All of a sudden everything changed

All of a sudden, everything changed.
Why did I answer your call?
You said I was right. We are estranged.
All of a sudden, everything changed.
It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t arranged.
You left. And that is all.
All of a sudden, everything changed.
Why did I answer your call?

*Painting “Tityrus Meliboea and the departure of Gauguin” by Pauls Serusier, 1892.

*Birdle Burble

 

I went out of my mind and then came to my senses

By meeting a magpie who mixed up his tenses,

Who muddled distinctions of nouns and of verbs,

And insisted that logic is bad for the birds.

With a poo-wee cluck and a chit, chit-chit;

The grammar and meaning don’t matter a bit.

 

The stars in their courses have no destination;

The train of events will arrive at no station;

The inmost and ultimate Self of us all

Is dancing on nothing and having a ball.

So with chat for chit and with tat for tit,

This will be that, and that will be It!

 

 

*The poem above is taken from Alan Watt’s “Nonsense”.

**Painting “Magpies” by Archibald Thorburn, 1905.

 

* I prefer dongulation

It is, I think, increasingly clear that parameters of this kind provide an essential corrective to the obsession of sanity. More and more, one feels that free and dominant methods are loud, tough, and frequent. Obviously, closed corners must be very carefully under-rated; otherwise, popular notions of frame and texture will show that the entire system is purely academic, and that the particular point of convergent energies is that they are finally globular.
Cows are, naturally, free of dust. But stops are most difficult to try. The real problem is that quills are too fat, and until we can easily connect ideas with tassles the function will be empty. Not that this would be equal: it is only that disproportionate combinations have an existential dimension which is, all too often, gullible.
On the whole, I prefer dongulation. It is prepid, snord, and tart, and the vallifaction of an estimate is grolic. Churdles and mards will always require fronicks, and lapsy daddles are usually bequeathed to the snorder kind of lumpens. Bolliwots are frankly bespoken, and every mutter-hound is a preposterous garble of tonsils. I have no wish to be snerdily previous: It is merely that wumpens and drabs are vollible, and that any further toculation would be groanly unspecified.

 

*Quotation above are taken from Alan Watt’s “Nonsense”

**Painting “Laughing Hotei” by Kogan Genge

* I have a rendezvous with Death – Alan Seeger

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows ‘twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear…
But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

*Poem by Alan Seeger

 

Words that inspire: I’m helping to build a cathedral

It surprises me how often we hold ourselves back until we have no choice.

….

Three guys laying bricks are asked why they’re doing it. The first guy says, “I’m doing it for the wages.” The second guy says, “I’m doing it to support my family.” The third guy says: “I’m helping to build a cathedral.”

….

Put your dream in a lockbox, go out and make Fuck You money, then come back to the lockbox and pick up where you left off. I met plenty who tried, but none who succeeded.

….

Seek out that at which you might fail. And just keep going. Take more risk. Plow ahead.

….

Is it better to succeed at something you don’t really believe in, or is it better to fail at something you really do believe in?

…

Our fears should be attacked, not run from. From our deepest wounds come our greatest gifts.

…

The things we really want to do are usually the ones that scare us the most.

…

Usually, all we get is a glimmer. A story we read or someone we briefly met. A curiosity. A meek voice inside, whispering. It’s up to us to hammer out the rest.

 

*Quotations above are taken from Po Bronson’s “What should I do with my life?”

** Painting “Sketch to the portrait of a builder” by Kazimir Malevich

Scared. Frightened. And not afraid.

Scared. Frightened. And not afraid.

Involved. Immersed. And not drowning.

Bitter. Sad. And not depressed.

Enraged. Annoyed. And not angry.

Unseeing. Eyeless. And not blind.

Ill. Impaired. And not sick.

Useless. Vain. And not futile.

Mute. Speechless. And not silent.

Demolished. Crushed. And not broken.

Far. Gone. And not away.

*Painting – Scarecrow by Candido Portinari (1959)

Not nibbled by mosquitoes

Not nibbled by mosquitoes
but killed by a lion.
A mountain in the meadows,
not nibbled by mosquitoes.
Light touching, throwing shadows.
Breath – longer than an aeon.
Not nibbled by mosquitoes
but killed by a lion.

 

*Painting “Lion Licking Its Paw” by Henry Ossawa Tanner, 1886.

Not even for nothing*

Triumph of pain – treachery of the eyes, the ears, the skin. One has to trudge through this desert all one’s life. To see and to hear. To hear and see. To eat. To laugh. To talk, smoke, drink. To feel. To procreate. To write. To breathe. To be in pain. To bleed, to tremble. To be angry. To suffer. To cry out, to sleep, to wait. Fatigue is everywhere. There is no way, really no way of avoiding it. One has to toil, to feel hot, to feel cold. To caress. To enjoy. To understand, to understand without pause. Every day. Like that, every day, without exception. To urinate. To taste. To let oneself be carried away by useless words. To adopt paces and habits. To seek for phrases, to stretch one’s ears and eyes, to stretch one’s skin. To pretend to love, to love really, perhaps. All that, not even for nothing; for it’s not even possible to resort to nothingness so as to determine one’s life; man is not alone; vulgar, garish things inhabit him, shape him. There’s no way of judging. There is no absurdity, for there is not even any separation between what is and what ought to be. God, if he exists, must be left in full control: never, no, never, shall we really know what a little worm man is.

*The text above is taken from the story “A day of old age” written by J.M.G. Le Clezio.

 

You pass me by

I walk the street. You pass me by.
Our eyes meet. You pass me by.
We laugh, we smile.You pass me by.
And all this while you pass me by.

Seconds run and pass me by.
One by one. They pass me by.
Silently they pass me by.
For what, I ask, they pass me by?

Stop, I beg, don’t pass me by.
Walk nearby, don’t pass me by.
Unknowingly you pass me by.
Why do you always pass me by?

*Painting “Harlequinade” by Albert Bloch, 1911.

Goodnight I say to you, my morning

 

Goodnight I say to you, my morning.
How was your day, I greet the night.
In this life, what’s worth exploring?
Is there something worth a fight?

Goodnight I say to you, my sunshine.
How was your day, I greet the gloom.
Close to my lips I hold a glass of wine
and sip it slowly till I reach my tomb.

Goodnight I say to you, my sunrise.
How was your life, I greet the dead.
Ignore the ground, ignore the skies,
what matters most is in your head.

Goodnight I say to you, my summer.
How was the snow, I greet the spring.
My piercing eyes fell into a slumber.
I cannot see clearly any thing.

Good morning I say to you, my late hour.
How was your night, I greet the day.
On nonsense I’ve spent my time and power,
while hoping to prolong this decay.

 

*Painting “Morning” by Caspar David Friedrich.

Words, do not leave me, please

Words, do not leave me, please.
Stay with me and hold me close.
Words, I beg you on my knees.
Words, do not leave me, please.
Words, come and be at ease.
Say something that no one knows.
Words, do not leave me, please.
Stay with me and hold me close.

*Painting “Pheidippides giving word of victory” by Luc-Olivier Merson, 1869.

Raindrops beating upon my face

Raindrops beating upon my face
as the wind outside is whistling.
The sun has fled without a trace,
With thorns my life is bristling.

Shadows move around in dance
as snowflakes drift from the silent sky.
Lost in my thoughts I walk in a trance,
Is there more than meets the eye?

Oceans full with shallow waters
as mountains sing sweet lullabies.
Tell me, friend, what really matters,
what’s worth to know and memorize?

Darkness looms through deserted lands
as rainbows greet the passersby.
Whose footprints run into these sands?
So far away and yet nearby.

Broken candles burning brightly
but all my rooms are dimly lit.
I close my eyes ever so slightly
to see the light that I emit.

 

*Painting “Man Standing, Arms Extended” by Paul Cezanne, 1878.

Play the cards you get, my friend

Play the cards you get, my friend.
Play the cards to the very end.
Play them uncomplainingly.
Play them freely, willingly.
Though the stakes may not be worth the winning,
Every day can be a new beginning.
Play the hand you have been dealt,
No matter what your heart has felt.
And if the game may not be worth the while,
face every moment with a smile.
Play the cards you get, my friend.
Play them bravely to the end.

 

*Painting “The Card Players” by  Paul Cezanne, 1893.

Let us spend our time alone

Let us spend our time alone
In silence, without talking.
Searching for wisdom’s stone,
Let us spend our time alone
And cultivate what we have sown.
Come, let’s keep on walking.
Let us spend our time alone
In silence, without talking.

 

*Painting “The Way of Silence” by Frantisek Kupka, 1903.

To take all things as they are

To take all things as they are
and adjust my life to what must be.
Then in this world I’ll go far
beyond what any eyes can see.

To say not one dishonest word
and avoid all sham and deceit.
Then my mind’s eye won’t be blurred
and life will seem more upbeat.

To make the most of my lonely hours
and quit day dreaming about the past.
Then I’ll tap into my hidden powers
and live my life with joy at last.

To do what no one has done before
but know that I’m like the rest.
Then I’ll find a cause to fight for
and live my life with zeal and zest.

But I take all things as they are not
and try to sink my inner ship.
Thus my efforts come to nought –
what a splendid ego trip!

 

*Painting “Small Girl Presenting Cherries” by John Russell, 1780.

With no plan, with no purpose

With no plan, with no purpose
I walk around in circles.
I feel calm, not nervous.
With no plan, with no purpose.

With no worry, with no fear
My path is straight and clear.
Here I am to disappear.
With no worry, with no fear.

With no hope, with no promise
I look into the silent abyss.
Everything has gone amiss.
With no hope, with no promise.

With no thought, with no mind
My eyes are dark and blind.
Myself I daily lose and find.
With no thought, with no mind.

With no sorrow, with no pain
I repeat my sins again.
I cannot cleanse this ugly stain.
With no sorrow, with no pain.

*Painting “Planning for the Future” by Basuki Abdullah

 

There is no future, friend

There is no future, friend.
No other life to spend.
Clear out your mind, unbend.
Death really is the end.

There is no future, friend.
So why you still pretend
that broken things you can mend
and that death is not the end?

There is no future, friend.
No peaks and mountains to ascend.
Against the stream though you may wend,
your path quite soon will find its end.

There is no future, friend.
No truth or honor to defend.
To live forever you may intend,
but when death calls, it is the end.

There is no future, friend.
On no god you can depend.
This life you cannot transcend.
Death really is the end.

There is no future, friend.
No other life to spend.
Clear out your mind, unbend.
Death really is the end.

*Painting “Graveyard under Snow” by Caspar David Friedrich, 1826.

I hear the sounds of one hand clapping

I hear the sounds of one hand clapping
and point my finger to the moon.
My life in part I spend napping,
hoping not to wake up too soon.

I see this world through the windows
of my dark and blurred eyes.
What lies outside, who really knows?
Who can pretend to be so wise?

I listen to how people speak
about the current world affairs.
Have they found what they seek
and got an answer to their prayers?

I touch the sky with my fingertips
and breathe the universe in me.
With this life I’ve come to grips
as far as I can tell and see.

I catch my shadows in the nearby park
and try to get lost in the trees.
I dare to fail and miss my mark.
Thus to live in peace and ease.

*Painting “Left hand with the index finger” by Vasily Polenov, 1885.

Open up the closet door

Open up the closet door,
let the skeleton come out.
With a violent cry and a mighty roar,
strive to overcome your doubt.

Leave your skeleton to roam
freely at its pace and will.
Where he is, there is your home –
a place to rest and to stand still.

Look at his pale blue face
with neither fear nor shame,
Longing for a warm embrace,
into your life he came.

Let him do what he wants,
but you observe patiently.
See what ghosts he seeks and hunts,
know the place where he likes to be.

And lock your soul in that place
where your skeleton had been.
Then a smile won’t leave your face,
anew your life will begin.

*Painting “Funeral Symphony” by Mikalojus Ciurlionis, 1903.

It matters not one bit

What the world may think of me,
it matters not one bit.
Whether chained, enslaved or free
my life is as I see it.

What I do for good or ill,
it matters not one bit.
Nothing I do of my own will,
only what my genes permit.

How high I seem to climb,
it matters not one bit.
All things come in good time
to those who never quit.

How many small ambitions I have achieved,
it matters not one bit.
My brain is tricked and deceived
to think as I see fit.

And if our lives fell short,
it matters not one bit.
No one is a different sort.
to death we all submit.

*Painting “A Boor Asleep” by Adriaen Brouwer.