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
25 February 2005
14 February 2005
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.
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.
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.
10 February 2005
04 February 2005
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?
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?
03 February 2005
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.
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.
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