“The soil in which the meditative mind can begin is the soil of everyday life, the strife, the pain, and the fleeting joy. It must begin there, and bring order, and from there move endlessly. But if you are concerned only with making order, then that very order will bring about its own limitation, and the mind will be its prisoner. In all this movement you must somehow begin from the other end, from the other shore, and not always be concerned with this shore or how to cross the river. You must take a plunge into the water, not knowing how to swim. And the beauty of meditation is that you never know where you are, where you are going, what the end is.”
—Jiddu Krishnamurti
December 2011
November 2011
Sleepless at Midnight
Being sleepless at midnight,
I rise to play lute.
The moon is visible through the curtains
And a gentle breeze sways the cords of my robe.
A lonely wild goose cries in the wilderness
And is echoed by birds in the woods.
As it circles, it gazes
At me, alone, imbued with sadness.
Ruan Ji (210 - 263)
Poetbabble: A Love of Form is a Love of Endings →
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Poetry is an art of beginnings and ends. You want middles, read novels. You want happy endings, read cookbooks. Not closure, word filched from self-help fuzzing the argument. The ever-grudge of love and endsville. I believe in scars and making scars shine. Kaput. Form is the shape of the selecting intelligence because time is running out. Form enacts fatality. To pretend otherwise is obfuscation, philosophical hubbub. A lie. We die. We go to art to learn the unlearnable, experience the unexperienceable. Art reports back. Form is the connect, primal haunt, carbon chain end-stopped. You can tell it’s late because we prefer the songs of Orpheus after he’s torn apart.
- Dean Young, The Art of Recklessness
