous hatred, the reciprocal nastiness and fabulous flashes of glory in the conjugal conspiracy. It was the time when they loved each other best, without hurry or excess, when both were most conscious of and grateful for their incredible victories over adversity. Life would still present them with other mortal trials, of course, but that no longer mattered: they were on the other shore.
Together they had overcome the daily incomprehension, the instantaneous hatred, the reciprocal nastiness and fabulous flashes of glory in the conjugal conspiracy. It was the time when they loved each other best, without hurry or excess, when both were most conscious of and grateful for their incredible victories over adversity. Life would still present them with other mortal trials, of course, but that no longer mattered: they were on the other shore.
19 October 2010
First Morning of Spring ...
is the title of a beautiful print by Rob Ryan ...
... especially if you have a bottle of tears stored somewhere ...
... but with a specific end date, as you slowly coming to the conclusion that ....
Delay ...
... by Elizabeth Jennings is simple but intriguing in the wonderful combination of encounters in life ...
The radiance of the star that leans on me
Was shining years ago. The light that now
Glitters up there my eyes may never see,
And so the time lag teases me with how
Love that loves now may not reach me until
Its first desire is spent. The star's impulse
Must wait for eyes to claim it beautiful
And love arrived may find us somewhere else.
The radiance of the star that leans on me
Was shining years ago. The light that now
Glitters up there my eyes may never see,
And so the time lag teases me with how
Love that loves now may not reach me until
Its first desire is spent. The star's impulse
Must wait for eyes to claim it beautiful
And love arrived may find us somewhere else.
08 October 2010
The Word ...
... by Tony Hoagland ... just reading it makes you smile and longs for the simple wondrous things in life, especially sunshine ...
Down near the bottom
of the crossed-out list
of things you have to do today,
between "green thread"
and "broccoli" you find
that you have penciled "sunlight."
Resting on the page, the word
is as beautiful, it touches you
as if you had a friend
and sunlight were a present
he had sent you from some place distant
as this morning -- to cheer you up,
and to remind you that,
among your duties, pleasure
is a thing,
that also needs accomplishing
Do you remember?
that time and light are kinds
of love, and love
is no less practical
than a coffee grinder
or a safe spare tire?
Tomorrow you may be utterly
without a clue
but today you get a telegram,
from the heart in exile
proclaiming that the kingdom
still exists,
the king and queen alive,
still speaking to their children,
- to any one among them
who can find the time,
to sit out in the sun and listen.28 September 2010
Nietzsche asked ...
... What else is love, but understanding and rejoicing in the fact that another person lives, acts and experiences otherwise than we do?
23 September 2010
A disappearing number ...
... is a beautiful play, using mathematical concepts, rhythmic music, patterns in space to explain ideas, emotions, loss, linking the past, present and future into infinity ...
The convergent infinite series was used to illustrate love, marriage, children ...
A mathematician, like a painter or a poet, is a maker of patterns. If his patterns are more permanent than theirs, it is because they are made with ideas... The mathematician's patterns, like the painter's or the poet's, must be beautiful; the ideas, like the colours or the words, must fit together in a harmonious way... It may be very hard to define mathematical beauty, but that is just as true of beauty of any kind — we may not know quite what we mean by a beautiful poem, but that does not prevent us from recognizing one when we read it.
- G. H. Hardy, "A Mathematician's Apology"
18 August 2010
The heartache can wait ...
... by Brandi Carlile is an interesting Christmas song, especially when it is discovered in August, but the piano and cello, together with her voice, is beautiful and it reminds me of a December day in a bustling cafe in central London ....
You're talking about leaving
It's right about Christmas time
Thinking about moving on
I think I might die inside
I'm thinking about years gone by
I'm thinking about church at midnight
I'm thinking about letting go
I think that might finally be alright
But this is where we shine
Silver bells and open fire
And songs we used to sing
One more chance to be inspired
Is what I'm offering if love is not enough
Then stay with me because
The heartache can wait
It's not about hanging on
It's making my deal with God
If I could call one last truce
We've given it all we've got
Then I'm gonna catch my breath
And make it a long December
If we've got nothing left
This could be worth remembering
With a smile upon my face
You're talking about leaving
It's right about Christmas time
Thinking about moving on
I think I might die inside
I'm thinking about years gone by
I'm thinking about church at midnight
I'm thinking about letting go
I think that might finally be alright
But this is where we shine
Silver bells and open fire
And songs we used to sing
One more chance to be inspired
Is what I'm offering if love is not enough
Then stay with me because
The heartache can wait
It's not about hanging on
It's making my deal with God
If I could call one last truce
We've given it all we've got
Then I'm gonna catch my breath
And make it a long December
If we've got nothing left
This could be worth remembering
With a smile upon my face
13 August 2010
Epilogue ...
... By Kei Miller is a simple poem, full of hopes about the other side of the coin ...
Let us not repeat the easy lies about eternity
and love. We have fallen out of love
before - like children surpassing
the borders of their beds, woken
by gravity, the suddenness of tiles.
So it is we have opened our eyes
in the dark, found ourselves far
from all that was safe and soft.
So it is we have nursed red bruises.
If we are amazed at anything let it be this:
not that we have fallen from love,
but that we were always resurrected
into it, like children who climb sweetly
back into bed.
Let us not repeat the easy lies about eternity
and love. We have fallen out of love
before - like children surpassing
the borders of their beds, woken
by gravity, the suddenness of tiles.
So it is we have opened our eyes
in the dark, found ourselves far
from all that was safe and soft.
So it is we have nursed red bruises.
If we are amazed at anything let it be this:
not that we have fallen from love,
but that we were always resurrected
into it, like children who climb sweetly
back into bed.
12 August 2010
The sea ...
... is a beautiful song written by Corinne Bailey Rae after her husband's sudden death from a cocaine overdose ... The pain in her voice temporarily stopped the chaotic world from spinning more unanswerable questions ...
I never knew you were standing on the shore,
It says everything,
Explains everything.
That from then on it couldn't be just like before,
it says everything,
Changes everything.
So don't you stand there wishing your life would fade away
And don't you go round with anyone who makes you feel ashamed.
Goodbye paradise,
I hope there's something you could try
Goodbye
You're so changed that you'd give it all away
Goodbye,
Goodbye
I saw your face in the faded light,
Said everything,
Explained everything.
It haunts all your days and it comes to you at night,
You did everything,
Blame anything.
But don't you cut those ribbons to take away the pain
And don't you go round with that same old crowd,
They make you feel ashamed
Goodbye paradise,
I hope there's something you could try
Goodbye
You're so changed that you'd give it all away
Goodbye,
Goodbye paradise
The sea,
The majestic sea,
Breaks everything,
Crushes everything,
Cleans everything,
Takes everything
From me
I never knew you were standing on the shore,
It says everything,
Explains everything.
That from then on it couldn't be just like before,
it says everything,
Changes everything.
So don't you stand there wishing your life would fade away
And don't you go round with anyone who makes you feel ashamed.
Goodbye paradise,
I hope there's something you could try
Goodbye
You're so changed that you'd give it all away
Goodbye,
Goodbye
I saw your face in the faded light,
Said everything,
Explained everything.
It haunts all your days and it comes to you at night,
You did everything,
Blame anything.
But don't you cut those ribbons to take away the pain
And don't you go round with that same old crowd,
They make you feel ashamed
Goodbye paradise,
I hope there's something you could try
Goodbye
You're so changed that you'd give it all away
Goodbye,
Goodbye paradise
The sea,
The majestic sea,
Breaks everything,
Crushes everything,
Cleans everything,
Takes everything
From me
02 July 2010
The House Was Quiet And The World Was Calm ...
by Wallace Stevens sums up the beauty of summer night, reading and perfect harmany ...
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night
Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,
Wanted to lean, wanted much to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.
The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.
And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself
Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night
Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,
Wanted to lean, wanted much to be
The scholar to whom his book is true, to whom
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.
The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.
And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself
Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.
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