trying to play
If it's not killing me, it is helping me. - Shohaku-san
Again i am reminded how well i can cover up my last mistake w/ the next process.
Taking a lit candle into a smaller room creates the illusion of a brighter light. The glow of illumination becomes stronger in a more limited space; brightening the space for inspection + introspection.
Work that's neither pretty, nor thoughtful. But pretty thoughtful.
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
(Macbeth - through Shakespeare)
Broken and broken again,
Still it is there.
Shhh, i'm researching.
Heraclean tasks of the modern world.
I do not remember changing the oil in my car in my 20s.
Meaningless forced social interaction.
Appreciation / care / gratitude.
I believe in the practice, the ebb + flow that is working w/in the heart of kindness, there is an easy give + take.
i need to be aware of the compassionate moment to be kind + helpful.
Because of fear, rejection, pick any human condition on this side of the scale. i look away, steer away — instead of walking into someone's life for that moment of need.
When asked, How are you?
We simply shrug off the kindness by saying, I’m okay. When it is obvious to both that something is at hand.
Returning to Blake now + again, is re-entering the slipstream. i’m remembering part of the Four Zoas written by Willi Blake, but i need to find it … i am good at drawing, also at drawing blanks.
What is the price of Experience? do men buy it for a song
Or wisdom for a dance in the street? No, it is bought with the price
Of all that a man hath, his house, his wife, his children.
Wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy,
And in the wither'd field where the farmer plows for bread in vain.
It is an easy thing to triumph in the summer's sun
And in the vintage and to sing on the wagon loaded with corn.
It is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted,
To speak the laws of prudence to the houseless wanderer,
To listen to the hungry raven's cry in wintry season
When the red blood is fill'd with wine and with the marrow of lambs.
It is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements,
To hear the dog howl at the wintry door, the ox in the slaughter house moan;
To see a god on every wind and a blessing on every blast;
To hear sounds of love in the thunder storm that destroys our enemies' house;
To rejoice in the blight that covers his field, and the sickness that cuts off his children,
While our olive and vine sing and laugh round our door, and our children bring fruits and flowers.
Then the groan and the dolor are quite forgotten, and the slave grinding at the mill,
And the captive in chains, and the poor in the prison, and the soldier in the field
When the shatter'd bone hath laid him groaning among the happier dead.
It is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity:
Thus could I sing and thus rejoice: but it is not so with me.
I read this as a confession + an apology.
It is poetry, it is telescoped, this is only part of the work, there is much more...
A simple note in my apologetic conversation remorse way.
Chopped up + spread over a page w/out much notice.