Can't wait to see you again... I've missed you so!

Everyone carries around his own monsters

I'd like to make you laugh for about ten minutes though I'm gonna be on for an hour.

[as a TV preacher] People are always asking me, "Reverend; if you need money so bad, why don't you sell one of your houses, or cars or get rid of some of that jewelry?" And I always reply, "Are you crazy!" [looks at the phone bank]

When I was a kid, I always said I'd be in the movies one day, and damned if I didn't make it! Sometimes I just sit home and look out the window and say, "Daaaaaammmm!"

How much money have we raised so far? None! OK, this is a message for all you white people out there. Part of the money we raise tonight will go to the Back to Africa movement and...[every phone rings]

I had some great things and I had some bad things. The best and the worst... In other words, I had a life.

The idea of "laughing to keep from crying" was central to his work and has been diligently avoided by those who claim to owe so much to him.

As he revealed in his last performance films, Pryor understood the prison he had built for himself and the shallow definitions that smothered his audience's understanding of the humanity behind his work.

But, as they say, once the barn door has been opened, you cannot get all of the animals to return by whistling. So we need to understand the terrible mistakes this man of comic genius made and never settle for a standard that is less than what he did at his very best, which was as good as it has ever gotten. Stanley Crouch

I wish that every new and young comedian would understand what Richard was about and not confuse his genius with his language usage. Bill Cosby.

Amusement-Verse

From The Wordsworth Dictionary of Foreign Words in English by John Ayto: A haiku is a Japanese poem consisting of only three lines, containing respectively five, seven, and five syllables. The genre appeared in the 16th century, and was popularized by the poet Basho in the 17th century. Spare to the point of starkness, haiku traditionally take an image from the natural world (eg the flight of a crane) and leave it suspended in the mind, like a raindrop at the tip of a leaf, so that its subtle allusions may work on the imagination. The Japanese term haiku is a compound, formed from hai 'amusement' and ku 'sentence, verse'.

It is first recorded in English at the end of the 19th century. A hokku was originally the opening half-line of a linked series of haiku, but the term is now used synonymously with haiku. Haiku should not be confused with tanka, which denotes a five-line Japanese poem of five, seven, five, seven, and five syllables respectively (it is a compound of Japanese tan 'short' and ka 'song').


Ajisai (hydrangea) Nara, Lee Dobson

An autumn wind
More white
Than the rocks in the rocky mountain.

old pond . . .
a frog leaps in
water's sound

-- Matsuo Bashö (1644-1694)

Study of Hands

Soleil d'hiver

Il est midi: dans l'air limpide et transparent
La lumière se joue et châtoie et rayonne
Comme au ciel tropical et sur le sable errant
Des déserts enflammés que la soif aiguillonne.

Mais ici le rayon se heurte en frémissant
Au grand linceul glacé dont le sol s'environne
Et la neige, éployant son cristal monotone,
Le rejette aussitôt vers l'astre éblouissant.

Et le soleil de feu et la plaine de glace
Sont là, rivaux altiers se défiant en face,
Se pressant, s'étreignant, corps à corps enlacés;

Sans que l'effort constant lasse leur calme audace,
Sans que le flocon croffle à la flamme tenace,
Sans que le rayon cède et dise: « C'est assez ».

Louis Dantin

Quéqu' part en Alaska

Beau Dommage

Cré-moé, cré-moé pas, quéqu' part en Alaska
Y a un phoque qui s'ennuie en maudit
Sa blonde est partie gagner sa vie
Dans un cirque aux Etats-Unis

Le phoque est tout seul, il r'garde le soleil
Qui descend doucement sur le glacier
Il pense aux Etats en pleurant tout bas
C'est comme ça quand ta blonde t'a lâché

Ça vaut pas la peine
De laisser ceux qu'on aime
Pour aller faire tourner
Des ballons sur son nez
Ça fait rire les enfants
Ça dure jamais longtemps
Ça fait plus rire personne
Quand les enfants sont grands

Quand le phoque s'ennuie, il r'garde son poil qui brille
Comme les rues de New York après la pluie
Il rêve à Chicago, à Marilyn Monroe
Il voudrait voir sa blonde faire un show

C'est rien qu'une histoire, j'peux pas m'en faire accroire
Mais des fois j'ai l'impression qu'c'est moi
Qui est assis sur la glace les deux mains dans la face
Mon amour est partie puis j'm'ennuie

Ça vaut pas la peine
De laisser ceux qu'on aime
Pour aller faire tourner
Des ballons sur son nez
Ça fait rire les enfants
Ça dure jamais longtemps
Ça fait plus rire personne
Quand les enfants sont grands

Moving forward

Somewhere, somehow that little girl got there and even though when looking around she does not find anything familiar, she knows her very own spirit got her there thus far.

Even though the mountain seems impossible to climb - oh how summits can be deceiving sometimes - or the tasks might seem Herculean, she knows that once she calms herself down (or is threatened with punishment whichever comes first) she will lift her sleeves up and proceed towards the finish line, exactly like the Chinese proverb says: one step at a time, for it is how the journey of a thousand steps begin.

The thought that you can do it - that you will do it - can be in your heart or in your mind; sometimes it is in somebody else's heart or mind.

Fear, when overwhelming, has a metallic taste, that's when one's just about ready. AT that time, instincts will kick in one more time and take over from where one's nerves gave up.

Able to look around with a smirk and a nod and announce: bring it on suckas!

Currer Bell, British novelist

Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns.

These things and deeds are diametrically opposed; they are as distinct as is vice from virtue. Men too often confound them; they should not be confounded: appearance should not be mistaken for truth; narrow human doctrines, that only tend to elate and magnify a few, should not be substituted for the world-redeeming creed of Christ. There is—I repeat it—a difference; and it is a good, and not a bad action to mark broadly and clearly the line of separation between them.

The world may not like to see these ideas dissevered, for it has been accustomed to blend them; finding it convenient to make external show pass for sterling worth—to let whitewashed walls vouch for clean shrines. It may hate him who dares to scrutinise and expose—to rase the gilding, and show base metal under it—to penetrate the sepulcher, and reveal charnel relics; but, hate as it will, it is indebted to him."

Jug on the table

Не то, что мните вы, природа... ~ F. I. Tiutchev

Не то, что мните вы, природа:
Не слепок, не бездушный лик -
В ней есть душа, в ней есть свобода,
В ней есть любовь, в ней есть язык...
................
Вы зрите лист и цвет на древе:
Иль их садовник приклеил?
Иль зреет плод в родимом чреве
Игрою внешних, чуждых сил?..
................
Они не видят и не слышат,
Живут в сем мире, как впотьмах,
Для них и солнцы, знать, не дышат,
И жизни нет в морских волнах.
Лучи к ним в душу не сходили,
Весна в груди их не цвела,
При них леса не говорили,
И ночь в звездах нема была!
И языками неземными,
Волнуя реки и леса,
В ночи не совещалась с ними
В беседе дружеской гроза!
Не их вина: пойми, коль может,
Органа жизнь, глухонемой!
Души его, ах, не встревожит
И голос матери самой!

Nature is not as you imagine her:
She's not a mold, nor yet a soulless mask-
She is made up of soul and freedom
She is made up of love and speech . . .
................
Observe the leaves and flowers on a tree:
Was it some gardener glued them there?
And is a growing child in the womb
The work of alien, external forces? . . .
................
They do not see and do not hear
They live in this world as if in darkness,
For them, it seems, the stars don't breathe
And ocean waves are not alive.
The sun's rays have not reached their soul,
Spring's never bloomed within their breast,
The forest does not speak to them
And starry nights are always mute!
And, roiling woods and rivers
With unearthly speech,
No storm's engaged them in the night
In friendly conversation!
They're not to blame: how can the deaf
Perceive an organ's sound!
Alas, their souls can not be touched
Not even by a mother's voice!

Ch Ch Ch Ch Changes...

It did not come down like a bolt of lightning or the voice of God. No special sound or visual effects to announce the change. I woke up one day and discovered that I was responding to stimuli in a different manner. The change was barely noticeable, yet my different outlook shifted the paradigms of my world enough to make me feel altered.

I can sort of pinpoint the starting point. I first felt the shift when friends and acquaintances proved me wrong. I mean so wrong that it was embarrassing, so wrong that it made me realize how much I had been staring at my navel, unaware of my surroundings.

I think one of the reasons for the change is that I do not want to be the type of person who cannot see nor appreciate the empathy in others. Surely that would mean an impossibility to offer empathy in return. I'm trying so very hard to be good and act good... What's the point if I'm thinking that everybody's mean?

Another way for me to tell of "The Change" is that I have become more perspicacious. Well, maybe the fact that I am less self-centered matter-of-factly makes me more perceptive... In any case, I do love this new superhero gift. I do not need to be hit on the head so hard any more and that's a little bit of a blessing.

It probably sounds so wonderful and life-altering, but it's not so simple. First, those changes happen on very small incremental stages. I am not sure that others are aware of them, even though I constantly mention how I see things differently and how I feel different. This new reality is so big to me, yet I'm positive that it is still indiscernible to the rest of the world. I wanted to put down "to the average Joe" but I'm not sure it is such a big change. I think that what I'm witnessing is really the "beginning" of change and I'm probably excited by that prospect, but I should stop thinking that it's so darn special... yet.

What if this does not last? How many times have I underwent a new change/outlook/reality etc. only to be thwarted in success because that old sluggishness comes back home to roost? How many times will I go through it again?

The bottomline is that I feel like I am ready to move on to something better and more positive.

It feels like I'm offered a breather 

Senses and Pretenses

In the serenity of this place, I love to embrace the stillness in the air. The breeze rises up every now and then to remind me that this is all real; that I am not the only moving element in a perfect picture. There’s something here that affects you and makes you feel alive. Though I’m quite aware of my senses and I use them all on a regular basis, this is the only place where I use all of them at once. The moment I step into the woods, my nostrils flare, my eyes dart around, my ears pick up too many sounds for me to recognize and I cannot resist the various textures it offers. I do resist picking up mushrooms though… one never knows, does one?

Everything can remind you of something transformed into something else. The other day, I was sitting by the lake and was staring at a boat. I knew it was a boat, but the more I squinted my eyes, the less it resembled one. It ended up looking like a canoe with two chimneys. I was trying to see it, yet I transformed it into something else with my insistence. And my brain, not one to let illusion create a distraction for long, insisted “There’s a boat in here somewhere… squint harder… try harder.”

Again, focusing on something else I was staring at a small island covered in trees I could barely make out because of their lack of foliage. My first thought was that they looked like skeletons with their spare branches sticking out like bony arms reaching out to me. I thought, the woods can be peaceful, while retaining a gothic edge. It’s a place that can be a little mysterious and a bit creepy. I am never afraid of its dark side. I always embrace it. You can often find me there boldly wandering on the darkest nights with the brightest moon.

But on the day of this particular hike, the sun was up in a clear sky. All I wanted was to concentrate and try to embrace all that surrounded me. When the loon let out it’s cry, to me it sounded like the plaintive sound a flute can make when handled by a melancholic player. The concerto rising in the air from the beaks of unidentified fowl was also tender and poignant. When I closed my eyes while sitting next to the water, I could smell the marshes slightly pungent aroma. The sand too had a smell. Can rock smell? There was a hint of clay to it. I know because I’ve been working on a sculpture for about three months now, and it sometimes feels like the smell is now part of me! The breeze inhaling and exhaling around me also brought in some interesting smell. There was a mix of mustiness and muskiness in the air… As if it was bringing to me the smell of nests and animals that lived near by. It reminded me of the true inhabitants of this beautiful place. You might not see us, the wind beckoned, but we live here and some of us are here… watching you…

I turned my head towards the woods, and waited for the breeze to bring to me its smell as well. It brought me the tangy smell of “green”… how else to call the mix of foliage? But it also brought to life the sweet earthy smell of the soil and what covered it: moss, mushrooms, and rotting leaves.

It’s all there for us to experience. When I visit the woods, it offers me a reminder of what life does: it moves forward always and is forever changing, all the while appearing still.

CXXXVIII

When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed:
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O! love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love, loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flattered be.

To sleep, perchance to dream; Ay, there's the rub

I have been so restless these days... My sleep is tormented by perturbing dreams. I wake up every morning precisely at 4:18 am, unable to return to sleep... yet too tired to stay awake. 

Dreams - Paul Laurence Dunbar

Dream on, for dreams are sweet:
Do not awaken!
Dream on, and at thy feet
Pomegranates shall be shaken.

Who likeneth the youth
Of life to morning?
'Tis like the night in truth,
Rose-coloured dreams adorning.

The wind is soft above,
The shadows umber.
(There is a dream called Love.)
Take thou the fullest slumber!

In Lethe's soothing stream,
Thy thirst thou slakest.
Sleep, sleep; 't is sweet to dream.
Oh, weep when thou awakest!

My Lips (Aquah LaLuah)

My lips were buds of innocence until you
came one day
And drew a fountain from my heart and
careless went your way,

My lips were hungry, eager flowers curved
in ecstatic bliss
To gather the soft sweetness of my next
lover's kiss.

My lips were luscious ripeness of a crushed
and poisoned vine
When you bent your lips upon me and my soft
ones clung to thine

My lips are withering fading flowers, full
weary unto death
Dew without moisture is thy kiss; wind
without heat thy breath.

A fugitive tear wells up from my eyes and
is secretly, silently shed.
Are lips that once were innocent, so
withered, so parched, so dead?


Poem by Gladys May Casley-Hayford

Santé Émile!

Une oeuvre de Jean-Paul Lemieux, peintre, illustrant Émile Nelligan au Carré Saint-Louis enneigé. 

Où que tu sois en ce jour, j'espère qu'on te laisse savourer un verre de vin rouge en célébration de tes racines.

SOIR D'HIVER

Ah! comme la neige a neigé!
Ma vitre est un jardin de givre.
Ah! comme la neige a neigé!
Qu'est-ce que le spasme de vivre
A la douleur que j'ai, que j'ai.

Tous les étangs gisent gelés,
Mon âme est noire! Où-vis-je? où vais-je?
Tous ses espoirs gisent gelés:
Je suis la nouvelle Norvège
D'où les blonds ciels s'en sont allés.
Pleurez, oiseaux de février,
Au sinistre frisson des choses,
Pleurez oiseaux de février,
Pleurez mes pleurs, pleurez mes roses,
Aux branches du genévrier.

Ah! comme la neige a neigé!
Ma vitre est un jardin de givre.
Ah! comme la neige a neigé!
Qu'est-ce que le spasme de vivre
A tout l'ennui que j'ai, que j'ai...

Am Solo

La Dee Da

Not a character on Star Wars but rather the new cry of singles of either gender in this era. What happened? Hard to say. Somehow we lost our ability to touch and cannot feel anymore. Maybe we want to feel and forgot how to. So many people trying their hands at online dating, tuning in to message boards, discussing politics but mostly love to far away computer pen pals. We've lost proper grammar as well as the desire to listen to a real voice softly breathing on us. Through this mist, what do we really crave? Connections, or at least maybe a connection. People use words like soul mate, the One, etc. to describe who they're looking for. They often overlook the fact that they have little tolerance for any human foibles in their mate. Online, you can hear young men being repulsed by any type of hair found on the female body. Blemishes are looked down on (on both sides). If you're a gent, you have to be perfectly handsome, toned, educated, wealthy, connoisseur of things extraordinaire. Ladies need not be wealthy or particularly bright, but their breasts need perkiness and their willingness to perform like a porn star after cooking a five-course meal will be greatly coveted.

While we dote on anonymous correspondents, very real humans cross our busy paths on a daily basis. They remain overlooked and underappreciated. I guess this century can already claim one mutation (well, permutation would probably be more accurate), the solitarius cor cordis permutation. The lonely heart which, prior to this era was confined to his living-room with his TV for companionship, is now able to connect to *millions* of other lonely hearts unable or unwilling to associate with anything human.

I live on a short dead-end street with only eight houses on it. I barely speak to my neighbors. We've had a lot of snow this winter and, for the first time, my elderly neighbor has come and taken care of my driveway for me. He has a snowblower which makes the whole task so much more easier. He does not knock on my door to let me know he will be doing that. Nor does he knock to let me know he's done. If I'm already outside shoveling, he simply waves and proceeds as if it was already pre-arranged. I have baked banana bread and cookies for him. He accepts the goods, but never invites me in. He barely speaks to me, yet I think he must like me somewhat. It's hard for me to imagine us living this way fifty years ago - being so far apart, while being so close. I barely communicate with my other neighbors. I do have extensive dialogs with earthly neighbors living thousands of miles away though. They know things about myself that I wonder if I would tell them should they happen to be local friends.

Is this the way we are ushering in the new millennium? Will the 21st century be the era of hardcore singles, cybersex and lonely but horny online buddies? What exactly are we teaching the upcoming generation? Are we teaching them that there is no such thing as happiness and that it is better to remain in an unpleasant situation than to extract yourself from it and try to make things better around you. Often, adults (just like children) learn by imitating the behavior of those around them. Unfortunately, with the amount of disenfranchised souls around, future generations might turn a bit disconnected and a tad unhappy.

Of course it can be difficult to overcome shyness and reach out to strangers, but we need to look beyond the safety of our monitors and do so. In any case, we should also realize that the words we read online are not from a disembodied soul and they can sometimes mean more (or even less) than what they say. By jumping too quickly to conclusion, we project upon our interlocutor our own ideas or spin on things. This can only result in deception. Of course, it is fairly easy to then accuse that person of injecting sophism to muddy the waters, but it would be best to realize that on the contrary, our own reluctance to tear the veil before our eyes induced us in error.

I think that we need to reconnect with people we encounter on a daily basis. I try to do so by offering a smile, a wink or a wave to various people that I meet. Often I compliment strangers or eagerly offer them help. I do not expect anything in return. I am satisfied that I have touched them in some way. I simply try to be the change I wish to see as Mahatma Gandhi as suggested. He also said to believe in something, and not to live it, is dishonest. I am just trying to live a principled life.

La Dee Da Dee Da

So à propos

Get drunk

One should always be drunk. That's all that matters;
that's our one imperative need. So as not to feel Time's
horrible burden one which breaks your shoulders and bows
you down, you must get drunk without cease.

But with what?
With wine, poetry, or virtue
as you choose.
But get drunk.

And if, at some time, on steps of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the bleak solitude of your room,
you are waking and the drunkenness has already abated,
ask the wind, the wave, the stars, the clock,
all that which flees,
all that which groans,
all that which rolls,
all that which sings,
all that which speaks,
ask them, what time it is;
and the wind, the wave, the stars, the birds, and the clock,
they will all reply:

"It is time to get drunk!

So that you may not be the martyred slaves of Time,
get drunk, get drunk,
and never pause for rest!
With wine, poetry, or virtue,
as you choose!"

Charles Baudelaire

The One That Got Away

He walked in the cafeteria as if he didn't have a care in the world. He was dressed in black from head to toe and sporting an avant-garde mullet. I thought he looked like a prince. "My Dark Prince," I whispered to no one in particular.

He grabbed something to eat and scanned the place quickly. Someone in my group called him. Or maybe he recognized someone and proceeded to come over. "Oh my God!" I thought. I didn't say a word to him, and barely managed to return his smile.

We weren't in any classes together. He never joined the improv class or even the theater group I was in but he seemed to know everyone that I knew. He preferred to work behind the scenes as opposed to on stage with the rest of us. He'd take care of the lighting, stage props, etc. I was never really one of the cool ones. I don't even understand how come I got to hang with the cool crowd. He definitely was part of the "in crowd". He was very quiet and had a mystique about him. We became friends fast and deep. We talked about philosophy, life and other neat stuff. Though we were young, 18 maybe 19, in our minds we felt already old and used.

I thought he was the most beautiful creature on earth, something about his heritage, half Native American half Italian.

I lost track of him when I dropped out of college. For years I never saw him again. One night, I went to a Peter Gabriel concert by myself. As the crowd was trying to crush me before the gates opened, I let out a cry of pain and a profanity. Someone next to me called my name. I turned to my right, not expecting that the person was actually speaking to me, and could not believe my eyes. "Pietro?" I asked, but I already knew. "Wow! It's so cool to see you here! How have you been?" we both exclaimed. My Dark Prince was back.

His smile was wide and his green eyes were twinkling and it really looked as if he was glad to meet me again after all these years. I had grown into a good looking woman, and was very confident in my charms. Yet, when I saw him, I went back to being a mousy teenager.

I had an excellent seat and told him to follow me, as his was horrendous. We found a spot where we could watch the concert together without being bothered by ushers. We had a blast. I couldn't believe my luck. After the show, we went out for drinks and talk almost all night long.

We resumed our friendship as if seven months had passed, not seven years.

We lost touch again after some misunderstanding between my roommate, Monique, Pietro and me. Two's company, three's a crowd. He got out of my life one more time, and I didn't try to hold him back.

I never found the courage to tell him that I loved him. He did ask me once but I changed the subject. It has been 23 years since our first encounter and 15 since our last, and when I think of him I still have butterflies fluttering in my stomach as if he could walk in any time. Of course that's impossible; we don't even live in the same country anymore. Yet I know that he surprised me once when we stumbled into each at that concert. What were the chances then? What are the chances now?

I am older and not as sexy nor as confident anymore. But somehow this makes me less afraid to admit my infatuation to him. I would love to have the opportunity to reveal to him how he made a lasting impact on at least one person on this earth.

In a way, it saddens me that I might never get closure. My feelings for him were real and intense. I'd like to know if he loved me even a little. What were my chances? Whenever someone says "It’s better to have remorse than regrets," I know exactly what they mean.

Redemption Song

Old pirates, yes, they rob I
Sold I to the merchant ships
Minutes after they took I
From the bottomless pit
But my hand was made strong
By the hand of the Almighty
We forward in this generation
Triumphantly

Won't you help to sing
these songs of freedom
They're all I ever had
Redemption songs
Redemption songs

Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery
None but ourselves can free our minds
Have no fear for atomic energy
'Cause none of them can stop the time
How long shall they kill our prophets
While we stand aside and look
Oh! Some say it's just a part of it
We've got to fulfill the book

Won't you help to sing
These songs of freedom
They're all I ever had
Redemption songs
Redemption songs

Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery
None but ourselves can free our mind
Woo! Have no fear for atomic energy
'Cause none of them-a can-a stop-a-the time
How long shall they kill our prophets
While we stand aside and look
Yes, some say it's just a part of it
We've got to fulfill the book

Won't you help to sing
These songs of freedom
They're all I ever had
Redemption songs
All I ever had
Redemption songs
These songs of freedom
Songs of freedom.

Lift Every Voice and Sing - James Weldon Johnson

Lift ev'ry voice and sing,
Till earth and heaven ring,
Ring with the harmonies of Liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise
High as the list'ning skies,
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun,
Let us march on till victory is won.

Stony the road we trod,
Bitter the chast'ning rod,
Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
Yet with a steady beat,
Have not our weary feet
Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?
We have come over a way that with tears has been watered.
We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered,
Out from the gloomy past,
Till now we stand at last
Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.

God of our weary years,
God of our silent tears,
Thou who hast brought us thus far on the way;
Thou who hast by Thy might,
Led us into the light,
Keep us forever in the path, we pray.
Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee,
Lest our hearts, drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee;
Shadowed beneath Thy hand,
May we forever stand,
True to our God,
True to our native land.

Kung Hei Fat Choy

Happy Rooster Year (Year 4702) 

Baudelaire

Tristesses de la Lune

Ce soir, la lune rêve avec plus de paresse;
Ainsi qu'une beauté, sur de nombreux coussins,
Qui d'une main distraite et légère caresse
Avant de s'endormir le contour de ses seins,

Sur le dos satiné des molles avalanches,
Mourante, elle se livre aux longues pâmoisons,
Et promène ses yeux sur les visions blanches
Qui montent dans l'azur comme des floraisons.

Quand parfois sur ce globe, en sa langueur oisive,
Elle laisse filer une larme furtive,
Un poète pieux, ennemi du sommeil,

Dans le creux de sa main prend cette larme pâle,
Aux reflets irisés comme un fragment d'opale,
Et la met dans son coeur loin des yeux du soleil.



La Chevelure

Ô toison, moutonnant jusque sur l'encolure!
Ô boucles! Ô parfum chargé de nonchaloir!
Extase! Pour peupler ce soir l'alcôve obscure
Des souvenirs dormant dans cette chevelure,
Je la veux agiter dans l'air comme un mouchoir!

La langoureuse Asie et la brûlante Afrique,
Tout un monde lointain, absent, presque défunt,
Vit dans tes profondeurs, forêt aromatique!
Comme d'autres esprits voguent sur la musique,
Le mien, ô mon amour! nage sur ton parfum.

J'irai là-bas où l'arbre et l'homme, pleins de sève,
Se pâment longuement sous l'ardeur des climats;
Fortes tresses, soyez la houle qui m'enlève!
Tu contiens, mer d'ébène, un éblouissant rêve
De voiles, de rameurs, de flammes et de mâts:

Un port retentissant où mon âme peut boire
À grands flots le parfum, le son et la couleur
Où les vaisseaux, glissant dans l'or et dans la moire
Ouvrent leurs vastes bras pour embrasser la gloire
D'un ciel pur où frémit l'éternelle chaleur.

Je plongerai ma tête amoureuse d'ivresse
Dans ce noir océan où l'autre est enfermé;
Et mon esprit subtil que le roulis caresse
Saura vous retrouver, ô féconde paresse,
Infinis bercements du loisir embaumé!

Cheveux bleus, pavillon de ténèbres tendues
Vous me rendez l'azur du ciel immense et rond;
Sur les bords duvetés de vos mèches tordues
Je m'enivre ardemment des senteurs confondues
De l'huile de coco, du musc et du goudron.

Longtemps! toujours! ma main dans ta crinière lourde
Sèmera le rubis, la perle et le saphir,
Afin qu'à mon désir tu ne sois jamais sourde!
N'es-tu pas l'oasis où je rêve, et la gourde
Où je hume à longs traits le vin du souvenir?

Sometimes I wish I was a...

Lady Poet, Han Jin Ting 

Looking for answers by finding my voice

It is necessary to try and stop dwelling on things that we have no control over. Of course, ranting can sometimes feel so good that it's almost impossible to stop. But really, how productive is this? I am not sure why I decided to enter my thoughts herein, but like to think that my original idea was trying to build something constructive. I have noticed that a lot of my preferred blogs are the one unencumbered with rants, raves, complaints and overall existential angst. I prefer to read about people who have a sense of humor or purpose, who are unwilling to indulge in self-loathing or even worst, who refuse to submit their readers to what they perceive as their own "grandeur."

The blogs that first attract my eyes are the ones with lovely poetry (original or reproduced) and beautiful pictures. These blogs soothe my eyes and allow me to rest and drift a little to pleasant thoughts. It is funny that I have tried to reproduce this subconsciously. Well, funny to those who know me that is. After all, I love politics and debates and cannot resist analyzing what's going on in the world. I'm also very involved in my favorite charity. Yet, I don't feel the need to mention them at all. It's almost as if these other subjects do not belong together with art or poetry.

A few bloggers have actually succeeded in having a pleasant and intellectually stimulating melting pots of their various interests. I am not experimented enough to feel confident in doing so. Though I have kept a journal for the longest time, and I have always corresponded to far away friends, managing the blog is not the same process. The reader is the public, therefore it's almost impossible to focus on one particular tract. Those who do so tend to alienate new readers easily. Again, I speak for myself here. I have read blogs where the writer confides their woes in trying to conceive, overcome a disease, live through an affair, etc. The feeling I get is something on the line of weariness. Though I do not have to go through this trouble to be interested in the writer's description, I get quickly weary of the tedium of repeated ups and downs (mostly downs, let's face it, we shall overcome is an ideal not easily attained). I often wonder how helpful are these repeated accounts to others sharing the same situation. As human beings we easily get engrossed in our own affairs and have no problems whatsoever with recounting them over and over again to anyone within earshot.

How can one avoid this pitfall? The dull repetition of facts and the neverending impression that the writer is stuck on a plane where development is limited. Allow me to admit and reveal my own ignorance. I think that striving for that state might be part of the writer's goal. Maybe that goal is the journey, and the destination is really Valhalla. I learn tremendously by reading other people's blogs, therefore I see it as part of my "training." As I build this blog, I will start listing on the sidebar the ones that stimulate me or inspire me the most. I am almost afraid to disclose that list, for fear that the variety which it will show could also reveal something about what's going on in my head!

On another note, these musings also brought in mind the idea of comments. That part of blogging is fun because it involve some interactive activities. It lets the writer know that someone is actually reading his or her words, and therefore might be enjoying them. There is nothing wrong with a little ego stroking. Yet, as an avid reader of blog, I fail to leave a trail of my visit. Why is that? I am not sure I can input anything of value to the writer. I agree with what you said, wow, you hit it right on the head! or again nice pictures. Do these comments mean anything? I know that, personally, I am not writing to be read but to release (or is it to find release?). If someone finds comfort in those words, it is surely an additional bonus. But do I really want interaction? This question does not imply that I would rather shun it, but rather is asking "is it part of what I am looking for?" I am not quite sure about the answer. I know that some people specifically make an invitation to this effect, "please let me know what you think." Fair enough, I can do so and bore you with my originality, yet convince you that you are not a voice in the wilderness.

It seems to me that most bloggers are really writing to themselves, therefore they do not mind the lack of interaction. Some great blogs have no profile of their writer, do not allow for comments, and are mainly "open air" journals. They are often not outrageous, yet I suspect they are still very much liberating to the writer.

Well, I did not start this entry as an analysis of bloggers or blogs anywhere, yet this is what it turned out to be. Another beautiful side to blogging, I must admit. The answers are as varied as there are writers. I guess what really matters is what am I going to do with it.

Drum Bridge at Meguro

 

I've got rhythm

Make yourself free from self at one stroke!
Like a sword be without trace of soft iron;
Like a steel mirror, scour off all rust with contrition.




In this fast and troubled world we sometimes lose our way
But I am never lost I feel this way because...

I got rhythm, I got music, I got my girl
Who could ask for anything more?
I've got good times, no more bad times
I've got my girl, who could ask for anything more?

Old man trouble I don't mind him
You won't find him around my door
I've got starlight, I've got sweet dreams
I've got my girl, who could ask for, who could ask for more?

Old man trouble, I don't mind him
You won't find, you're never gonna find him 'round my door
Oh, I've got rhythm, I've got music
I got my girl, who could ask for anything more?

I've got rhythm, I've got rhythm ...

The Winter Scenery

The way I miss pop culture is very silly. I mean, I don't really like it, so why do I miss it? Where does that urge come from? I willingly gave up my TV years ago and never looked back. When I was married, I had to let that monster (the TV, not the ex, although...) into my house, then into my bedroom. It was awful and I'm happy I don't have to live with that anymore. Well, I still do have a TV, but it is impossible to watch as I have no reception and refuse to pay for cable. That concept is too ridiculous for me. I mean, the whole purpose of that invention is to make sure that I become a brainless consumer... It's about selling me things, so why would I get cable in order for them to make me feel like there's something wrong with me.

It's true. "Psst," the TV seems to say "Pat! Over here. Honey, you're a great gal but look at you... You're teeth aren't white enough, you drive a shitty car, your hair don't smell good and your perfume is cheap! You gotta do something about the beer you like, because no one interesting and fun will want to hang out with you! I think you might be depressed, tried this pill or two, or three... Why are you sniveling? Allergies? Take better care of yourself girl, you stink! Haven't you heard of deodorant? Also, you could stand to lose a few pounds. Of course there's nothing wrong with your hair, but you're sure you wouldn't rather be blonde? Oooh! A nice vacation on the beach, that would be lovely! I bet if you asked your credit card company to give you a bigger credit margin you could fly away!"

I have enough insecurities, I don't need a TV to remind me of my ineptitude. But I do use the TV to watch movies. I don't have enough free time these days to do so, but I promise myself I will make the time. Maybe I should start listing the movies I've watched lately. I can't list music because I'm on a talk radio streak right now. I used to be a full-fledged nipper*, but ever since I went back to school, I'm too poor to answer their pledge drive pleas. I do listen to my local college radios. Well two in particular. They're great and keep me up to date musically.

Talking about music, you know what I've been longing for lately? It's so strange... Three Mustaphas Three. Their music is very difficult to describe... It's an eclectic bland of world beat: Balkan, North-African, tzigane, soca or even jazz... oh boy! They are a great live show to catch. They had everybody hopping and bopping! I don't know if they're still together or if they perform. Here's a link where you can get a taste.

I think I will try and get their CD. I will have to break down and pay the horrendous import price though. I think if you listened to them, you could fall in love with them (if you haven't already).

* nipper: person addicted to National Public Radio (NPR).



It is so very cold today. I did not leave the house and refused to shovel. I will pay for it tomorrow. But by then, it'll be another day.

Fuyugesiki

Oh, the boats are covered with white frost,
The rising sun clears the fog on the lake
The houses are still so calm on the coast,
though the water-birds are already singing.

The crows croak on top of the trees,
Under the sun, people stamp wheat in the fields
How warm and peaceful is today in winter!
The small flowers come back in full bloom.

Suddenly, a storm comes and a rain shower comes down.
So the darkness comes earlier and we know it is dusk.
If the lights go on in the small houses,
we know people live here in the country hamlet.

Dog Barking At The Moon

The routine is gently settling back to its usual lazy self. Lazy because unwilling to try and bend the rule every so slightly. I do not know if it will be possible for me to succeed in the various tasks that I am now enterprising. Most of all, I would like to go back to writing again. If not intensely, at least seriously and regularly. There is this fear which grips my heart whenever I think about committing myself to writing again. But I always wonder why? Why be afraid? Failure is a possibility, but so is pleasure... and even better, success. Writing makes me so happy, why deny myself the pleasure? That's so silly. As that character in Strictly Ballroom said "A life lived in fear, is a life half lived." Et vlan!



Neftalí take me away... embrace me with your rhymes and cover me with your sonnets... allow me to breathe the perfume of your poetry and transport me to a world where feelings can turn into words... words that can turn me into a soft mound of contentment... contentment that I wish will turn into happiness....

Oda a la luz encantada

La luz bajo los árboles,
la luz del alto cielo.
La luz
verde
enramada
que fulgura
en la hoja
y cae como fresca
arena blanca.

Una cigarra eleva
su son de aserradero
sobre la transparencia.

Es una copa llena
de agua
el mundo.



The weary one, orphan
of the masses, the self,
the crushed one, the one made of concrete,
the one without a country in crowded restaurants,
he who wanted to go far away, always farther away,
didn't know what to do there, whether he wanted
or didn't want to leave or remain on the island,
the hesitant one, the hybrid, entangled in himself,
had no place here: the straight-angled stone,
the infinite look of the granite prism,
the circular solitude all banished him:
he went somewhere else with his sorrows,
he returned to the agony of his native land,
to his indecisions, of winter and summer.

Tirade du nez

Ah ! non ! c’est un peu court, jeune homme !
On pouvait dire... Oh ! Dieu !... Bien des choses en somme.
En variant le ton, -par exemple, tenez :

Agressif : « Moi, monsieur, si j’avais un tel nez
Il faudrait sur-le-champ que je me l’amputasse ! »
Amical : « Mais il doit tremper dans votre tasse :
Pour boire, faites-vous fabriquer un Hanape ! »
Descriptif : « C’est un roc!... C’est un pic!... C’est un cap!...
Que dis-je, c’est un cap?... C’est une péninsule! »
Curieux : « De quoi sert cette oblongue capsule ?
D’écritoire, monsieur, ou de boîte à ciseaux ? »
Gracieux : « Aimez-vous à ce point les oiseaux
Que paternellement vous vous préoccupâtes
De tendre ce perchoir à leurs petites pattes? »
Truculent : « Ca, monsieur, lorsque vous pétunez,
La vapeur du tabac vous sort-elle du nez
Sans qu’un voisin ne crie au feu de cheminée ? »
Prévenant : « Gardez-vous, votre tête entraînée
Par ce poids, de tomber en avant sur le sol ! »
Tendre : « Faites-lui faire un petit parasol
De peur que sa couleur au soleil ne se fane ! »
Pédant : « L’animal seul, monsieur, qu’Aristophane
Appelle Hippocampéléphantocamélos
Dut avoir sous le front tant de chair sur tant d’os ! »
Cavalier : « Quoi, l’ami, ce croc est à la mode?
Pour pendre son chapeau, c’est vraiment très commode ! »
Emphatique : « Aucun vent ne peut, nez magistral,
T’enrhumer tout entier, excepté le mistral ! »
Dramatique : « C’est la mer Rouge quand il saigne ! »
Admiratif : « Pour un parfumeur, quelle enseigne ! »
Lyrique : « Est-ce une conque, êtes-vous un triton ? »
Naïf : « Ce monument, quand le visite-t-on ? »
Respectueux : « Souffrez, monsieur, qu’on vous salue,
C’est là ce qui s’appelle avoir pignon sur rue ! »
Campagnard : « Hé, ardé ! C’est-y un nez ? Nanain !
c’est queuqu’navet géant ou ben queuqu’melon nain ! »
Militaire : « Pointez contre cavalerie ! »
Pratique : « Voulez-vous le mettre en loterie ?
Assurément, monsieur, ce sera le gros lot ! »
Enfin parodiant Pyrame en un sanglot:
« Le voilà donc ce nez qui des traits de son maître
A détruit l’harmonie ! Il en rougit, le traître ! »

- Voila ce qu’à peu près, mon cher, vous m’auriez dit
Si vous aviez un peu de lettres et d’esprit :
Mais d’esprit, ô le plus lamentable des êtres,
Vous n’en eûtes jamais un atome, et de lettre
Vous n’avez que les trois qui forment le mot : sot !
Eussiez vous eu, d’ailleurs, l’invention qu’il faut
Pour pouvoir là, devant ces nobles galeries,
Me servir toutes ces folles plaisanteries,
Que vous n’en eussiez pas articulé le quart
De la moitié du commencement d’une, car
Je me les sers moi-même, avec assez de verve,
Mais je ne permet pas qu’un autre me les serve.

Splash

"Come on!" They urged, "You'll be fine!" How can I say this? I was afraid to look ... well, afraid. So I took a step, then two. "So far so good," I told myself while I tried to balance my weight properly on the tree trunk. Looking down, I could see the water rushing with great ardor. It looked cold. I looked up. Three more steps. One. Two. Three. I can't believe I made it!

Just when I was about to grab her hand, my foot slipped. I fell in the water and something hit my kidney really hard. "Oh shit," I thought. It didn't occur to me that the water was cold, as cold as the air. I needed to get up and out of these woods as soon as possible. All that occurred to me was a stabbing pain in my lower back, reminding me that in doubt I should always go for surety. Irie.

The walk back towards the parking lot was surreal. My clothes were wet, and my back was throbbing. The dogs were nervously running circles around me. "Come on grrls, let's go!" One more step, hon, just one more step. The thought reverberated inside my head like a Buddhist chant.

Oh irony, how I like to taste the sweet bitterness of your lips! In my basement, in 1000 little pieces scattered around the floor, lies my brand new weight bench... Next to it is my training plan, scribbled illegibly on a dirty piece of paper. Well here's the delay I was praying for.

Oh Henri...

Instinct must be thwarted just as one prunes the branches of a tree so that it will grow better."



Les toiles que tu m'as tissées

Réchauffe mes yeux, tel la braise qui m'attise

Chapter 1

There are ways but the Way is uncharted ...
There are ways but the Way is uncharted;
There are names but not nature in words:
Nameless indeed is the source of creation
But things have a mother and she has a name.

The secret waits for the insight
Of eyes unclouded by longing;
Those who are bound by desire
See only the outward container.

These two come paired but distinct
By there names.
Of all things profound,
Say that their pairing is deepest,
The gate to the root of the world.