"The other error that scares us is our consistency: a reverence for our past act or word because the eyes of others have no other data for computing our orbit than our past acts, and we are loth to disappoint them." (Emerson, "Self-Reliance").
The love of the other is what makes us human.
I am loth disappoint others with my words because I don't want to lose the necessary, life-affirming love of others
I am waiting for a goddess ... I've said this before
Once upon a time I sat beside a stream and held a woman.
She quoted Thoreau to me:
"There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star.
I'm an excitable boy. I have delusion of grandeur
However, like Byron, I know that salvation comes from a woman
Though the day of my Destiny's over,
And the star of my Fate hath declined,
Thy soft heart refused to discover
The faults which so many could find;
Though thy Soul with my grief was acquainted,
It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the Love which my Spirit hath painted
It never hath found but in Thee.
Lord Byron, "Stanzas to Augusta"
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a time for peace, too late perhaps
It's a tad too late, but that's OK
Somewhere, somehow, I fell into an avernian ditch
I'm not quite out, but I'm scratching
Virgil is no guide. but this woman is:
One thing to say is this
Boredom kills, adventure inspires
But adventure destroys the mind and all it loves ....
Remember that!
I met you one day, before I was born.
You smiled and quoted some bad poetry.
I made fun of you, but we laughed, and for a moment I fell I in love.
Then you died.
I wish I were older, perhaps I could've rescued you from Ted ....
Or probably, more likely, I would have destroyed your soul instead of your life.
I am evil.
The pain and the pleasure linked together in a sick dance.
I found myself writhing, striving, for a new chance at life,
One that would involve no sacrifice. Just love.
But that concept – love – is rather new. The Greeks said
agape sou
Who knows? What I do know is that there is a time for hate and a time for when he, submissive, yielded to her :
He yielded to her, and his heart was glad.
~ Homer, The Odyssey bk. 24.
Gladness of heart … Let’s recall what ancient language formulated that phrase …
Forget it. In our vernacular, we’ll say that joy has its hands ever at its lips, bidding us adieu. (Keats, “Ode on Melancholy,”)
loosely quoted)
As I sit here, watching a fountain merge with the sky, and children run with “joy” about the wooded lanes of this park, I realize that “there hath past away a glory from the earth” (Wordsworth, “Immortality Ode”)
One of these days I’ll watch for a little while a Lou reed-style satellite.
One of these days I’ll feed geese gain at the park.
One of these days I’ll wake up without the shakes, and eat a sandwich, alone …
Always alone.
I should quote Poe, and I guess I will, but not what you’d expect:
Some human memories and tearful lore,
Render him terrorless: his names’s ‘No More.’
` Poe, “Sonnet – Silence”
But I’ll smell the grounds again around the little brook along our street.
Someone wielded a sword at me once ,,, it was a fantasy.
Talking is a function of the mind.
Singing of the soul.
Adjectives are perverse, and make us feel like rotated brains.
Somewhere I recall reading about a man who sang only to himself:
I think I’m talking about The Hill of Dreams, by Machen.
Lucian was the fellow’s name.
I stop sometimes to admire nature and find I cannot.
Ducks are cute, and trees are lovely, but my soul is desecrated.
Why then do I persist?
Here’s a little something:
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She Moves Me
The pain and the pleasure linked together in a sick dance.
I found myself writhing, striving, for a new chance at life,
One that would involve no sacrifice. Just love.
But that concept – love – is rather new. The Greeks said
:
agape sou
Who knows? What I do know is that there is a time for hate and a time for when he, submissive, yielded to her :
He yielded to her, and his heart was glad.
~ Homer, The Odyssey bk. 24.
Gladness of heart … Let’s recall what ancient language formulated that phrase …
Forget it. In our vernacular, we’ll say that joy has its hands ever at its lips, bidding us adieu. (Keats, “Ode on Melancholy,” loosely quoted)
As I sit here, watching a fountain merge with the sky, and children run with “joy” about the wooded lanes of this park, I realize that “there hath past away a glory from the earth” (Wordsworth, “Immortality Ode”)
One of these days I’ll watch for a little while a Lou reed-style satellite.
One of these days I’ll feed geese gain at the park.
One of these days I’ll wake up without the shakes, and eat a sandwich, alone …
Always alone.
I should quote Poe, and I guess I will, but not what you’d expect:
Some human memories and tearful lore,
Render him terrorless: his names’s ‘No More.’
` Poe, “Sonnet – Silence”
But I’ll smell the grounds again around the little brook along our street.
So much of life I have neglected
In following where pleasure calls!
Yet were not morals ill affected
I even now would worship balls
I love youth’s wanton, fevered madness,
The crush, the glitter, and the gladness,
The ladies’ gowns so well designed;
I love their feet--although you’ll find
That all of Russia scarcely numbers
Three pairs of shapely feet…And yet,
How long it took me to forget
Two special feet. And in my slumbers
They still assail a soul grown cold
And on my heart retain their hold.
~ Alexander Pushkin, Eugene Onegin
Mark Alexei
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