A block of ice falls to the earth---
Like clouded glass
It shatters, breaks
Cracks into a million different shapes.
Electric arches cross the sky
Dust from the hardest stones
Of the secret spheres guarding the gates
Across the wall---
Into eternity.
Like paint
The coldest drops of liquid
Splatter on the garnet grass.
They hit the floorboards like a chord
Of screeching minor notes.
Fog, like smoke, blows across
The curved green fields
Every existent life in feeling
Screams of life---
And golden being.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Time:
It's September already.
This year has gone by so fast, I hardly know what to say.
Isn't time a strange thing?
I watched a documentary yesterday---it raised the question of time. Could it be that everything exists side by side? That our minds only invented time because we couldn't understand side by side...well, everything. Think about it. Almost everything we describe has to do with later---a chain of events, your mother telling you to not put off cleaning your room---I know this is a really weak and pointless argument, but if we didn't think about pointless things where would we be?
I have a good friend who says she thinks about things all the time. Deep things, you know, the concept of time, space, the death of morality, politics, the future, etc etc. So to let herself go she talks to the general ditzes. She enjoys chattering on about men and lipstick and the latest movie because it relaxes her. Oh well, I suppose it's better than what I do, which of course is sleep. And I don't even do that that often.
But that raises the question of who is the smartest; the happy go lucky girl, reveling in makeup and fashion and the present, or the dim searcher, reading philosophy under the sheets and arguing psychology with the dog. Obviously we can see who is the most romantic---and I don't mean that in the traditional sense of the word but in the purely platonic real definition---but romance doesn't generally make for a good life. The great writers, artists, dancers, and musicians generally have a dreary, friendless sort of life. Alcoholics, addicts, friendless, broke, and alone. Not usually words we use to describe the height of happiness. But somehow we get the most brilliant minds out of the gutters.
Today, romance is associated with the likes of Edger Allen Poe. The down-and-outs, the paupers, and the street bums, bound to the pitiful writing and secretly delighting in the pain that nobody understands them. But the mall girl, the fashionista, and the store clerk, although unlikely to ever be someone, generally lead a happier life then the average suffering artist.
Maybe we can apply this to our lives. Perhaps it means if we endure we can achieve greatness. Maybe glorying in abstraction from pleasure and the bohemian lifestyle can make us great---but isn't it better just to live a happy life, unknown, unapplauded, and ordinary?
Well.
This year has gone by so fast, I hardly know what to say.
Isn't time a strange thing?
I watched a documentary yesterday---it raised the question of time. Could it be that everything exists side by side? That our minds only invented time because we couldn't understand side by side...well, everything. Think about it. Almost everything we describe has to do with later---a chain of events, your mother telling you to not put off cleaning your room---I know this is a really weak and pointless argument, but if we didn't think about pointless things where would we be?
I have a good friend who says she thinks about things all the time. Deep things, you know, the concept of time, space, the death of morality, politics, the future, etc etc. So to let herself go she talks to the general ditzes. She enjoys chattering on about men and lipstick and the latest movie because it relaxes her. Oh well, I suppose it's better than what I do, which of course is sleep. And I don't even do that that often.
But that raises the question of who is the smartest; the happy go lucky girl, reveling in makeup and fashion and the present, or the dim searcher, reading philosophy under the sheets and arguing psychology with the dog. Obviously we can see who is the most romantic---and I don't mean that in the traditional sense of the word but in the purely platonic real definition---but romance doesn't generally make for a good life. The great writers, artists, dancers, and musicians generally have a dreary, friendless sort of life. Alcoholics, addicts, friendless, broke, and alone. Not usually words we use to describe the height of happiness. But somehow we get the most brilliant minds out of the gutters.
Today, romance is associated with the likes of Edger Allen Poe. The down-and-outs, the paupers, and the street bums, bound to the pitiful writing and secretly delighting in the pain that nobody understands them. But the mall girl, the fashionista, and the store clerk, although unlikely to ever be someone, generally lead a happier life then the average suffering artist.
Maybe we can apply this to our lives. Perhaps it means if we endure we can achieve greatness. Maybe glorying in abstraction from pleasure and the bohemian lifestyle can make us great---but isn't it better just to live a happy life, unknown, unapplauded, and ordinary?
Well.
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