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[Nov. 26th, 2009|08:53 am] |
I was crouched down collecting little rose quartz stones from rock beds that were full of polished and unpolished gemstones, all mixed together but divided into sections by stained wooden boards. I was slowly working my way uphill. You saw what I was doing and went up ahead of me a few feet and I could see that you were gathering the rose quartz, too. This made me furious. You had collected a good handful and then found a great big chunk of it; at the same time, I found a great big chunk of it. I got angry and confronted you, asked you what you were doing. You hid your bag of stones behind your back clumsily, as if joking, half-wanting me to see that you were doing the same thing. I reached behind you and grabbed it, looked at you with rage- you were indignant. I took your stones and ran to the dock of the lake below, you followed. I told you that you can't collect beauty, that you were wasting your time trying to hold on to it. You tried to take the stones from me and I threw them into the water, we watched them sink. You said you'd throw mine in, then. I didn't care; I threw them in myself, a little sorry to see them go, but it was more important to prove my point: that they were only a passing curiosity for me, that I couldn't keep beauty, either, and knew it whereas you still clung to it and pined for it. You thought about jumping in after your stones. It's too late, I told you. We saw a pale female body drifting toward us from the depths. I said that it was my body, and that it was too late for you to save me, too. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 25th, 2009|08:54 pm] |
There was an Old Man of Hong Kong,
Who never did anything wrong;
He lay on his back,
With his head in a sack,
That innocuous Old Man of Hong Kong.
There was an Old Man of Cape Horn,
Who wished he had never been born;
So he sat on his chair,
Till he died of despair,
That dolorous Man of Cape Horn. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 22nd, 2009|07:06 pm] |
"Can mercy be found in the heart of her who was born of the stone? [a reference to Kali as the daughter of Himalaya]
Were she not merciless, would she kick the breast of her lord?
Men call you merciful, but there is no trace of mercy in you, Mother.
You have cut off the heads of the children of others, and these you wear as a garland around your neck.
It matters not how much I call you "Mother, Mother." You hear me, but you will not listen.
To be a child of Kali, Ramprasad asserts, is to be denied of earthly delights and pleasures. Kali is said to not give what is expected. To the devotee, it is perhaps her very refusal to do so that enables her devotees to reflect on dimensions of themselves and of reality that go beyond the material world." |
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| I cannot believe I have become bad for you |
[Nov. 19th, 2009|10:22 pm] |
And I say, "oh, you beauty--no I cannot bear you; I half-wish to tend to you, I half-wanna tear you--no no no no no no I don't mean I want to hurt you...
I just want to love you all the way"
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 14th, 2009|05:31 pm] |
I want to recommend this film (The Bow) by Ki-duk Kim, who's recently become one of my top 10 favorite directors. Each film of his that I watch gets better than the last, and I just finished sobbing through the end of this one. I gave it 5 stars on netflix (I don't give such high ratings that often). It's about a girl who'd been raised alone at sea for 10 years with the now 60 year-old fisherman who found her, and how his patient plans to marry her are complicated when a young fisherman and his father dock on his barge during one of the overnight fishing excursions that the man hosts to earn a living. What results is a decay of ritual as morality is questioned and the line between romantic and paternal love is blurred. Definitely worth your time. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 11th, 2009|10:11 am] |
There's always a pool of blood somewhere that we're walking in without knowing it. [...] It's your blood that feeds the earth. It's you who fatten the servants of lies.
--Jean-Marie Straub |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 6th, 2009|10:01 pm] |
I was a log in the waves last time you saw me;
end over end I was thrown while I endlessly groaned,
"Hold my hand--won't someone come surf me?"
and of course no one came.
You stood and watched the wash of water edge me hopelessly into the seawall,
and there I stayed, and quickly decayed, and we all swapped molecules.
Now with a wave of my hand I command you to see me:
I'm more like a mountain this time, unmoving alpine decked in fog and concealed in snow clouds-
you're the farmer below
and if you see my face once then through 12 cloudy months you will know that I'm there behind curtains;
you'll know mountain light through thickness of night
see me |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 3rd, 2009|01:12 pm] |
"This mess of psyche is what puer [soul] consciousness needs to marry so as to undertake the 'battle of the sexes.' The opponents of the spirit are first of all the hassles under its own skin: the morning moods, the symptoms, the prevarications in which it gets entangled, and the vanity. The puer needs to battle the irritability of this inner 'woman,' her passive laziness, her fancies for sweets and flatteries--all that which analysis calls autoeroticism. This fighting is a fighting with, rather than a fighting off or fighting against, the anima, a close, tense, devoted embracing in many positions of intercourse, where puer madness is met with psychic confusion and deviation, and where this madness is reflected in that distorted mirror. It is not straight and not clear. We do not even know what weapons to use or where the enemy is, since the enemy seems to be my own soul and heart and most dear passions. The puer is left only with his craziness, which, through the battle, he has resort to so often that he learns to care for it as precious, as the one thing he truly is, his uniqueness and limitation. Reflection in the mirror of the soul lets one see the madness of one's spiritual drive, and the importance of this madness."
-Salt of Soul, Sulfur of Spirit |
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| heartbeats |
[Oct. 27th, 2009|11:27 am] |
Phillihp is losing his hearing, but the vet says he's in otherwise great shape. At first I was sad, thinking I couldn't talk to him like I used to (if he can't even hear me), but now I just hold him close when I want to tell him how much I love him and he feels the vibrations and responds just as always, making sweet noises back at me. |
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| oblique strategies |
[Oct. 22nd, 2009|08:18 pm] |
Listen in total darkness, or in a very large room, very quietly
Go to an extreme, move back to a more comfortable place
Don't be afraid of things because they're easy to do
Define an area as 'safe' and use it as an anchor
Remove ambiguities and convert to specifics
Remove specifics and convert to ambiguities
Don't stress one thing more than another
Honor thy error as a hidden intention
Repetition is a form of change
Listen to the quiet voice
Disconnect from desire
Mute and continue
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 17th, 2009|11:47 am] |
Ann, Ann! Come quick as you can!
There's a fish that talks in the frying pan!
Out of the fat, as clear as glass,
He put up his mouth and moaned, "Alas!"
Oh, most mournful 'Alas, alack!'
Then turned to his sizzling, and sank him back.
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 15th, 2009|10:11 pm] |
What is this?
Again: telling myself (unconvincingly) that it's not "him" I miss, but an idea of him that never existed. Wanting new love, having an opportunity for New Love presented to me all wrapped up with my name on it and ready for the taking -- scorning New Love because I've none left to give, emptied of it now having spent it all pining over Old Love.
A year and 6 months this Sunday on the black moon. I stopped counting until a couple days ago, when the rains came and stirred everything up again. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 4th, 2009|08:08 pm] |
At the edge of a wood, Kali met a wise man.
[...] Around him the light formed a halo, and Kali felt rising from her own inner depths the presentiment of a vast definitive peace, where worlds would stop and beings would be delivered; and of a day of beatitude on which both life and death will be equally useless, an age in which the All would be absorbed into Nothingness, as if that pure vacuity that she had just conceived were quivering within her like a future child.
The Master of Great Compassion lifted a hand to bless the passing woman.
"My immaculate head has been fixed to the body of infamy," she said. "I desire and do not desire, I suffer and yet I enjoy, I loathe living and am afraid to die."
"We are all incomplete," said the wise man. "We are all pieces, fragments, shadows, matterless ghosts. We all have believed that we have wept and that we have felt pleasure for centuries."
"I was a goddess in Indra's heaven," said the harlot.
"And yet you were not freer from the chain of things, nor your diamond body safer from misfortune than your body of flesh and filth. Perhaps, unhappy woman, dishonored traveler of every road, you are about to attain that which has no shape."
"I am tired," moaned the goddess.
Then, touching with the tip of his fingers the black tresses soiled with ashes, he said: "Desire has taught you the emptiness of desire; regret has shown you the uselessness of regret. Be patient, Error of which we are all a part, Imperfect Creature thanks to whom perfection becomes aware of itself, O Lust which is not necessarily immortal..."
-"Kali Beheaded"
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a_renunciation's journal
