all we love we leave behind.
i passed so many vacant acres and looked past them to so many more vacant acres and looked ahead and behind at the empty road and up at the empty sky; the sheer bigness of the world made me feel lonely to the bone. the world is so huge that people are always getting lost in it. there are too many ideas and things and people, too many directions to go. i was starting to believe that the reason it matters to care passionately about something is that it whittles the world down to a more manageable size. it makes the world seem not huge and empty but full of possibility. if i had been an orchid hunter i wouldn’t have seen this space as sad-making and vacant - i think i would have seen it as acres of opportunity where the things i loved were waiting to be found.
* on the orchid thief: a true story of beauty and obsession.
like you, i have forgotten. like you, i wanted my memory to be inconsolable, a memory of shadow and stone. i struggle for myself, everyday, with all my might, against the horror of no longer understanding the reason for remembering. like you, i have forgotten. why deny the obvious need to remember? listen to me, listen to me once more, it will start again.
i am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something i only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones. basically it is nothing other than this fear we have so often talked about, but fear spread to everything, fear of the greatest as of the smallest, fear, paralyzing fear of pronouncing a word, although this fear may not only be fear but also a longing for something greater than all that is fearful.
* kafka, on a letter to milena.
let us remind our poor men folk in dead and song
there are two types of men in this womanly world:
those who know they are weak,
those who think they are strong.
once i had a friend.
he had a big heart. and his heart kept getting bigger and bigger everyday. he died because his heart was too big. “cardiomyopathy” said the experts.
it can really hurt to have a big heart these days.
what do you most dislike about contemporary culture?
industrially sanctioned unkindness.
kafka, unknown date.
i went into the stable myself, saddled my horse and mounted it. in the distance i heard the sound of a french horn, i asked him what that meant. he knew nothing and had heard nothing. at the gate he stopped me and asked: “where are you riding to, master?” “i don’t know,” i said, “just away from here, just away from here. on and on away from here, only in this way can i reach my goal.” “so you know your goal?” he asked. “yes,” i replied, “i’ve just told you: ‘away-from-here,’ that is my goal.”
* on the departure.
the a priori energy potential of both radiation and gravity are initially equal but whose respective behavioral patterns are such that radiation’s entropic, redundant disintegratings, is always less effective than gravity’s nonredundant, syntropic integrating.
radiation is plural and differentiable, radiation is focusable, beamable, and self-sinusing, it is interceptible, separatist, and biasable – ergo, has shadowed voids and vulnerabilities;
gravity is unit and undifferentiable, gravity is comprehensive, inclusively embracing and permeative, is nonfocusable and shadowless, and is omni-integrative, all of which characteristics of love.
love is metaphysical gravity.
* on critical path.
i am a tree,
i show my age when i don’t cry. i have the leaves that will fall off when wind blows by. don’t strip off my bark, i have been stripped of it before. yesterday’s gone and tomorrow has so much more in store.
you are a bird, you’re taking off in every way. say the last word until there is nothing more to say. don’t interrupt, you know the squirrels are my friends. get off my limb, for i will break before i bend.
i’m planning to see, i’m planning to feel you all over me. so climb up my trunk and build on your nest, come and get the sap out if me.
i am a tree.
fruitless and free.
touch me and see.
i am a tree, counting my rings will do no good. i won’t live long but i would be with you if i could. when you take flight, remember me to one who lives there. since you have flown, there’s something special in the air.
that is the quality which dance music has — no other: it stirs some barbaric instinct — lulled asleep in our sober lives — you forget centuries of civilization in a second, & yield to that strange passion which sends you madly whirling round the room — oblivious of everything save that you must keep swaying with the music — in & out, round & round — in the eddies & swirls of the violins. it is as though some swift current of water swept you along with it. it is magic music. here the bars run low, passionate, regretful, but always in the same pulse. we dance as though we knew the vanity of dancing. we dance to drown our sorrows — but dance, dance — if you stop you are lost. this one night we will be mad — dance lightly — raise our hearts as the beat strengthens, grows buoyant — careless, defiant. what matters anything so long as ones step is in time — so long as one’s whole body & mind are dancing too — what shall end it?
* in passionate apprentice: the early journals, 1897-1909 (1992).
lady, i will touch you with my mind.
touch you and touch and touch
until you give
me suddenly a smile,shyly obscene
(lady i will
touch you with my mind.)touch
you,that is all,
lightly and you utterly will become
with infinite care
the poem which i do not write.