Continuation

Recently I started to wonder if I should continue writting this blog. And I think I will - just for myself. I changed my opinion on blogs.

But the continuation will start after my exama - I guess it will be fully understood... ^^

A light in the darkness

"There's a light in the darkness of everybody's life", sang Brad and Janet in my beloved "Rocky Horror Picture Show". So there is one in my annoying life today;
I got some adulation today and I must admit I relished in it. And that motivated me to write a new post.

Another point of light is a poem I came across lately. And fell in love with it. It's been such a long time since I last time read poetry, but I think it'll be good to get used to enjoying it again.


James Schuyler, Korean Mums

beside me in this garden
are huge and daisy-like
(why not? are not
oxeye daisies a chrysanthemum?),
shrubby and thick-stalked,
the leaves pointing up
the stems from which
the flowers burst in
sunbursts. I love
this garden in all its moods,
even under its winter coat
of salt hay, or now,
in October, more than
half gone over: here
a rose, there a clump
of aconite. This morning
one of the dogs killed
a barn owl. Bob saw
it happen, tried to
intervene. The airedale
snapped its neck and left
it lying. Now the bird
lies buried by an apple
tree. Last evening
from the table we saw
the owl, huge in the dusk,
circling the field
on owl-silent wings.
The first one ever seen
here: now it's gone,
a dream you just remember.

The dogs are barking. In
the studio music plays
and Bob and Darragh paint.
I sit scribbling in a little
notebook at a garden table,
too hot in a heavy shirt
in the mid-October sun
into which the Korean mums
all face. There is a
dull book with me,
an apple core, cigarettes,
an ashtray. Behind me
the rue I gave Bob
flourishes. Light on leaves,
so much to see, and
all I really see is that
owl, its bulk troubling
the twilight. I'll
soon forget it: what
is there I have not forgot?
Or one day will forget:
this garden, the breeze
in stillness, even
the words, Korean mums.


Wonderful, isn't it? "(...) its bulk troubling/ the twilight (...)" - my very favourite phrase - so imaginative and melodious.

I cannot remember now who said that it is poetry that makes us humans. Well, when I read poems like this above I feel disposed to add a bit of sense (and sensivity) to my life just with the aid of poetry.

Exhausted

Just exhausted. Does it count as a note?

Ally McBeal

Every time I see 'Ally McBeal' I feel Christmas coming, even if it's in the middle of June. Oh, I know very well that this series is completely unrealistic and that the main character is an naive, incurable romantic who believes in eternal love and wonders, what makes her an exact opposite of me and at the same time a person I secretly wish to be. Perhaps in a small world of Cage&Fish among all these imperfect and slightly mad but absolutely lovable people that would even be possible, unfortunately in the world I live such a woman sipmly won't survive...

Again...

Again, I've completely forgotten about this blog. It's because there is so much to be done and remembered... I cannot imagine how people find time for writing 'real' blogs... Well, actually it's not true what I've written - I've seen lately some blogs while looking for inspiration; and I found nothing, because most of them contain notes like "Breakfast. Asleep. Broken heart. Why are people so cruel? Great party."

So may I try?

Going to sleep. Cat's purring. Melancholy. Carrot cake and milk. Steve Barton's singing.

Suffering and truth

Today I read an essay by Anthony de Mello about awarness and truth. It really stroke me. In brief, he says that it is not important to know what 'myself' is as it is impossible to learn. We should throw away our views and stop searching for truth because truth is not something to be found, it simply is. He also claims, that we suffer because we are asleep. Suffering is given to us to open our eyes for truth, to let us understand that somewhere there is some falsehood. Suffering occurs when our illusions collide with reallity, when falsehood collides with truth. Appart from that there is no suffering.

It is so true, yet resigning form our illusions in aid of truth is... something that seems tough and cruel, but is it such really?

Cat

I know I was to write every day, but I've got a cat (Maine Coon) since Wednesday, so I'm absolutely absorbed with... well, that's the point. I haven't chosen his name yet. I thought of Maurice, Marlowe, Octavio, Marlon, Walter, Richard, Friedrich, Shelly, even Simba (I know, I know, but that's so cute...). In the breed they called him Ares, but the name of the god of war does not really suit him... he's absolutely adorable, blue-grey with white strips, paws, eye rims and muzzle. And honey eyes. And he has tuffs on his ears, like a lynx, and an extremely long and thick tail. Right now he's lying on my arm and wondering what the hell I'm doing at this hour outside our bed. As you can see, I'm not able to talk or write about anything else, so I'd better finish...