...WANDERER ME...

spring clean II: let it go - thesmashed word broken open vow orthe oath cracked lengthwise - let it...

Sat, 09 Mar 2013 04:20:55 -0500

spring clean II:

let it go - the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise - let it go it
was sworn to
go

let them go - the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers - you must let them go they
were born
to go

let all go - the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things - let all go
dear

so comes love

e. e. cummings

"‎”Let life happen to you. Believe me: life is in the right, always.” -Rainer Maria Rilke"

Fri, 22 Feb 2013 02:56:35 -0500

“‎”Let life happen to you. Believe me: life is in the right, always.”
-Rainer Maria Rilke”

Video

Wed, 06 Feb 2013 21:44:59 -0500

"Importa poco no saber orientarse en una ciudad. Perderse, en cambio, en una ciudad como quien se..."

Tue, 29 Jan 2013 11:01:55 -0500

“Importa poco no saber orientarse en una ciudad. Perderse, en cambio, en una ciudad como quien se pierde en el bosque, requiere aprendizaje. Los rótulos de las calles deben entonces hablar al que va errando como el crujir de las ramas secas, y las callejuelas de los barrios céntri- cos reflejarle las horas del día tan claramente como las hondonadas del monte. Este arte lo aprendí tarde, cumpliéndose así el sueño del que los laberintos sobre el papel secante de mis cuadernos fueron los primeros rastros.”

- WALTER BENJAMIN «Tiergarten», en Infancia en Berlín hacia 19001

"It’s all safe because as Einstein & the Buddhists secretly tipped everybody off long ago:..."

Tue, 29 Jan 2013 00:26:46 -0500

“It’s all safe because as Einstein & the Buddhists secretly tipped everybody off long ago: the whole show is a harmless wave-illusion.”

- Ginsberg

"I am always tying up/and then deciding to depart."

Sat, 26 Jan 2013 01:30:51 -0500

“I am always tying up/and then deciding to depart.”

- O’Hara

"Etgar Keret Writer’s block” is a term invented by very spoiled and whiny writers to refer to periods..."

Mon, 21 Jan 2013 10:17:00 -0500

“

Etgar Keret
Writer’s block” is a term invented by very spoiled and whiny writers to refer to periods in which they do not feel inspired. The assumption hidden behind this term is that creativity is an everlasting, full-powered fountain, so that if at any given moment we wish to write but nothing exceptional comes out at the other end of our keyboard or pen, there must be some malfunction obstructing the natural cycle of everlasting creativity.

I’d like to offer an alternative perspective. Creativity, very much like love, is a gift. And you don’t get to get gifts all the time. If you go on a date and you don’t like the guy or girl you are meeting, you are not experiencing “lover’s block”—you simply don’t love at that moment, and if you’re patient enough you’ll experience love in the future (probably in the place and the time you’d least expect it). If you don’t write well, keep writing bad stuff (don’t worry, bad writing is completely ecological—it doesn’t damage the ozone layer or give you cancer). If it gets too frustrating, stop doing it—move on to badminton, collect airplane models, or do all those other things that people who don’t write do. But mostly, wait patiently. (Patiently as opposed to impatiently, or angrily, or bitterly—because those kinds of waiting don’t breed future good writing. Patience does.)

Writing isn’t a habit. It’s a unique form of expression. And nobody owes you that special experience on a daily or a weekly basis. But if you make an effort, when it’s gone, to keep living your life and experiencing new things, it will eventually return. And when it does, enjoy it as much as you can, before it goes away again.

”

Video

Sat, 19 Jan 2013 15:54:40 -0500

...anaís...

Thu, 20 Dec 2012 00:47:15 -0500

I see myself and my life each day differently. What can I say? The facts lie. I have been Don Quixote, always creating a world of my own. I am all the women in the novels, yet still another not in the novels. It took me more than sixty diary volumes until now to tell about my life. Like Oscar Wilde I put only my art into my work and my genius into my life. My life is not possible to tell. I change every day, change my patterns, my concepts, my interpretations. I am a series of moods and sensations. I play a thousand roles. I weep when I find others play them for me. My real self is unknown. My work is merely an essence of this vast and deep adventure. I create a myth and a legend, a lie, a fairy tale, a magical world, and one that collapses every day and makes me feel like going the way of Virginia Woolf. I have tried to be not neurotic, not romantic, not destructive, but may be all of these in disguises.

It is impossible to make my portrait because of my mobility. I am not photogenic because of my mobility. Peace, serenity, and integration are unknown to me. My familiar climate is anxiety. I write as I breathe, naturally, flowingly, spontaneously, out of an overflow, not as a substitute for life. I am more interested in human beings than in writing, more interested in lovemaking than in writing, more interested in living than in writing. More interested in becoming a work of art than in creating one. I am more interesting than what I write. I am gifted in relationship above all things. I have no confidence in myself and great confidence in others. I need love more than food. I stumble and make errors, and often want to die. When I look most transparent is probably when I have just come out of the fire. I walk into the fire always, and come out more alive. All of which is not for Harper’s Bazaar.

I think life tragic, not comic, because I have no detachment. I have been guilty of idealization, guilty of everything except detachment. I am guilty of fabricating a world in which I can live and invite others to live in, but outside of that I cannot breathe. I am guilty of too serious, too grave living, but never of shallow living. I have lived in the depths. My first tragedy sent me to the bottom of the sea; I live in a submarine, and hardly ever come to the surface. I love costumes, the foam of aesthetics, noblesse oblige, and poetic writers. At fifteen I wanted to be Joan of Arc, and later, Don Quixote. I never awakened from my familiarity with mirages, and I will end probably in an opium den. None of that is suitable for Harper’s Bazaar.

I am apparently gentle, unstable, and full of pretenses. I will die a poet killed by the nonpoets, will renounce no dream, resign myself to no ugliness, accept nothing of the world but the one I made myself. I wrote, lived, loved like Don Quixote, and on the day of my death I will say: ‘Excuse me, it was all a dream,’ and by that time I may have found one who will say: ‘Not at all, it was true, absolutely true.’

Photo

Wed, 19 Dec 2012 02:18:13 -0500

“Quiet friend who has come so far,feel how your breathing makes more space around you.Let this...

Wed, 24 Oct 2012 09:54:22 -0400

“Quiet friend who has come so far,
feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,

what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.

In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.

And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus

...memories not enough...

Wed, 24 Oct 2012 01:40:55 -0400

“For the sake of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gestures which small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to partings you had long seen coming; to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained, to parents whom you had hurt when they brought in a joy and you didn’t pick it up (it was a joy meant for somebody else); to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and difficult transformations, to days in quiet, restrained rooms and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along high overhead and went flying with all the stars — and it is still not enough to be able to think of all that. You must have memories of many nights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of women screaming in labor, and of light, pale, sleeping girls who have just given birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead, in the room with the open window and the scattered noises. And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our own blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves –only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.”

–Rainer Maria Rilke–

…hopeless wanderer…

Mon, 09 Jul 2012 19:15:00 -0400

…hopeless wanderer…

…energy flows…

Wed, 27 Jun 2012 02:58:36 -0400

…energy flows…

"That was the year, my twenty-eighth, when I was discovering that not all of the promises would be..."

Sat, 23 Jun 2012 13:33:20 -0400

““That was the year, my twenty-eighth, when I was discovering that not all of the promises would be kept, that some things are in fact irrevocable and that it had counted after all, every evasion and every procrastination, every mistake, every word, all of it.””

- Joan Didion

"You give into distraction as if it is a murderer. You lay there, waiting to be killed. Today: fight..."

Sun, 29 Apr 2012 19:48:54 -0400

““You give into distraction as if it is a murderer. You lay there, waiting to be killed.
Today: fight for your life.” M.J”

Video

Sun, 29 Apr 2012 15:22:19 -0400

Photo

Mon, 26 Mar 2012 18:10:14 -0400

"…don’t keep me waiting here…lead me to your door…"

Fri, 16 Mar 2012 17:28:34 -0400

“…don’t keep me waiting here…lead me to your door…”

“We now know enough to know that we will never know everything. This is why we need art: it...

Fri, 09 Mar 2012 14:49:55 -0500

“We now know enough to know that we will never know everything. This is why we need art: it teaches us how to live with mystery. Only the artist can explore the ineffable without offering us an answer, for sometimes there is no answer. John Keats called this romantic impulse ‘negative capability.’ He said that certain poets, like Shakespeare, had ‘the ability to remain in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.’ Keats realized that just because something can’t be solved, or reduced into the laws of physics, doesn’t mean it isn’t real. When we venture beyond the edge of our knowledge, all we have is art.

But before we can get a fourth culture, our two existing cultures must modify their habits. First of all, the humanities must sincerely engage with the sciences. Henry James defined the writer as someone on whom nothing is lost; artists must heed his call and not ignore science’s inspiring descriptions of reality. Every humanist should read Nature.

At the same time, the sciences must recognize that their truths are not the only truths. No knowledge has a monopoly on knowledge. That simple idea will be the starting premise of any fourth culture. As Karl Popper, an eminent defender of science, wrote, ‘It is imperative that we give up the idea of ultimate sources of knowledge, and admit that all knowledge is human; that it is mixed with our errors, our prejudices, our dreams, and our hopes; that all we can do is to grope for truth even though it is beyond our reach. There is no authority beyond the reach of criticism.”