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mercredi, mars 04, 2009
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When love beckons to you follow him, Though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you yield to him, Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you believe in him, Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden. For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth. Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself. He threshes you to make you naked. He sifts you to free you from your husks. He grinds you to whiteness. He kneads you until you are pliant; And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast. All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart. But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure, Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor, Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears. Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself. Love possesses not nor would it be possessed; For love is sufficient unto love. When you love you should not say, "God is in my heart," but rather, I am in the heart of God." And think not you can direct the course of love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course. Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself. But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires: To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love; And to bleed willingly and joyfully. To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving; To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy; To return home at eventide with gratitude; And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips. - The Prophet
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jeudi, janvier 08, 2009
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When I look at an image, it doesn't occur to me that it might ruin my composure, or alter the way I think, or change my mind about myself.
I do some background reading and take some notes. That way I come at a painting well armed with thoughts and problems. Each idea from a book is like a little tranquilizer.
"The painter will move to laughter, but not to tears, for tears are greater disturbance of the emotion than laughter." Leonardo's Paragon.
Why is it ok to cry over a movie and not a painting? Is this not art too? Why don't images provoke the mind?
Our society is so numb.
For them the eyes are intellectual organs, made for scrutinizing the world, and the mind's business is to keep control of passions. But ascetics forget that in addition to seeing, the eye is an organ that cries; and in addition to thinking, the mind is an organ that slumps into a miasma of confusion, or burns up in a storm of incomprehensible passions.
A few art historians who wrote me did express unhappiness about the fact that they had never cried. It's mostly things like..'Oh, how wonderful!' … or else they are just discussing the details of the picture, or trying to find out what the symbols mean, or other technical stuff.
I feel bothered by crowds around me. I hate to have to share all the beautiful paintings with other people.
Like a drug, history takes me out of myself, saves me from myself. It shelters me from the raw, unpredictable encounter with artworks: It's safe, it's calm, and it's entertaining. It's very pleasure. It has all the traits of a deadly drug.
History is an addiction, and there is no cure.
-James Elkins
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lundi, décembre 29, 2008
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For the most wild yet homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. Mad I would be to expect it. In a case where my very senses reject their own existence Yet mad am I not. And very surely do I not dream. But tomorrow I die and to-day I would unburden my soul.
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mardi, décembre 02, 2008
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Boys are tools and girls are catty.
This reminds me of blue berries on a sunny after noon.
I'm just about to eat them, when I'm told there for pie.
Sugary coated butter filled disaster.
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vendredi, novembre 14, 2008
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When there's a problem, I like to address it and solve it. That doesn't always work in the, "real world." Humans are very complicated creators. Females and males sometimes don't get along. People don't always get along. Individuality questions its self to find the inner being. This is apart of our nature. The individual can even argue with his/her self with out being perceived as crazy. My point, diplomacy works. But who has time for more paper work and long lectures? We run off of feelings; these emotions can drive us to great ambitions or heart aces. They are apart of our chemical balance that makes us unique. With so many different people there will always be problems in this universe; we can't grasp the concept of what we are without knowing who we are. Our species dominates this planet but when communication ends in any level of society we fail.
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lundi, novembre 03, 2008
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Do I choose to be a self-determined person or do I choose to be defined by others?
We are born into a world that we did not choose to be in and that we did not make. However, we possess the personal power, the will, to make choices and to create our own purposes for existence.
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samedi, novembre 01, 2008
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And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted - nevermore!
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samedi, novembre 17, 2007
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"When to the sessions of sweet silent thought"
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long-since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor'd, and sorrows end.
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mercredi, septembre 20, 2006
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- Jesus

...Enslaves

- Light and Dark Contrast : reflected with yellow.

- My youth my hope my heart : and yes your garden too can be this beautiful

-Past

-Future

- Old Life

- Art that never dies
"If you get simple beauty and naught else,
You get about the best thing God Invents:
That's somewhat: And you'll find the soul you have missed,
Within yourself, when you return him thanks.
"Rub all out!" Well, well, there's my life, in short. " -Browning
Wake up and start reading again.
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dimanche, septembre 17, 2006
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