“I enjoy controlled loneliness. I like wandering around the city alone. I’m not afraid of coming back to an empty flat and lying down in an empty bed. I’m afraid of having no one to miss, of having no one to love.”—Kuba Wojewodzki, Polish journalist and comedian (via wordsthat-speak)
“THE MOON: As in the soft and sweet eclipse,
When soul meets soul on lovers’ lips,
High hearts are calm, and brightest eyes are dull;
So when thy shadow falls on me,
Then am I mute and still, by thee
Covered; of thy love, Orb most beautiful,
Full, oh, too full!”—Percy Bysshe Shelley — from Prometheus Unbound (via slothnorentropy)
"I believe in the possible realization of a world in which man can be much, even if he has little; a world in which the dominant motivation of existence is not consumption; a world in which “man“ is the end, first and last; a world in which man can find the way of giving a purpose to his life as well as the strength to live free and without illusions.”
“Cities controlled by big companies are old hat in science fiction. My grandmother left a whole bookcase of old science fiction novels. The company-city subgenre always seemed to star a hero who outsmarted, overthrew, or escaped “the company.” I’ve never seen one where the hero fought like hell to get taken in and underpaid by the company. In real life, that’s the way it will be. That’s the way it always is.”—
“A young man looks the world in the face. He has not had time to polish the idea of death or of nothingness, even though he has gazed on their full horror. That is what youth must be like — this harsh confrontation with death, this physical terror of the animal who loves the sun. Whatever people say, on this score at least, youth has no illusions. It has neither the time nor the piety to build itself any. And, I don’t know why, but faced with this ravined landscape, this solemn and lugubrious cry of stone, Djemila, inhuman at nightfall, faced with this death of colors and hope, I was certain that when they reach the end of their lives, men worthy of the name must rediscover this confrontation, deny the few ideas they had, and recover the innocence and truth that gleamed in the eyes of the Ancients face to face with destiny. They regain their youth, but by embracing death.”—Albert Camus - “The Wind at Djemila” (via phiom)
we partied the southwest, smoked it from L.A. to El
worked odd jobs between delusions of escape
drunk on the admonitions of parents, parsons & professors
driving faster than the road or law allowed.
our high-pitched laughter was young, heartless & disrespected
authority. we could be heard for miles in the night
the Grand Canyon of a new manhood.
like the first sighting of Mount Wilson
we rebelled against the southwestern wind
we got so naturally ripped, we sprouted wings,
crashed parties on the moon, and howled at the earth
We lived off love, it was all we had to eat
when you split you took all the wisdom
and left me the worry
"Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.
Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.
The earth, that is sufficient,
I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them…”
“In the past he used to move me, asleep like this. And yet, I’d sense him as if he were closed off, as if he were hiding secrets beyond my suspicion. Sleep closed in on itself. His body doesn’t even quiver. If he were dead it would be just the same. Opaque, a man always remains opaque.”—Assia Djebar, Women of Algiers in Their Apartment (via gogogogol)
“Try to understand me: I love you while paying attention to external things. You are mine, and things are mine, and my love alters the things around me and the things around me alter my love.”—Jean-Paul Sartre, a letter to Simone de Beauvoir (via youngfolksociety)
“This is his second voyage. How long it will last he doesn’t know; but his heart tells him that all will come out well, and why wouldn’t he believe it? Doesn’t he have the habit of measuring the ship’s speed with his hand against his chest counting the hearbeats?”—Memory of Fire: Genesis by Eduardo Galeano
“Justice being taken away, then, what are kingdoms but great robberies? For what are robberies themselves, but little kingdoms? The band itself is made up of men; it is ruled by the authority of a prince, it is knit together by the pact of the confederacy; the booty is divided by the law agreed on. If, by the admittance of abandoned men, this evil increases to such a degree that it holds places, fixes abodes, takes possession of cities, and subdues peoples, it assumes the more plainly the name of a kingdom, because the reality is now manifestly conferred on it, not by the removal of covetousness, but by the addition of impunity. Indeed, that was an apt and true reply which was given to Alexander the Great by a pirate who had been seized. For when that king had asked the man what he meant by keeping hostile possession of the sea, he answered with bold pride, “What you mean by seizing the whole earth; but because I do it with a petty ship, I am called a robber, while you who does it with a great fleet are styled emperor.””—St. Augustine, City of God (via freebroccoli)
"[Music, such music, is a sufficient gift. Why ask for happiness; why hope not to grieve?] It is enough, it is to be blessed enough, to live from day to day and to hear such music – not too much, or the soul could not sustain it – from time to time."
“What was death? The answer to the question came to him now, but not in poor, pretentious words- instead, he felt it, possessed it somewhere within him. Death was a blessing so great, so deep that we can fathom it only at those moments, like this one now, when we are reprieved from it. It was the return home from long, unspeakably painful wanderings, the correction of a great error, the loosening of tormenting chains, the removal of barriers- it set a horrible accident to rights again.”—Buddenbrooks- Thomas Mann (via being-in-myself)
The pungent smells of a California winter, Grayness and rosiness, an almost transparent full moon. I add logs to the fire, I drink and I ponder.
“In Ilawa,” the news item said, “at age 70 Died Aleksander Rymkiewicz, poet.”
He was the youngest in our group. I patronized him slightly, Just as I patronized others for their inferior minds Though they had many virtues I couldn’t touch.
And so I am here, approaching the end Of the century and of my life. Proud of my strength Yet embarrassed by the clearness of the view.
Avant-gardes mixed with blood. The ashes of inconceivable arts. An omnium-gatherum of chaos.
I passed judgment on that. Though marked myself. This hasn’t been the age for the righteous and the decent. I know what it means to beget monsters And to recognize in them myself.
You, moon, You, Aleksander, fire of cedar logs. Waters close over us, a name lasts but an instant. Not important whether the generations hold us in memory. Great was that chase with the hounds for the unattainable meaning of the world.
And now I am ready to keep running When the sun rises beyond the borderlands of death. I already see mountain ridges in the heavenly forest Where, beyond every essence, a new essence waits.
You, music of my late years, I am called By a sound and a color which are more and more perfect.
Do not die out, fire. Enter my dreams, love. Be young forever, seasons of the earth.
Tang of the sky on green things; early evening rain.
Naked voice I listen to you: and the ploughed heart takes sweet first fruits of sounds and refuge from you; and you cheer me, mute adolescent, surprised by other life and every motion of resurrections undergone that the dark expresses and transforms.
Holiness of the heavenly time, of its light of its hanging waters;