The city has been buried under two feet of snow, the landscape is transformed, the white reflective light has a therapeutic effect, gently uplifting. Lack of definition and sharp boundaries blur emotional affect. We may still have thoughts but they may also become blurred, less defined with words. We are very much lost...perhaps we cannot explain.. The snow also affords a visual and bioemotional externalization of interiority. These inner states which somehow cover all pasts, presents and futures, timeless emotional sovereignty, are now visually represented everywhere the eye can see, and the sound absorbent texture of snow muffles reflections, generating the gentle immediacy we so desire. Being is colonized, but without force; nature speaks without speaking. (Seven Nova)
.....one loses both interest and patience with individuals who cannot cleave to any grounded sense of identity, who cannot genuinely convey any sense of comfort within themselves that transcends the pleasure/pain principle, that transcends reactive nature/contrast, who constantly require emotional noise and attention to know who they are/might be, as if identity required the constant drama of narrative flow, tension and counteractive forces. Sanctuary, one dreams of, an ocean of souls who have forfeited identity to the degree that being is optional. Instead, one is at liberty to disappear into the spatial awareness of invisibility.
Sometimes people move to a particular place because it provides the necessary probable futures that catalyze personal evolution. But once those catalysts are exhausted, the realm boundary gaps formerly inviting those experiences become filled in and cause dissonance. This dissonance automatically evokes from the hologram varied catalysts for separation. In other words, when it is time for someone to move to a more fruitful area, improbable events manifest to force relocation. (Tom Montalk)
“To bring about peace in the world, to stop all wars, there must be a revolution in the individual, in you and me. Economic revolution without this inward revolution is meaningless, for hunger is the result of the maladjustment of economic conditions produced by our psychological states; greed, envy, ill-will and possessiveness.
To put an end to this sorrow, to hunger, to war, there must be psychological revolution and few of us are willing to face that. We will discuss peace, plan legislation, create new leagues, the United Nations and so on; but we will not win peace because we will not give up our position, our authority, our money, our properties, our lives.
To rely on others is utterly futile; others cannot bring us peace. No leader is going to give us peace, no government, no army, no country. What will bring peace is inward transformation, which will lead to outward action. Inward transformation is not isolation, is not withdrawal from outward action. On the contrary, there can be right action only when there is right thinking and there is no right thinking when there is no self-knowledge. Without knowing yourself, there is no peace. An Ideal is merely an escape, an avoidance of what is, a contradiction of what is. An ideal prevents direct action upon what is.
To have peace, we will have to love, we will have to begin not to live an ideal life but to see things as they are and act upon them, transform them. As long as each one of us is seeking psychological security, the physiological security we need; food, clothing and shelter, is destroyed.
Some of you will nod your heads and say, “I agree”, and go outside and do exactly the same as you have been doing for the last ten or twenty years. Your agreement is merely verbal and has no significance, for the world’s miseries and wars are not going to be stopped by your casual assent. They will be only stopped when you realize the danger, when you realize your responsibility, when you do not leave it to somebody else. If you realize the suffering, if you see the urgency of immediate action and do not postpone, then you will transform yourself.”
by Shrikaant Saxena Nice to witness this beautiful attempt to bring the best poetic films to cine lovers.These short films from across the globe evoke subtle imagery. There is a noticeable difference between home made films and some of the foreign films e.g. The Elephant is Contagious and some others, I believe, in this very special category, where emphasis is more on imagery, where thought is largely abstract and where sound matters more.
watched from the window as he crossed the street, guitar hanging loosely from
his shoulders. It swung from side to side as he climbed the hill towards the
bit her lip as he disappeared into the crowd. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered,
folding the letter and slipping it into an envelope. She pulled on her coat and
followed him outside.
the stage, he tipped his cap as she walked in, her dark hair swaying loosely
behind. She caught his eye and smiled. My girl, he thought, beaming proudly.
calloused fingers stretched across the strings as he played to the local
hotshots; the nouveau riche, he called them, their voices loud against his
blend of sea shanties and folk.
was the first day of May, the beginning of summer. He’d wanted to sing about
hope. Weddings weren’t his thing (he’d had a few of his own), but he knew
better than to turn down a nice bit of cash for the so-called wedding of the
year. He watched the pitiful faces lined up against the bar, over tanned, overstretched,
bleeding lipstick. They watched their husbands eyeball his girl. She didn’t bat
an eyelid, smiled discreetly as oversized men made lewd comments to each
other and frustrated hands grabbed pints of Guinness. Wives pretended not to notice
while showing off gold on crepey skin, hands swaying exaggeratedly in chat as
they directed gazes away from her. She didn’t seem to notice, just tapped her
foot in time to the music. Glancing in his direction, she gave a consolatory wink as she slipped a hand into
her pocket. He raised his voice, eyes fixed on her…‘you and me babe,
we’re one of a kind…’
paid for,’ announced the barman, handing her a glass of red wine.
you tell him thanks and give him this, please?’ She handed the barman an
envelope before smiling graciously in the direction of the stage.
thing’, he said, placing it on top of the cash register.
give this hoary head a crown of glory… ’ His voice quivered as he strummed.
took a large sip of wine before moving cautiously towards the door. Bodies
pressed against her as she forced her way through the drunken revellers.
the light of a full moon, she buttoned up her coat and glanced through the
window at the dancing silhouettes as they rocked to and fro. -Then, following
the hill downwards, she listened to his voice fade into the evening.
she turns her perfect face upon the world below…’
line, an excerpt from ‘The Moon’ by Emily Dickinson)
William Seward Burroughs is not a talkative man. Once at a dinner he gazed down into a pair of stereo microphones trained to pick up his every munch and said, "I don't like talk and I don't like talkers. Like Ma Barker. You remember Ma Barker? Well, that's what she always said, 'Ma Barker doesn't like talk and she doesn't like talkers.' She just sat there with her gun."
Writing is seeing how close you can come to make it happen, that's the object of all art. What else do they think man really wants, a whiskey priest on a mission he doesn't believe in? I think the most important thing in the world is that the artists should take over this planet because they're the only ones who can make anything happen. Why should we let these fucking newspaper politicians take over from us?