My November Guest
My sorrow, when she's here with me
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolates, deserted tress,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauty she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reasons why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of Bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.
Frost.
Revulsion
Though I waste watches framing words to fetter
Some unkown spirit to mine in clasp and kiss,
Out of the night there looms a sense 'twere better
To fail obtaining whom one fails to miss.
For winning love we win the risk of losing,
And losing love is as one's life were riven;
It cuts like contumely and keen ill-using
to cede what was superfluously given.
Let me then never feel the fateful thrilling
That devestates the love-worn wooer's frame,
The hot ado of fevered hopes, the chilling
That agonizes disappointed aim!
So may I live no junctive law fulfilling,
And my heart's table bear no woman's name.
Hardy.
Ode to a Nightengale
...Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Keats
Sunday, November 20, 2005
Sunday, October 16, 2005
R. Frost
A Late Walk
when i go up through the mowing field,
the headless aftermath,
smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
half closed the garden path.
and when i come to the garden ground,
the whir of sober birds
up from the tangle of whithered weeds
is sadder than any words.
a tree beside the wall stands bare,
but a leaf that lingured brown,
disturbed, i doubt not, by my thought,
comes softly rattling down.
i end not far from my going forth,
by picking the faded blue
of the last remaining aster flower
to carry again to you.
Reluctance
out through the fields and the woods
and over the walls i have wended;
i have climbed the hills of view
and looked at the world, and descended;
i have come by the highway home,
and lo, it is ended.
the leaves are all dead on the ground,
save those the oak is keeping
to ravel them one by one
and let them go scraping and creeping
out over the crusted snow,
when others are sleeping.
and the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
no longer blown hither and thither;
the last lone aster is gone;
the flowers of with hazel wither;
the heart is still aching to seek,
but the feet question "whither?"
ah, when to the heart of man
was it ever less than treason
to go with the drift of things,
to yield with grace to reason,
and bow and accept the end
of love or a season?
when i go up through the mowing field,
the headless aftermath,
smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
half closed the garden path.
and when i come to the garden ground,
the whir of sober birds
up from the tangle of whithered weeds
is sadder than any words.
a tree beside the wall stands bare,
but a leaf that lingured brown,
disturbed, i doubt not, by my thought,
comes softly rattling down.
i end not far from my going forth,
by picking the faded blue
of the last remaining aster flower
to carry again to you.
Reluctance
out through the fields and the woods
and over the walls i have wended;
i have climbed the hills of view
and looked at the world, and descended;
i have come by the highway home,
and lo, it is ended.
the leaves are all dead on the ground,
save those the oak is keeping
to ravel them one by one
and let them go scraping and creeping
out over the crusted snow,
when others are sleeping.
and the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
no longer blown hither and thither;
the last lone aster is gone;
the flowers of with hazel wither;
the heart is still aching to seek,
but the feet question "whither?"
ah, when to the heart of man
was it ever less than treason
to go with the drift of things,
to yield with grace to reason,
and bow and accept the end
of love or a season?
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
Candles
it's my birthday tomorrow,
no one here could know,
i was born this thursday
twenty-two years ago.
and i feel stuck watching history repeat me
well am i just a kid who knows he's needy
Something's stirring in the trees
a stale air does move the leaves
it holds me here, this ill-birthed breeze
float you grey-hued feather
from the tangled heather
the sober song of a bird then cried
you were born the day that summer died
no one here could know,
i was born this thursday
twenty-two years ago.
and i feel stuck watching history repeat me
well am i just a kid who knows he's needy
Something's stirring in the trees
a stale air does move the leaves
it holds me here, this ill-birthed breeze
float you grey-hued feather
from the tangled heather
the sober song of a bird then cried
you were born the day that summer died
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
early august
i walk the mowing fields
uniform golden stalks cut down
combed, pathed and thatched
revealing furrowed ground
to the edge of the field
fir limbs and pine boughs
reach from the dark wood hollows
to the new and uncut fields
where the stalks and stems stand tall
full with no machine-line shadows
their heavy whiskered heads
lean sideways as if to hear
songs of birds
thoughts of bees
and rabbits words
the sun lurking in the west
on the glowing jagged crest
crowned with golden praise
and outstretched rays
to burn the mountain breast
now the valleys fade
into dark-hued hilltop shade
turn the corner to where the hay is laid
in soft feathered rows
combed smooth in lines
and sleep in repose
to the southwest corner
where the elm and birch trees
stand round tina's old house
and ill-kept yard
freckled with dead leaves
like some memories discard
turn left
behind; the salmon colored sky
where there was sun
and polar pink-hued purple
where there is none
and this old tar road
no lines or curbs
nor signs but those
that farmers and grandparents chose
for foreigners to mind
a single cricket finds my ear
finds it well
and plays as if to praise
or soon cast a spell
on the pale sliver in the sky
to bring it low, or take him high
one last turn around hopper and peck
on this road that seldom winds
all bare save the poles
and the their two power lines
come to the parsonage
and the old church van
the yellow ped-sign
with the black stick man
walking with a floating head
and appendagless hand
the road we used to walk
sometimes i still do
uniform golden stalks cut down
combed, pathed and thatched
revealing furrowed ground
to the edge of the field
fir limbs and pine boughs
reach from the dark wood hollows
to the new and uncut fields
where the stalks and stems stand tall
full with no machine-line shadows
their heavy whiskered heads
lean sideways as if to hear
songs of birds
thoughts of bees
and rabbits words
the sun lurking in the west
on the glowing jagged crest
crowned with golden praise
and outstretched rays
to burn the mountain breast
now the valleys fade
into dark-hued hilltop shade
turn the corner to where the hay is laid
in soft feathered rows
combed smooth in lines
and sleep in repose
to the southwest corner
where the elm and birch trees
stand round tina's old house
and ill-kept yard
freckled with dead leaves
like some memories discard
turn left
behind; the salmon colored sky
where there was sun
and polar pink-hued purple
where there is none
and this old tar road
no lines or curbs
nor signs but those
that farmers and grandparents chose
for foreigners to mind
a single cricket finds my ear
finds it well
and plays as if to praise
or soon cast a spell
on the pale sliver in the sky
to bring it low, or take him high
one last turn around hopper and peck
on this road that seldom winds
all bare save the poles
and the their two power lines
come to the parsonage
and the old church van
the yellow ped-sign
with the black stick man
walking with a floating head
and appendagless hand
the road we used to walk
sometimes i still do
Sunday, September 18, 2005
alice
Upon this bench my thoughts collect and compose
Memories of one I met a year ago
The withered leaves from naked trees
Blow peacefully on bye
I in repose and dark-hued clothes under September sky
We had been through so much together
My dear sweet Alice and I
In our short time of dark damp weather
And we had some good times but
-The best I can’t make rhyme
Only in the end when like faded friends
-You left without saying goodbye
You just left me alone with my pen and
-Paper
See you later then
I did dream one night that I had wed
A lonely girl with chestnut hair
Whose coffee eyes in pensive stare
Could move my dreams outside my head
But dreams are best when left unsaid
For often they will bring despair
When born to life we soon find them
-Lying dead
Slowly as the seasons changed for reasons of the dying sun
-She had become
Unstable and undone
To whom could she run
When the memories fade
And shes holding a gun
In heroic grey shades
So she sits on the edge of her bed
Without tears left to shed
And shes picturing me
When I find her there dead
And shes finally free
And I’m holding my head
Saying how can this be
You could have killed me instead
Then she touches the note
That she sprayed with perfume
And the words that she wrote
Like the scent of the room
Linger in empty evening dress like a rose
-That could not bloom
In the dark a decision is made
And a shell hits the floor
Shes no longer afraid
And she leans on the door (what the hell was it for)
It’s been years since she prayed
But she needs them no more
All is quiet in my life like it was before
My secret dead wife whose short invented life
-Is not just what I remember
The haunting pictures on my wall
Her hair ties I wear on my wrist
The wedding rings
We made from string
The shirt I wore when we first kissed
And the vows we made but could not bring
-Ourselves to keep like we had wished
She will be missed
Memories of one I met a year ago
The withered leaves from naked trees
Blow peacefully on bye
I in repose and dark-hued clothes under September sky
We had been through so much together
My dear sweet Alice and I
In our short time of dark damp weather
And we had some good times but
-The best I can’t make rhyme
Only in the end when like faded friends
-You left without saying goodbye
You just left me alone with my pen and
-Paper
See you later then
I did dream one night that I had wed
A lonely girl with chestnut hair
Whose coffee eyes in pensive stare
Could move my dreams outside my head
But dreams are best when left unsaid
For often they will bring despair
When born to life we soon find them
-Lying dead
Slowly as the seasons changed for reasons of the dying sun
-She had become
Unstable and undone
To whom could she run
When the memories fade
And shes holding a gun
In heroic grey shades
So she sits on the edge of her bed
Without tears left to shed
And shes picturing me
When I find her there dead
And shes finally free
And I’m holding my head
Saying how can this be
You could have killed me instead
Then she touches the note
That she sprayed with perfume
And the words that she wrote
Like the scent of the room
Linger in empty evening dress like a rose
-That could not bloom
In the dark a decision is made
And a shell hits the floor
Shes no longer afraid
And she leans on the door (what the hell was it for)
It’s been years since she prayed
But she needs them no more
All is quiet in my life like it was before
My secret dead wife whose short invented life
-Is not just what I remember
The haunting pictures on my wall
Her hair ties I wear on my wrist
The wedding rings
We made from string
The shirt I wore when we first kissed
And the vows we made but could not bring
-Ourselves to keep like we had wished
She will be missed
Sunday, September 04, 2005
emails
she types out her heart with thoughtless care
or so i guessed in my best despair
don't send to me so carelessly
all your cavalier memories
that make me wish i could be there
with you and your sister
summer night coming back from the fair
jump out of the car and dance all night
dip spin twirl you close in, briefly tight
and let you go to dance alone
come back to me under the street lamp light
this feels right
i read this and think of you, you do too
think of me so carelessly
to remind me you remember
or so i guessed in my best despair
don't send to me so carelessly
all your cavalier memories
that make me wish i could be there
with you and your sister
summer night coming back from the fair
jump out of the car and dance all night
dip spin twirl you close in, briefly tight
and let you go to dance alone
come back to me under the street lamp light
this feels right
i read this and think of you, you do too
think of me so carelessly
to remind me you remember
Friday, July 29, 2005
Buddha says
Imagine a man who has been pierced by an arrow well soaked in poison, and his friends and relatives go at once to fetch a physician or a surgeon. Imagine now that this man says:
“I will not have this arrow pulled out until I know the name of the man who shot it, and the name of his family, and whether he is tall or short or of medium height; until I know whether he is black or dark or yellow; until I know his village or town. I will not have this arrow pulled out until I know about the bow that shot it, whether it was a long bow or a cross bow.
“I will not have this arrow pulled out until I know about the bow-string, and the arrow, and the feathers on the arrow, whether they are feathers of vulture, kite or peacock.
“I will not have this arrow pulled out until I know whether the tendon which binds it is of an ox, deer, or monkey.
“I will not have this arrow pulled out until I know whether it is an arrow, or the edge of a knife, or a splinter, of the tooth of a calf, or the head of a javelin.”
Well that man would die, but he would die without having found out any of these things. In the same way, anyone who says: “I will not follow the holy life of Buddha until he tells me whether the world is eternal or not; whether the life and the body are two things, or one thing; whether the one who has reached the Goal is beyond death or not; whether he is both beyond death and not beyond death; whether he is neither beyond death nor is not beyond death.”
Well that man would die, but he would die without Buddha having told these things.
Because I am one who says: whether the world is eternal or not, there is birth, and death, and suffering, and woe, and lamentation, and despair. And what I do teach is the means that lead to the destruction of these things.
Remember therefore that what I have said, I have said; and what I have not said, I have not said. And why have I not given and answer to these things? Because these questions are not profitable, they are not a principle of the holy life, they lead not peace, to supreme wisdom, to Nirvana.
Majjhima Nikaya 1. 63
“I will not have this arrow pulled out until I know the name of the man who shot it, and the name of his family, and whether he is tall or short or of medium height; until I know whether he is black or dark or yellow; until I know his village or town. I will not have this arrow pulled out until I know about the bow that shot it, whether it was a long bow or a cross bow.
“I will not have this arrow pulled out until I know about the bow-string, and the arrow, and the feathers on the arrow, whether they are feathers of vulture, kite or peacock.
“I will not have this arrow pulled out until I know whether the tendon which binds it is of an ox, deer, or monkey.
“I will not have this arrow pulled out until I know whether it is an arrow, or the edge of a knife, or a splinter, of the tooth of a calf, or the head of a javelin.”
Well that man would die, but he would die without having found out any of these things. In the same way, anyone who says: “I will not follow the holy life of Buddha until he tells me whether the world is eternal or not; whether the life and the body are two things, or one thing; whether the one who has reached the Goal is beyond death or not; whether he is both beyond death and not beyond death; whether he is neither beyond death nor is not beyond death.”
Well that man would die, but he would die without Buddha having told these things.
Because I am one who says: whether the world is eternal or not, there is birth, and death, and suffering, and woe, and lamentation, and despair. And what I do teach is the means that lead to the destruction of these things.
Remember therefore that what I have said, I have said; and what I have not said, I have not said. And why have I not given and answer to these things? Because these questions are not profitable, they are not a principle of the holy life, they lead not peace, to supreme wisdom, to Nirvana.
Majjhima Nikaya 1. 63
Thursday, July 28, 2005
drifting
the three of us on upturned raft
floating in the cove
two lazy ores and lazy draft
our sailor stories make us laugh
peacefully we rove
my feet dangling over side
sun rays paint our skin
through the water toes magnified
i kick a bit to aid the ride
and once i jumped in
slowly rowing i and ethan
back from docks we came
paddle turn and talk to nathan
of this peace and hope my faith in
next year stays the same
floating in the cove
two lazy ores and lazy draft
our sailor stories make us laugh
peacefully we rove
my feet dangling over side
sun rays paint our skin
through the water toes magnified
i kick a bit to aid the ride
and once i jumped in
slowly rowing i and ethan
back from docks we came
paddle turn and talk to nathan
of this peace and hope my faith in
next year stays the same
Sunday, July 17, 2005
alice
she read a book that changed her life
and then she put away
all her thoughts and memories
that let her sadness stay
the book was real but she was not
she'd lost her subtle charm
the blinding light of life too bright
an optimistic harm
no longer pensively content
with life, and love repressed,
now like the others, not herself
naturally depressed
this made her worse than that before
so she old her sister
how she felt and what she would do
sometimes i still miss her
and then she put away
all her thoughts and memories
that let her sadness stay
the book was real but she was not
she'd lost her subtle charm
the blinding light of life too bright
an optimistic harm
no longer pensively content
with life, and love repressed,
now like the others, not herself
naturally depressed
this made her worse than that before
so she old her sister
how she felt and what she would do
sometimes i still miss her
Saturday, July 09, 2005
werther
A little over a year ago I started writing what is probably a character sketch, similar to Goethe’s Young Werther, only in the third person (and sometimes first) of a nameless individual. The majority of words I write are for myself, but I thought I would post some of the entries about this individual because in many ways we share the same perspective.
8/26/04
At most points in his day life does not strike him as a cohesive experience, not all his actions and not the collected existence of everyone around him. Most individuals seem to be more or less exclusive with their time and not inclusive. They don’t want to know others and they don’t want others to know them. In his more lucid moments he has a strong sense that what separates people is exactly that which binds them together; the personal struggles everyone has to cope with, the celebrations and the tragedies that have marked our paths and the presence they keep in our daily effort to survive and succeed, to make progress while providing safe travel for those who come after us. Never truly understood by anyone else and barely understanding ourselves, we corner our truest impressions of life and save them for ourselves, afraid of the ridicule and judgment that will come from those who might see our lives as we see them. All our parents soon die and so many friendships fade into the distance like ships to the other side of the world, and we never understand the full impact and importance of those friends until we understand that we shall never see them again. No one is content with the world they are given, some surrender to the inevitable while others work to obtain that which they know doesn’t exist in this world, peace and happiness, but their effort is their delusion, finding new ways to cope with bitterness of all our crumbled expectations and the disappointment of dreams fulfilled and their ephemeral gratification. Looking for ways to savor the sweetness of our best moments and then hang them on our walls as memories, reminders of happier days, their memory making us sad, making us remember why we continue to exist. We may develop affection for disappointment and an affinity for pain caused by our loved ones; it is the truest type of feeling and the deepest sense of our existence, because it’s what binds us all together, our unifying theme, the unsung anthem of humanity. And while everyone lonely, seeking companionship and belonging yet never satisfied, we are all lonesome together. It is the inevitable position of our species, seldom talked about but always alluded to. We desperately want to be satisfied and enjoy all that there is to find joy in, yet we also want others to feel what we are reaching for, the intangible happiness of our childhood and its lingering presence in our dreams. So many people so far removed from our piece of the world are in so much pain and suffer to degrees we can only read about. We the wealthy cannot make this life into an enjoyable existence, much less of a chance the poor and forgotten have. There are some who are disillusioned and idealistic, having become numb to their own existence, to the existence of everyone else. They fail to see the rain because they are too busy imaging a sun beyond the clouds, too simple to know the profundity of despair in existence, too self absorbed to recognize the chords that bind men together. He thinks these thoughts and feels their gravity, he thinks of life, he thinks it’s cumbersome.
8/26/04
At most points in his day life does not strike him as a cohesive experience, not all his actions and not the collected existence of everyone around him. Most individuals seem to be more or less exclusive with their time and not inclusive. They don’t want to know others and they don’t want others to know them. In his more lucid moments he has a strong sense that what separates people is exactly that which binds them together; the personal struggles everyone has to cope with, the celebrations and the tragedies that have marked our paths and the presence they keep in our daily effort to survive and succeed, to make progress while providing safe travel for those who come after us. Never truly understood by anyone else and barely understanding ourselves, we corner our truest impressions of life and save them for ourselves, afraid of the ridicule and judgment that will come from those who might see our lives as we see them. All our parents soon die and so many friendships fade into the distance like ships to the other side of the world, and we never understand the full impact and importance of those friends until we understand that we shall never see them again. No one is content with the world they are given, some surrender to the inevitable while others work to obtain that which they know doesn’t exist in this world, peace and happiness, but their effort is their delusion, finding new ways to cope with bitterness of all our crumbled expectations and the disappointment of dreams fulfilled and their ephemeral gratification. Looking for ways to savor the sweetness of our best moments and then hang them on our walls as memories, reminders of happier days, their memory making us sad, making us remember why we continue to exist. We may develop affection for disappointment and an affinity for pain caused by our loved ones; it is the truest type of feeling and the deepest sense of our existence, because it’s what binds us all together, our unifying theme, the unsung anthem of humanity. And while everyone lonely, seeking companionship and belonging yet never satisfied, we are all lonesome together. It is the inevitable position of our species, seldom talked about but always alluded to. We desperately want to be satisfied and enjoy all that there is to find joy in, yet we also want others to feel what we are reaching for, the intangible happiness of our childhood and its lingering presence in our dreams. So many people so far removed from our piece of the world are in so much pain and suffer to degrees we can only read about. We the wealthy cannot make this life into an enjoyable existence, much less of a chance the poor and forgotten have. There are some who are disillusioned and idealistic, having become numb to their own existence, to the existence of everyone else. They fail to see the rain because they are too busy imaging a sun beyond the clouds, too simple to know the profundity of despair in existence, too self absorbed to recognize the chords that bind men together. He thinks these thoughts and feels their gravity, he thinks of life, he thinks it’s cumbersome.
introverts
“One of the most important forms of the child libido (energy of life that drives one to fulfill desires) occupation is fantasy making. The child’s world is one of imaginary and make-believe where he can create for himself satisfaction and enjoyment which the world of reality so often denies. As a child grows and the real demands of life are made upon him it becomes increasingly necessary that his libido be taken away from his fantastic world and used for the required adaptation to reality needed by his age and condition, until finally the adult freedom of the whole libido is necessary to meet the biological and cultural demands of life.
Instead of thus employing the libido in the real world, however, certain people never relinquish the seeking for satisfaction in the shadowy world of fantasy and even though they make certain attempts at adaptation they are halted and discouraged by every difficulty and obstacle in the path of life and are easily pulled back into their inner psychic world. This condition is called a state of introversion. It is concerned with the past and reminiscence which belong thereto. Situations and experiences which should have been completed and finished long ago are still dwelt upon and lived with. Images and matters which were once important but which normally have no significance for their later age are still actively influencing their present lives. The nature and character of these fantasy products are legion, and are easily recognized in the emotional attitudes and pretensions, the childish illusions and exaggerations, the prejudices and inconsistencies which people express in manifold forms. The actual situation is inadequately faced; small matters are reacted towards I an exaggerated manner; or else a frivolous attitude is maintained where real seriousness is demanded. In other words there is clearly manifest an inadequate psychic adaptation towards reality which is quite to be expected from the child, but which is very discordant in the adult.
The introvert…reacts to stimuli thinking and tends to withdraw from the object to think it over and weigh matters. For him action is difficult, uncertain and delayed. He cannot make an immediate and direct contact with the object because between his feelings and the object is his ego. An extreme example of this is in Hamlet ‘all sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,’ he broods, meditates and is often moody. If the introvert has had intellectual training and development he substitutes for his difficulty in activity and quick adjustment to the changing conditions of life, the creation of theories, philosophies and logical reasoning about things and seek to adapt himself mentally-his trouble comes in putting these ideas into practical application. This does not mean he is without feelings-one class of introvert is often called the emotional type-but his feeling is undifferentiated, and he reveals and inadequate emotional reaction and valuation. His emotions when aroused frequently show underdeveloped character so that it is not surprising to find highly cultivated introverts acting in a childish and infantile manner with deep moods of depression.”
Dr. Beatrice M. Hinkle, An Outline of Psychoanalysis.
not completly accurate but close enough
Instead of thus employing the libido in the real world, however, certain people never relinquish the seeking for satisfaction in the shadowy world of fantasy and even though they make certain attempts at adaptation they are halted and discouraged by every difficulty and obstacle in the path of life and are easily pulled back into their inner psychic world. This condition is called a state of introversion. It is concerned with the past and reminiscence which belong thereto. Situations and experiences which should have been completed and finished long ago are still dwelt upon and lived with. Images and matters which were once important but which normally have no significance for their later age are still actively influencing their present lives. The nature and character of these fantasy products are legion, and are easily recognized in the emotional attitudes and pretensions, the childish illusions and exaggerations, the prejudices and inconsistencies which people express in manifold forms. The actual situation is inadequately faced; small matters are reacted towards I an exaggerated manner; or else a frivolous attitude is maintained where real seriousness is demanded. In other words there is clearly manifest an inadequate psychic adaptation towards reality which is quite to be expected from the child, but which is very discordant in the adult.
The introvert…reacts to stimuli thinking and tends to withdraw from the object to think it over and weigh matters. For him action is difficult, uncertain and delayed. He cannot make an immediate and direct contact with the object because between his feelings and the object is his ego. An extreme example of this is in Hamlet ‘all sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,’ he broods, meditates and is often moody. If the introvert has had intellectual training and development he substitutes for his difficulty in activity and quick adjustment to the changing conditions of life, the creation of theories, philosophies and logical reasoning about things and seek to adapt himself mentally-his trouble comes in putting these ideas into practical application. This does not mean he is without feelings-one class of introvert is often called the emotional type-but his feeling is undifferentiated, and he reveals and inadequate emotional reaction and valuation. His emotions when aroused frequently show underdeveloped character so that it is not surprising to find highly cultivated introverts acting in a childish and infantile manner with deep moods of depression.”
Dr. Beatrice M. Hinkle, An Outline of Psychoanalysis.
not completly accurate but close enough
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Nietzsche
"man is finished when he becomes altruistic- instead of saying simply 'i am no longer worth anything,' the moral lie in the mouth of the decadant says: 'nothing is worth anything' [next to God]- 'life is not worth anything' Such a judgement represents, after all, a grave danger, it is contagious- on the uterly morbid soil of society it soon grows up luxeriously, now in the form of religion, Christianity..."
Are christians the real nihilists? A group who humbles themself infinitly smaller than their God, rejecting all natural instincts of selfish ambition and self-protection, and they say 'to die is gain.' Perhaps our syphilitic atheist friend is onto something here.
Are christians the real nihilists? A group who humbles themself infinitly smaller than their God, rejecting all natural instincts of selfish ambition and self-protection, and they say 'to die is gain.' Perhaps our syphilitic atheist friend is onto something here.
Monday, June 13, 2005
the quiet ones
standing in a crowd, people passing one another in all different directions. everything is moving voices and shuffled footsteps, laughter and city noises all funnel into one indistinguishable cloud of vibration that passes through you. face after face passes by you and you try to discern the lives of each as they brush by, lives you'll never see again, and you wonder why they even exist. how can so many individuals exist and never truly be aware of anyone other than themselves? how did we all come to this unspoken agreement that we shouldn't speak to each other? that everyone else doesn't really matter? a friendly smile and turn of the head as we cease to exist to each other.
standing still, unnoticed, observing but not participating. after a while you get used to it, the need to be seen, to be worth something is replaced by the desire to understand. musing about life and the lives of others, reading mannerisms and words, hidden smiles and hidden tears. you are no longer part of the crowd, separate from the experiment, an observer of some laboratory test, life in a vacuum. outside of life and soon outside of lives, separate yourself from those around you and soon your feelings are all your own. Inconsequential details, that is all you are.
others notice your position but it doesn't affect them, a fly on the wall is not to be bothered with, usually not cared about, and soon nobody remembers it still exists. it becomes a hypothetical life, to others you are no more than a passing thought, a stranger in the crowd. these, they are the ones who are able to divine more about those around them then most, they posses the ability to read people seeing deeper and further than most. to some it is an admirable quality, but never much more than a passing consideration.
that's how it feels, to sit in silence and exist only to myself, i have made a stranger out of everyone around me, they pass me in a crowd and do not recognize me. you forget how to feel, or least people forget you have feelings, that you too have emotions. cold and stoic, like a statue in a city square, when in reality there is so much on the inside, too many feelings and thoughts held onto for so long, fighting for air, that to start to express them now would appear too unnatural, too much like everyone else, their true depth, my feelings, would not be done justice.
the noises have long since died, all you can hear now is the piercing silence of being alone. the mind wanders without restraint and those incongruent pieces of life are magnified and analyzed, put on trial, the jury is hung, finding no meaning and all your mind does is wander still. question everything you know, find all your faults, all your failures and the ways you have wronged those you loved, ghosts from the past, they haunt you day and night because no one is there to scare them away, no one is there to comfort you. how hard it is to realize you are not the person you once were, not the same, things always change.
sanity is something to cling to, not your natural disposition. loneliness and independence are too confused and mingled to be separated, your fate is sealed and the once incredible is becoming the inevitable. the most subtle kind of panic reveals itself and you send out warning signals to anyone who might notice, like flares in the night, you ask for someone to save you form and revive your hardening heart. but no one seems to see you drowning, they smile and pass you by, like a stranger in the crowd. shoulders brush and a heartless smile, keep on walking. how have i arrived here?
scared, you want to scream but the words do not form, the voice does not rise up, you have realized your identity apart from the masses, and in so doing you are completely separated from them. is this what you wanted? to know yourself, it seems, is to know you are alone, and to know that no one else has any idea. self actualization or self condemnation?
standing still, unnoticed, observing but not participating. after a while you get used to it, the need to be seen, to be worth something is replaced by the desire to understand. musing about life and the lives of others, reading mannerisms and words, hidden smiles and hidden tears. you are no longer part of the crowd, separate from the experiment, an observer of some laboratory test, life in a vacuum. outside of life and soon outside of lives, separate yourself from those around you and soon your feelings are all your own. Inconsequential details, that is all you are.
others notice your position but it doesn't affect them, a fly on the wall is not to be bothered with, usually not cared about, and soon nobody remembers it still exists. it becomes a hypothetical life, to others you are no more than a passing thought, a stranger in the crowd. these, they are the ones who are able to divine more about those around them then most, they posses the ability to read people seeing deeper and further than most. to some it is an admirable quality, but never much more than a passing consideration.
that's how it feels, to sit in silence and exist only to myself, i have made a stranger out of everyone around me, they pass me in a crowd and do not recognize me. you forget how to feel, or least people forget you have feelings, that you too have emotions. cold and stoic, like a statue in a city square, when in reality there is so much on the inside, too many feelings and thoughts held onto for so long, fighting for air, that to start to express them now would appear too unnatural, too much like everyone else, their true depth, my feelings, would not be done justice.
the noises have long since died, all you can hear now is the piercing silence of being alone. the mind wanders without restraint and those incongruent pieces of life are magnified and analyzed, put on trial, the jury is hung, finding no meaning and all your mind does is wander still. question everything you know, find all your faults, all your failures and the ways you have wronged those you loved, ghosts from the past, they haunt you day and night because no one is there to scare them away, no one is there to comfort you. how hard it is to realize you are not the person you once were, not the same, things always change.
sanity is something to cling to, not your natural disposition. loneliness and independence are too confused and mingled to be separated, your fate is sealed and the once incredible is becoming the inevitable. the most subtle kind of panic reveals itself and you send out warning signals to anyone who might notice, like flares in the night, you ask for someone to save you form and revive your hardening heart. but no one seems to see you drowning, they smile and pass you by, like a stranger in the crowd. shoulders brush and a heartless smile, keep on walking. how have i arrived here?
scared, you want to scream but the words do not form, the voice does not rise up, you have realized your identity apart from the masses, and in so doing you are completely separated from them. is this what you wanted? to know yourself, it seems, is to know you are alone, and to know that no one else has any idea. self actualization or self condemnation?
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
introductions
i believe in a god, but freud says it's not because there is a god, or because i have any valid reason to hold such a belief, but it is actually my personal projection of my father, due to the fact that i secretly want to kill my father and be my father, this going back to darwin's theory that a group of brothers killed their horde leader, father, in order to end his dominance over their lives and that they might procure for themselves a piece of that action. of course they felt guilty and, through a long process of mourning and ritualizing, they deified their dad, which eventually evolved into the religions of today. so we, freud and myself, differ as to the origins and underlying causes for my belief, but i did not get on here to talk about god, but i am, because the actual reason as to why i am here escapes me at present.
from the limited amount of other blogs i have read, the theme seems to be the individuality of each person and how they express themselves through words; their thoughts, this is the medium which allows them to reflect on their own individuality and share parts of their person that are not naturally or easily manifested in everyday life. is that what i am doing? maybe. hardly do i ever know exactly what it is i am doing, i only know afterwards that it has been done, and so, here is, or has the potential to become, my outlet. i like my secrets and i covet my own thoughts and experiences, my feelings are my own, they seem less than genuine if they are shared and analyzed or understood by others, but explosions are the alternative. so what is next, i hardly ever know.
from the limited amount of other blogs i have read, the theme seems to be the individuality of each person and how they express themselves through words; their thoughts, this is the medium which allows them to reflect on their own individuality and share parts of their person that are not naturally or easily manifested in everyday life. is that what i am doing? maybe. hardly do i ever know exactly what it is i am doing, i only know afterwards that it has been done, and so, here is, or has the potential to become, my outlet. i like my secrets and i covet my own thoughts and experiences, my feelings are my own, they seem less than genuine if they are shared and analyzed or understood by others, but explosions are the alternative. so what is next, i hardly ever know.
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