Friday, April 30, 2010

literacki

MY mother was a harlot,
My father was a clerk;
My mother wore scarlet,
My father a coat dark.

They met once only,
Parted at morn
But from that lone He
Was I born.

When she grew bigger,
Mother in dread
Pinched in her figure,
Bore me dead.

They buried my body
Deep in a hole,
And prayed to God He
Would save my soul.

- LEAH MoTAVISH COHEN - CHILD'S SONG

Thursday, April 29, 2010

cobweb

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

literacki

“…You can’t figure out love without figuring out death, too, but the effort it takes can knock the wind out of you. Love is the first cousin of death, they’re acquainted with each other, they go to the same family reunions.”
—Charles Baxter - The Feast of Love

literacki

Does such a thing as ‘the fatal flaw,’ that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside literature?
I used to think it didn’t.
Now I think it does.
And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs. ”

— Donna Tartt - The Secret History

literacki

We carry the dead in our hands.
There is no other way.
The dead are not carried in our memories.


They died in another age, long before this moment.
We shape them from the wounds
they left on the inanimate,
ourselves, as falling water
will turn stone into a bowl.

There is no room in our hearts
for the dead, though we often imagine that there is,
or wish it to be so,
to preserve them in our warmth,
our sweet darkness, where their fists
might beat at the soft contours of our love.
And though we might like to think
that they would call out to us, they could never do so,
being there. They would never dare to speak,
lest their mouths, our names, fill
quietly with blood.

We carry the dead in our hands
as we might carry water - with a careful,
reverential tread.
There is no other way.

How easily, how easily their faces spill.

~ Portage ~John Glenday

literacki

…I wander out
beyond these premises to prove
that extravagant darkness is what I love.
I am told there is a fabulous beast
which certain populations east
of here consider sacred,
or so, according to some authority, is not an unfounded
fact. The authority of elsewhere sleeps in my bed,
she is undercover, she is naked,
she leaves every word unsaid.

~William Wadsworth -The Authority of Elsewhere

quoth the madman

“Confront the dark parts of yourself. … Your willingness to wrestle with your demons will cause your angels to sing. ”
—August Wilson

words and music

Liebe ist ein süßes Licht.
Wie die Erde strebt zur Sonne
Und zu jenen hellen Sternen
In den weiten blauen Fernen,
Strebt das Herz nach Liebeswonne;
Denn sie ist ein süßes Licht.

Sieh, wie hoch in stiller Feier
Droben helle Sterne funkeln:
Von der Erde fliehn die dunkeln,
Schwermutsvollen trüben Schleier.
Wehe mir, wie so trübe
Fühl' ich tief mich im Gemüte,
Das in Freuden sonst erblüte,
Nun vereinsamt, ohne Liebe.

Liebe ist ein süßes Licht.
Wie die Erde strebt zur Sonne
Und zu jenen hellen Sternen
In den weiten blauen Fernen,
Strebt das Herz nach Liebeswonne:
Liebe ist ein süßes Licht.

- Licht und Liebe -Franz Peter Schubert (1797-1828) - Matthew Kasimir von Collin (1779-1824)

objets trouvés


something horrible happened here


quoth the madman

One thing about the living
Every now and then one of us
Stops dying for a moment

~ E.Gilchrist

ahab

CAPTAIN AHAB "The End Of Irony" from Deathbomb Arc on Vimeo.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

quoth the madman

How is it
People fear the dark?
Not me, I’m reconciled.
as every day I see
the blackness grow,
I’ve come to terms with it,
it knows I know.

~Rod McKuen

Monday, April 26, 2010

literacki

"No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart."
~ The Great Gatsby (1925) ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald

quoth the madman

"I want to kiss the scars that my own daggers left."
-J.Kavanaugh

literacki

"There’s the sharp little pains of failure, and the more obscure aches of successes that didn’t give you what you thought they would.
There are the vicious, stabbing pains of hopes being torn up.
The sweet little pains of finding others, giving them your love, and taking joy in their life as they grow and learn.
There’s the steady pain of empathy that you shrug off so you can stand besides a wounded friend and help them bear their burdens."

-Jim Butcher - White Night

quoth the madman

“To love or have loved, that is enough.
Ask nothing further.
There is no other pearl to be found in the dark folds of life. ”
—Victor Hugo

stranger than kindness

literacki

No, no, there is no going back.
Less and less you are
that possibility you were.
More and more you have become
those lives and deaths
that have belonged to you.
You have become a sort of grave
containing much that was
and is no more in time, beloved
then, now, and always.
And so you have become a sort of tree
standing over the grave.
Now more than ever you can be
generous toward each day
that comes, young, to disappear
forever, and yet remain
unaging in the mind.
Every day you have less reason
not to give yourself away.

~ Wendell Berry -The Sabbath Poems

quoth the madman

“The final belief is to believe in a fiction, which you know to be a fiction, there being nothing else. The exquisite truth is to know that it is a fiction and that you believe in it willingly. ”
—Wallace Stevens

literacki

“Every object, every being,
is a jar full of delight.
Be a connoisseur,
and taste with caution.”
- Rumi - The Many Wines

literacki

Always in the middle of a kiss
Came the profane stimulus to cough;
Always from the pulpit during service
Leaned the devil prompting you to laugh.

Behind mock-ceremony of your grief
Lurked the burlesque instinct of the ham;
You never altered your amused belief
That life was a mere monumental sham.

From the comic accident of birth
To the final grotesque joke of death
Your malady of sacrilegious mirth
Spread gay contagion with each clever breath.

Now you must play the straight man for a term
And tolerate the humor of the worm.

~Dirge for a Joker ~ Sylvia Plath

literacki

“We are so knowing.
And all we’ve found out, is primitive sympathetic magic.
Infantile polymorphous perversity.
Everything relates to us and so we’re imprisoned in ourselves
- we can’t see things.”
—A.A. Byatt - Possession

quoth the madman

“The excursion is the same when you go looking for your sorrow as when you go looking for your joy.”
—Eudora Welty

literacki

"What I’m saying is: that day was here and then it was gone, but I remember it, so it exists here somewhere, and somewhere all those events are still happening and still going on forever. I believe that."
—Charles Baxter - The Feast of Love

quoth the madman

"Love is nothing more than instinct; a feeling that some require to live out instinctual urges. A feeling most do not realize is unnecessary. I want it more than anything. ”
—E.H. Pickens

literacki

"People? They usually ask only stupid questions, forcing you to reply with equally stupid answers.
For instance, they ask you what you do, not what you would have liked to do.
They ask you what you own, not what you’ve lost.
They ask about the woman you married, not about the one you love.
About your name, but not if it suits you.
They ask your age, but not how well you’ve lived those years.
They ask about the city you live in, not about the city that lives in you.
And they ask if you pray, not if you fear God. ”

—Ahlam Mosteghanemi - Chaos of the Senses

literacki

"And, of course, that is what all of this is - all of this: the one song, ever changing, ever reincarnated, that speaks somehow from and to and for that which is ineffable within us and without us, that is both prayer and deliverance, folly and wisdom, that inspires us to dance or smile or simply to go on, senselessly, incomprehensibly, beatifically, in the face of mortality and the truth that our lives are more ill-writ, ill-rhymed and fleeting than any song, except perhaps those songs - that song, endlesly reincarnated - born of that truth, be it the moon and June of that truth, or the wordless blue moan, or the rotgut or the elegant poetry of it.
That nameless black-hulled ship of Ulysses, that long black train, that Terraplane, that mystery train, that Rocket '88', that Buick 6 - same journey, same miracle, same end and endlessness."

- Nick Tosches - Where Dead Voices Gather

quoth the madman

“My religion is well known to those who know me.
I believe in bodies, arms entangling and untangling.
I believe, and I know it to be so, that there are so many curves and hollows in a single body that none of us can come to know them all within a single lifetime.
I believe in one to one and one on one. No wine or magic, no hand-me-down Bible can improve on that.
I believe in spring, but only if I’m rolled up in a pillow or holding some well-loved face in my hands …
More often I’m a spectator, meaning I’ve no reason to believe in anything save what I see.
But I do. ”
—Rod McKuen

Sunday, April 25, 2010

quoth the madman

“Why is it we want so badly to memorialize ourselves? Even while we’re still alive. We wish to assert our existence, like dogs peeing on fire hydrants. We put on display our framed photographs, our parchment diplomas, our silver-plated cups; we monogram our linen, we carve our names on trees, we scrawl them on washroom walls.
It’s all the same impulse.
What do we get from it? Applause, envy, respect?
Or simply attention, of any kind we can get?
At the very least we want a witness. We can’t stand the idea of our own voices falling silent finally, like a radio winding down.”
—Margaret Atwood

literacki

“There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. ”
—Oscar Wilde -“The Picture of Dorian Gray”

literacki

It is conceit that kills us and makes us cowards instead of gods.
Under the great Command: Know thy self, and that thou art mortal!

we have become fatally self-conscious, fatally self-important,
fatally entangled in the cocoon coils of our conceit.
Now we have to admit we can’t know ourselves,
we can only know about ourselves.
And I am not interested to know about myself any more,
I only entangle myself in the knowing.
Now let me be myself...
now let me be myself, and flicker forth,
now let me be myself, in the being, one of the gods.
~ Conceit ~D H Lawrence

quoth the madman

“if death meant just leaving the stage long enough to change costume and come back as a new character… would you slow down? or speed up?”

~Chuck Palahniuk

literacki

In love it may be dangerous
to reckon on time to count
on it time’s here and then
it’s gone I’m not thinking
of death or disaster but of
the slippage the unpredictable
disappearance of days on which
we were depending for happiness.

—James Laughlin, ‘Elusive Time’

quoth the madman

"One cannot step twice into the same street, because it is never the same street: from one moment to the next it is four, five, six, a thousand different streets. And yet, on the affective plane, every thing depends on a few salutary temptations, scattered here and there like dice, but which we do not hesitate to qualify as permanent: a few unassailable signposts of magical eternity, strategic inter sections of intimal necessity that let us know, concretely, that we are on the right track, that something momentous is about to happen, and that it depends on us in some still obscure and unsettling fashion.
These defiant signals offered on the run convey the certainty that they are meant for us alone. They are signals of ‘something else’, premonitory glimmers of that which will be perceived darkly and hazardously through the cracks and fissures in the repressive structure of everyday life."

~ First Principles of Surrealism (extract) ~ Andre Breton

quoth the madman

"Lust’s passion will be served; it demands, it militates, it tyrannizes."
—Marquis De Sade

literacki

"Like influence, persuasion is not a recipe, a series of prescriptive guides made up three parts this and one part that. One will never really know how much one did. Whether it was too much, or too little, or just enough. Whether one was the catalyst for another person’s actions or merely the excuse. ”
The Commoner - John Burnham Schwartz

literacki

"Faith is not Desire. Faith is Will. Desires are things that need to be satisfied, whereas Will is a force. Will changes the space around us… ”
—Paulo Coelho -The Witch of Portobello

Saturday, April 24, 2010

literacki

“What kind of a person are you,” I heard them say to me.
I’m a person with a complex plumbing of the soul,
Sophisticated instruments of feeling and a system
Of controlled memory at the end of the twentieth century,
But with an old body from ancient times
And with a God even older than my body.
I’m a person for the surface of the earth.
Low places, caves and wells
Frighten me. Mountain peaks
And tall buildings scare me.
I’m not like an inserted fork,
Not a cutting knife, not a stuck spoon.

I’m not flat and sly
Like a spatula creeping up from below.
At most I am a heavy and clumsy pestle
Mashing good and bad together
For a little taste
And a little fragrance.

Arrows do not direct me. I conduct
My business carefully and quietly
Like a long will that began to be written
The moment I was born.

Now I stand at the side of the street
Weary, leaning on a parking meter.
I can stand here for nothing, free.

I’m not a car, I’m a person,
A man-god, a god-man
Whose days are numbered. Hallelujah.

~ WHAT KIND OF A PERSON ~Yehuda Amichai

quoth the madman

"There is no line between the ‘real world’ and ‘world of myth and symbol.’ Objects, sensations, hit with the impact of hallucination."
—W. S. Burroughs

quoth the madman

"Logic only gives man what he needs... Magic gives him what he wants."
—Tom Robbins

literacki

Love, lay your burden down, here, tell me how
to make this body a safehouse and not
a prison, how to hold your hand when its every lifting
is an act of self-defense, how take the knife from you
and not call it murder, or surrender – the cabdriver,
the cop, the woman gripping her purse
on the L train conspire — you are already a weapon.

I am no building, no shield,
less than cotton between the violent night
and your skin, less than teeth
ground down to bonedust
small, white as I am. ”

Marrying the Violence - Marty McConnell

quoth the madman

"By believing passionately in something that still does not exist, we create it. The nonexistent is whatever we have not sufficiently desired."
—Kafka

quoth the madman

"The majority of well adapted individuals have lost their own self at an early age and replaced it completely by a social self offered to them by society. They have no neurotic conflicts because they themselves… have disappeared."
—Erich Fromm

quoth the madman

"The thing that makes you exceptional, if you are at all, is inevitably that which must also make you lonely."
—Lorraine Hansberry

quoth the madman

"Don’t part with your illusions. When they are gone you may still exist, but you have ceased to live."
—Mark Twain

quoth the madman

"Glory weighs like a precious burden,
Reputation like a fever,
Love wearies, being so searching and serious,
Knowledge never finds anything,
And life achingly passes, knowing all this … ”
—Fernando Pessoa

literacki

"I love your silences, they are like mine. You are the only being before whom I am not distressed by my own silences. You have a vehement silence, one feels it is charged with essences, it is a strangely alive silence, like a trap open over a well, from which one can hear the secret murmur of the earth itself."

-Anaïs Nin - Je suis le plus malade des Surrealistes

overheard on Royal street

Lady on Cell: "OMG his daughter is starting to look just like him.... yeah, man-boobs and all."

overheard on decatur street

Shrill young woman (wearing kitty ears) getting up from table to go to the powder room: "....and I bet the sparrow looks at the parrot and thinks, yes, you can talk, but LISTEN TO YOURSELF! ...be right back..." (trots off)
Young man still seated to other man at table: "Damn Jason, what you must endure..."
Other man: "Yeah.... I just keep telling myself that any day that ends with your genitals intact is a good day."

Friday, April 23, 2010

literacki

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

- In My Craft or Sullen Art - Dylan Thomas

literacki

XVII
Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon,
If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live;
And to give thanks is good, and to forgive.
Out of the mystic and the mournful garden
Where all day through thine hands in barren braid
Wove the sick flowers of secrecy and shade,
Green buds of sorrow and sin, and remnants grey,
Sweet-smelling, pale with poison, sanguine-hearted,
Passions that sprang from sleep and thoughts that started,
Shall death not bring us all as thee one day
Among the days departed?

- Ave Atque Vale - Algernon Charles Swinburne

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=174542

from a to b and back again

karmannghia: nice pic
hellokitteh: 10-Q
karmannghia: I always pictured you more runway, not catalogue.
hellokitteh: yeah, the runway at the airport
karmannghia: you're still gorgeous
hellokitteh: you iz.
karmannghia: no... really.. you are..
hellokitteh: if I had a human head I would agree
karmannghia: have two they're small. you have an outrageously erotic otherness.
hellokitteh: You just admire the depth of my shallowness that's all .
karmannghia: probably, but that makes me more shallow, right? he shoots he scores.
hellokitteh: like they say in chess, "Yahtzee"