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.
i think photography has been wrestling with a burden of telling the truth, which i don’t think it was ever particularly good at.
when the soul of the city was laid to rest and the night’s forgotten and left for dead, i happened on a house built of living light, where everything evil disappears and dies. i settled in slowly to this house that you call home. to blood and breath, fear, flesh and bone. we’ll shove our bodies in the heat of the night. all day, the day after, blood in the skies. born of a bottle from heaven’s hand and now you know and here i am. it’s a lifeless life, with no fixed address to give, but you’re not mine to die for anymore, so i must live.
when they love you - and they will - tell ‘em all they’ll love in my shadow. and if they try to slow you down tell ‘em all to go to hell.
i detest the masculine point of view. i am bored by his heroism, virtue, and honour. i think the best these men can do is not talk about themselves anymore.
* for the london society for woman’s service.
on some nights, though, when the shadows in the room are subtly wrong, when the familiar street looks like an abandoned film set, or a painting of itself perversely come to life, we are confronted by truly disturbing sights, oppressive apparitions which almost make us doubt we’re awake, or, if awake, sane. i can’t catalogue these visions, for most, mercifully, are blurred by morning, leaving only a vague uneasiness and a reluctance to be alone even in the brightest sunshine.
* on scatter my ashes.
there are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them piteously in the eyes - die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. now and then, alas, the conscience of man takes up a burden so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only into the grave. and thus the essence of all crime is undivulged.
* in the man of the crowd.