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Some thoughts on astrology, diversity, subjectivity, and why we judge
My 1st video promoting the raw food lifestyle
["Pimlico" is a shabby part of London, but is used here as a metaphor for the world, to illustrate Chesterton's idea that love makes things great; that greatness does not make them loveable.]
It is not enough for a man to disapprove of Pimlico: in that case he will merely cut his throat or move to Chelsea. Nor, certainly, is it enough for a man to approve of Pimlico: for then it will remain Pimlico, which would be awful. The only way out of it seems to be for somebody to love Pimlico: to love it with a transcendental tie and without any earthly reason. If there arose a man who loved Pimlico, then Pimlico would rise into ivory towers and golden pinnacles; Pimlico would attire herself as a woman does when she is loved. For decoration is not given to hide horrible things: but to decorate things already adorable. A mother does not give her child a blue bow because he is so ugly without it. A lover does not give a girl a necklace to hide her neck. If men loved Pimlico as mothers love children, arbitrarily, because it is theirs, Pimlico in a year or two might be fairer than Florence.
Some readers will say that this is a mere fantasy. I answer that this is the actual history of mankind. This, as a fact, is how cities did grow great. Go back to the darkest roots of civilization and you will find them knotted round some sacred stone or encircling some sacred well. People first paid honor to a spot and afterwards gained glory for it. Men did not love Rome because she was great. She was great because they had loved her.
...Morality did not begin by one man saying to another, "I will not hit you if you do not hit me"; there is no trace of such a transaction. There is a trace of both men having said, "We must not hit each other in the holy place." They gained their morality by guarding their religion. They did not cultivate courage. They fought for the shrine and found they had become courageous. They did not cultivate cleanliness. They purified themselves for the altar, and found that they were clean.... And only when they made a holy day for God did they find they had made a holiday for men.
~ G.K. Chesterton
(from: "Orthodoxy", Chapter V)
"There is in every madman a misunderstood genius, whose idea, shining in his head, frightened people, and for whom delirium was the only solution to the strangulation that life had prepared for him." --Antonin Artaud
Terence McKenna "Schizophrenic or Shamanic?"
What is good cannot be true. Only what is great can be true. Truth belongs to the heights. She is free and without purpose, because she is great, and not good; purposefulness is good, but pure being is great. A good teacher teaches with purpose, so that others may learn. But a great teacher teaches for no reason at all, and only because she is a true teacher. What is true has no purpose; this is what it means to truly "be".
You tried to walk the razor's edge
Instead you walked the plank
Split yourself in two
And to the depths you sank
Found yourself in pieces there
At the bottom of the sea
Tried to stitch them back to one
Oh so patiently
Walked around like Frankenstein
Who on earth could understand
You were made imperfectly
By some perfect hand
Found again inside a church
Patrons clamoured to get in
Opened up the doors so wide
"Welcome Home!" you said to sin
Soon the place was overfull
Walls broke down and all was good
Now the sun shines where it will
And wind blows where the walls once stood
Running with the wind, who knows
Where it comes from, where it goes
Circling in the open spaces
Out of doors and out of places
Free but somehow still encumbered
Shedding everything but graces
Your forgiveness mocks my guilt.
Your faith insults my struggle.
Your love is an impertinence.
Your cross just smells like trouble.
Your eyes are full of blood.
Your skin is weeping pox.
Your cheek is very red.
Your coat and cloak are lost.
And, all the while, you mount a slope,
Ascending to your grave,
With whips and scorns, and spears and stones,
And thorns to bless and save.
Why'd you have to be so good?
Why'd you have to try?
Now no man can love himself
Who doesn't live to die.
By some mystic paradox,
the patient soul ascends,
while on the earth we walk a path
that has no earthly end.
Forgive me if I leave at once;
If yet I cannot make amends.
My legs cannot withstand the wait;
I've gospels to attend!
Strange music stirs within my breast,
I feel like a born-again Anarchist!
Lost Love, by absence ever known,
Sings choruses of coming home,
And plants a crown upon my crest;
A seed within my sunken breast.
So, shall we part as favored friends?
Our debts are guiltier than diets!
I know someday we'll meet again,
When promises are quiet.
Found a place to rest inside your home.
My limbs are dispassionate with all the room.
Caught up in your patience, but I haven't the time.
Guess I learned my lesson; the decision was mine.
But its hard to make confessions your body cant hide,
When you're sifting through the cupboards and barely alive.
Where is my expression?
My face is untied.
Words are cold impressions
Your skin cant survive.
Honored at your expense.
I'm trying to hide it.
Wish I had ten good men to change my diapers.
love aches in long absence
and will not be put away
it stares hungrily out of my eyes
my pen cannot write fast enough
words enough to woo you
the pen is not satisfied with writing
nor the page with being read
all things cry out for you
over and beyond themselves
and their poor uses
and lips would not be satisfied with kissing
and limbs can only intertwine so much
love waits with me
a friend of a friend
someone I barely seem to know
we wait for you
you are supposed to introduce us
in your way
we are awkward without you
i offer declined substitutes to my guest
only your presence will do
we are a funny pair without you
people look at us strangely
they seem to know something is wrong
where are you?
We are the inheritors, most recently, of the monotheistic tradition. But in the deeper roots of our past, and in the vast majority of our habits, we reveal ourselves to be polytheists. We do not commit ourselves to a narrow lifestyle or worldview. On the contrary, we seek diversity and variety in our interests and activities. We are not ascetics, intent upon a single, shining goal. We are distracted by a thousand points of light, scattered through open space. We've seen beyond our own sun.
We want to explore and imagine other worlds. We want to see through the eyes of every head. In our dreams, we do not fix our hearts on a single object or experience, but on countless shapes and shades. We want to know everything. We want to see what can be seen, and affirm whatever can be affirmed. We want to be taught and tested by every god. We love the mountains for the mountains, and the sea for the sea, without thinking to ourselves that it is All One God we love.
Can we fix our hearts on a single object, person, or ideal? Perhaps. But can we fix them on the Whole? How do we fix them? Where do we drive the nails? Who wants to hang on the cross?
We are more eager to meet our guides, than to bless our God. We want to linger in the valleys and villages, and speak deep with the people we meet. We want to follow the same path, hand-in-hand, with a stranger or a friend. But every while there's a split. And on the sharpest peaks, two can never walk abreast.
Have you heard of the man who climbed until he reached the summit? He balanced there for but an instant, before the plummet. I'm told it's the only way down. I guess nobody has the patience to descend.
Poor pilgrim... All day long, the sun is your companion, but every night, she takes her leave. The shadows grow colder, and shadows are your only cover. Some men have answers, like children have teddybears, to cling to in the dark. Cuddly mock-ups of the real thing. But you've just got an empty cup. You cling to it like the last grain of rice, drying like a drop.
without a bed,
or something for your head
how do you sleep at night?
"with the light on,
with the light on"
and when you go out,
even the shadows are bright
how do you find your way home?
"with the light on,
with the light on"
and if you've got no place
to call your own
how do you know you're there?
"with the light on,
with the light on"
All the mysteries are opened to the open heart. The plant spirits, the birds, mountains and rivers, all give themselves and secrets willingly to the one who loves them. Seek love, and all these things shall be revealed. Seek love, and even the gods will seek your friendship.
Who does not love the sun cannot see the sun, nor feel true warmth upon her skin. Without love for the stones, they are speechless. With no affection for the lakes, the trees, and winding paths, one cannot enter out of doors. The blue sky is gray, and the grass is a sorry shade of green. Soil is dirt, and ash is dust. Whole canyons are the size of cups. Nothing moves or breathes, and the simmering wind is forgotten and lost - without love.
Where there is no joy in meeting, a friend is only a stranger, and a stranger is a shadow on the wall. When no thrill discovers you sitting in the sunlight, there is no springtime. Flowers go through the motions of blooming, half-sleeping. Stars blink unimpressively. Insects, minding their business, are pests. The past is like a chain around your neck, and the future is a pit you fall into. Ancestors are ghosts, descendants are dependents, animals are meat, and angels elude imagination - without love.
Yet, how the world unmasks itself, chortles through the leaves that make a forest, and comes smiling to greet you through every space or object; when love unlocks your heart. How the wind plays with your limbs, and carries your shirtsleeves into the dance. How green is the green, how perfect is the water at your ankles. Every miracle is manifest. Every child is a cherub. In the bustle of a city street, a symphony composed by chaos. The subway spotless. Yourself wordless, overcome with listening, or gushing like the poet Ganges, cacophony of subtleties, carried up into the crashing waves.
Love makes endless. Makes novelties of ancient clay. Every decomposing thing has more to say. Every skull and jawbone set askance, says, "More!", and grins just like the dawning day. Every grub pokes through the soil to the world's dismay. And the clouds are brighter than the purest ray of sun; when the word of "Love" is said... and done.
countless lifetimes i spent as a pauper
but i was secretly a rich man
saving all my karma
for a girl like you
Kittens, fer Chrissake!
Oh you limpid jealous kittens
Idle rascals with delicate wrists
Lost inside of crumpled sweaters
Head-pokers in hollows
Necks, and sleeves
'What do you see?'
Scurriers with purpose
Mewing fellows and frail combatants
Cowering monsters, vicious when teased
Darting ghosts, the color of smoke
Brave little gymnasts
Silly scraping buggers
Tugging pouncers or pouncing tuggers
Trippy wonders, religiously kittens
Not yet arrogant cats
shadows casting people
how it feels to be soulless
dragging spawn along
taking snapshots of couples
necking in storefront windows
are fireworks exploding
like colorful sparks
over the boardwalks
and baby strollers
most people can't see it
The soul is a fallen woman,
and the Lord, her unlikely suitor.
She eyes Him always with suspicion,
unable to believe that her longing
is answered by His love.
She is coy, elusive, silly.
He is sincere and devoted in pursuit.
By and by, He will win her heart,
and, with it, the dowry of the world.
ravenous is the sunset
with nowhere else to go
wrought in ages
grapple with you
through the eyes of
run with the sea
to the sea
behind whose eyes
the bells ring murder
and underneath the skin
who so love the noontide
that night comes
like a horror
and a heartbreak
to cast shadows
upon the throne of God
make you wonder
lick your lips
just like thunder
80's and gonna
we workin' through ya
pistons and culture
what have you
are you listening,
or have you
glad to see ya
we workin' through ya
glad to knew ya
god loves you
you ask questions
makes god wonder
just like thunder
good to see ya
you want answers
from a child??
what kind of answers
do you want?
do you want
to play?ed this video using my Logitech webcam software.
A thousand unlocked doors between us,
but I still search for a key.
Like a vagrant,
I fall asleep on the steps of my prayer,
and never ascend to the door of your love.
Like a thief,
I have made the night my day,
become a stranger to the seasons,
and an enemy of the good.
I was a fledgling crossing the ocean.
You were a branch floating by.
I was a burning book.
You were the breeze that fanned the flames,
and carried just one page to safety.
I was an outlaw on the run.
You drove me to the edge of town,
stuffed a few bucks in my pocket,
and told me to scram.
You held me and your eyes beamed forgiveness.
Then you showed me to my seat at the kiddie table.
I nursed myself on roots and bitters,
in a ditch, on the side of the road.
You splashed me on your way
to your daughter's recital.
We never spoke of it.
I was a chalk outline of a corpse in the street.
You were a child's hop-scotch board drawn beside me.
Rain mingled our disparate bodies and we were silt.
that fire come down
bigger than a glacier
hotter than magma
just to wink at you
from behind matter
like a dying ember
but brambles could grip
for a moment the hind of a buck
who would shake himself loose
like a bolt from a cloud
so mad infinitude
is seemingly trapped
in the glass
but rages ever
in the wilderness
of untethered consciousness
where savage angels bend
to bless the civil earth
as they pass
on a thousand wisping steeds
Transient souls congress
in all directions; directionless
inconsistent, prodigious, foregone
suffering, questing, ageless, moribund
blameless, restituting souls
Faceless palace overstretched the promontory
Caustic wastes, the drastic fates
of overbearing waves,
racking rock and wood
Gross, the catastrophic rusts of ages
Black-coated forests rope
and weave the ancient groves
refulgent truths of the earth
Hard Phoebus caps the bald rock
with obstinate sun
We poet-rogues who bend on galaxies,
what is this to us?
As I incline my eye upon a mountain,
and pierce the cold, infertile veil,
I spot grey nickels, rough as concrete,
dull as late summer listlessness, -
a treasure scattered among stone-folds.
Here is divinity! --
that rough nickels might inspire awe
and honest wonderment,
Or the smooth daemon of rapacious genius.
i love the poet
the mad dancer
who still goes deep
i love the disaffected
i wish I could satisfy your tastes
the refined artist
the psychic grandmother
to be handled with care
i love you
i am an artist
i laugh with you
engage me like a lover
leave me cold
refined feline woman
coddled in your fabrics
stretch you like a cat
relaxing in late summer callousness
even the shadows are warm
you smoke pot like a connoisseur
you write so lightly
i can see you dancing your sentences
collapsing into periods
springing into exclamation points
and looking over your shoulder in mid-fall
(a question mark)
now you languish in the quiet
your skin blushes with youth
I can't help but admire
Little thought in the mind of God
Struggling to make yourself clear,
Listen to the other thoughts,
but be yourself, and have no fear.
Little thought in the mind of God,
Stand up for what you believe in;
Every thought has lots to say,
Morning, noon, and evening.
Little thought in the mind of God,
Hear your voice and understand.
You were born to know yourself,
and, in this way, become a man.
He stares off into space.
He's full of grace.
His eyes are full of moon,
but he'll say something soon
Sometimes he forgets
all the things he knows.
He's kind of old.
But every now and then
he's really very Zen,
or getting close.
You might think he's deaf,
that he's got nothing left,
but you'd be wrong.
He hears between the lines,
and answers every crime;
it won't be long.
He'll sing a song,
so now i am smitten
dropped into a second world created by you
stunned and sunburnt
meditating on your presence in my life
tasting your name
all that happens to me
no sun and no moon
only the sudden radiance of you to discover