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.
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
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
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.
Everything that I know, I am sure, I know not.
Everything that I have truly learned I have forgotten.
My own opinions I view with great suspicion.
Feeling that I am right I know that I am wrong.
Only in doubts I remain certain and assured.
Theories that I have proved I consider refuted.
Beliefs that I hold firmly I consider false.
Views with which I agree I regard as misguided.
I disregard the evidence that I have gathered.
My sight is blurred and my vision – myopic.
How could I cast the last stone?
How could I have the keys to every cave and alley?
My experiences are a spider’s web of prejudices and biases.
I abhor sentiments which reflect my own.
People that I regularly meet are strangers to me.
My brothers are ghosts and my sisters are shadows.
Books are the altars on which I sacrifice my hours
and all the letters in the world are the articles of my faith.
I am a dance in a step
and a song in a note.
I am a book in a word
and a poem in a verse.
I am alphabet in a letter
and infinity in a number.
I am a machine in a ghost
and a shell in a pearl. Continue reading
It was in the autumn of 1826. I was in a dull state of nerves, such as everybody is occasionally liable to; unsusceptible to enjoyment or pleasurable excitement; one of those moods when what is pleasure at other times, becomes insipid or indifferent; the state, I should think, in which converts to Methodism usually are, when smitten by their first “conviction of sin.” In this frame of mind it occurred to me to put the question directly to myself: “Suppose that all your objects in life were realized; that all the changes in institutions and opinions which you are looking forward to, could be completely effected at this very instant: would this be a great joy and happiness to you?” And an irrepressible self-consciousness distinctly answered, “No!” At this my heart sank within me: the whole foundation on which my life was constructed fell down. All my happiness was to have been found in the continual pursuit of this end. The end had ceased to charm, and how could there ever again be any interest in the means? I seemed to have nothing left to live for.
*The passage above comes from the Autobiography of John Stuart Mill.