16 Mar 2006

Who of us is to wonder at the secret lives of trees?
To wonder if in the susurrus there is an eldritch whisper?
Otherwise in constant dictation of the Book of Silence.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

14 Mar 2006

We are each of us alone, though many conversations do make us forget that — and a few remind us of it.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

Through much dreaming, I have traveled to these distant shores. And something always presses me on, on, when sometimes I would like to stop and look at all the things that surround me: such is the curse of mortality, it would seem. I dine on the barest scraps of meaning, anything that will fuel me towards some end I have only a vague idea of what it might be. Much dreaming I imagine is yet to come, and many of them I cannot make sense of, and I shrug off, wondering for a moment if it could be some sort of warning. Where I am, I see no footprints around me, but I notice I leave very little traces of myself here, as well: the rarefied landscape swallows much in just the grandness of its expanse, for not many can have been here, and the few (if that many) could go around simultaneously and never meet one another, I might think. Then, too, I believe myself to be completely alone, from time to time, a thought that can terrify me if I let it, or send me to bliss at the notion….

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

13 Mar 2006

“As if from some fluid metainferences about this becoming, and that, my imagination’s muse has washed down from the specter of these, my considerations, all the ulterior renderings of purpose that I had girded up — and which were only sand, piles of deteriorating and futile fortresses, fantasy that had no extension in any viable future.” … And so, what did I say? It was as if I moved my mouth and things came out, didn’t it seem so? It was about loss, if I remember, what has just passed, about some water that was not specifically stated. It was about illusion, which was mentioned as sand — about illusions of what was thought to be, about what I understood as what was meant to be for me. And there it is, beginning with the made-up word, starting with “meta”, and which one supposes could have meaning as it may have been intended: possible answers about the answering itself, about how things change.

But what was I trying to say? I forgot to mention the inspiration, and perhaps it had to do with the statement itself that I was making, if one were to put it under a psychoanalysis of verbiage — but let me not start again with the flowery prose. I was inspired to deconstruct what I had been thinking, about where I was going, and implicitly, I was wondering to what end I was doing what I do. For it is such with many of the castles we erect to house the dreams that propel us: that they are made of such stuff that the most casual of cleansing thought (any pure stream of reasoning) will carry off with its current all that we thought was bearing the load. And all we have left is the ghost of our decisions. But I suppose the one thing that is missing from all this is the hope: so let me end it with something I leave you to figure out on your own, that picks up right after the word “future”, above (with humor): “Or so it seemed.”

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

11 Mar 2006

What the head makes cloudy
The heart makes very clear
The days were so much brighter
In the time when she was here
But I know there’s somebody somewhere
Make these dark clouds disappear
Until that day, I have to believe
I believe, I believe

In a new york minute
Everything can change
In a new york minute
You can get out of the rain
In a new york minute
Everything can change
In a new york minute

– The Eagles

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

Henri Rousseau: The Dream

Click on the pic for a larger version.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

10 Mar 2006

Rumbling

The flight of my desire
across the airy lights of dreaming,
across the starry dreaming of wonder,
fire that consumed me without pain,
where I reached out into the expanse of imagining,
hand wet with the dewy dawn I touched
where beginning began,
where ending fluttered away,
and I was nowhere and everywhere
in the prophecies of stardust,
understanding in a stream of inklings
why meant to be meant me.

I say the purpose of all doubt
is lost to those who have no wish to be wise,
and the houses of our souls
overlooks such grand chasms
between even the empathy and experience,
but I believe that we are similar sounds
in some of the deeper notes,
for I, too, am oft skeptical
that any of us ever had any hope,
that any of us in truth ever won:
even when he had it all and a half,
how many the times when the love was empty sugar,
and success merely a cookie shell
of a house that crumbled open to a hollow echo?

In stupid reaching, splendidly have I failed,
and though spit into the spillway rocks like contagion,
such heartbreaks I recommend to anyone,
for glorious they can be,
that kind of headlong tragedy,
for in such dirty ovens hearts are forged,
in such stark waters steel spirits tempered,
and I could not dream to cook
music sweeter than the scales of gravity measure
if I did not know that from so far down
can one lurch forth with the barest knuckles
and with the greatest of heaves
take wing above it all,
to sing like the Star of Bethlehem itself.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

9 Mar 2006

We may look into a church, almost any church, and discover someone who, though he is offered a gospel of love, must subtly convert it into a gospel of hate before he can receive it. The gospel of love — with its emphasis upon brotherhood, equality before God, the dignity of every human being, and man’s social responsibility toward man — does not satisfy the lack that he urgently feels. That calls for something altogether different, for an assurance that he is superior, that he is right where others are wrong — a kind of cosmic teacher’s pet.

– Bonaro W. Overstreet

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

I search for elusive things, and imagine that they are worth chasing because of their rarity; and I wonder if I will know when I find them the real reason why I go in the first place on their trail. For I know enough that I realize I know very little, and every time I am sure of something, that with such pride cometh the fall — though too, I never do stop conjecturing why a certain thing is, or might be. Or shall I put it another way: when will I get a clue? Is it that we are fated never to truly know why, not while we bumble and stumble around upon this bare earth; is giving up trying to understand the true understanding? Seems like a lot of work just to throw in the towel. There are those who have been as if they had some higher order of understanding, but I imagine that I am not like them, I am not the one in a billion who grasps the wispy secrets of heaven. But then again, nothing will stop me from those moments that come, and they do come: when I look up at the stars, and in a childlike sense of wonder, feel among everything around me as if I belong….

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

7 Mar 2006

For we do not know how little deserving we are of the tender mercies of Heaven. For we have had the protection from on high from the very first. Such is the nature of the world that to realize what things were given us would be a cruel deprivation of the very basic, for it would mean to do without them, the smallest comforts of life. We are not thankful because we have no clue that we are blessed, most of us. Though it would probably do us good in our understanding, some drastic deprivation for a short time (perhaps three days without food?), we are further blessed by being able to understand such things just by thinking. It is something akin to growing up, which not all of us will do. The child, in an average middle class, has no thought to the roof over his head, or the meals at his table. So, too, are we about the grander things of this world. Consider the things we usually never think about, for we have such power. Just look around you, any day, anywhere. And be very, very thankful.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

6 Mar 2006

Being busy dying is not so much being busy. Busy being born usually doesn’t know what that means.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

Dreams will come true in unexpected ways, but it happens,
or at least, dreams are made of such stuff as to make us believe it:
else such species of ideation would have evolved out of us.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

4 Mar 2006

And in these days
When darkness falls early
And people rush home
To the ones they love
You better take a fool’s advice
And take care of your own
One day they’re here;
Next day they’re gone

I pulled my coat around my shoulders
And took a walk down through the park
The leaves were falling around me
The groaning city in the gathering dark
On some solitary rock
A desperate lover left his mark,
“Baby, I’ve changed, please come back.”

– The Eagles

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

Juan Gris: Man in the Cafe

Click on the pic for a larger version.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

3 Mar 2006

All God’s revelations are sealed to us until they are opened to us by obedience. You will never get them open by philosophy or thinking. Immediately you obey, a flash of light comes. Let God’s truth work in you by soaking in it, not by worrying into it. Obey God in the thing He is at present showing you, and instantly the next thing is opened up. We read tomes on the work of the Holy Spirit when… five minutes of drastic obedience would make things clear as a sunbeam. We say, “I suppose I shall understand these things some day.” You can understand them now: it is not study that does it, but obedience. The tiniest fragment of obedience, and heaven opens up and the profoundest truths of God are yours straight away. God will never reveal more truth about Himself till you obey what you know already. Beware of being wise and prudent.

– Oswald Chambers

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:02 am

There are those instances where I feel as if it will all come crashing down. As if all the realities in my life are a thin veneer, a delicate structure made of cards, and that I hold on by the barest thread. I understand that it is probably due to the slightest imbalance of chemicals streaming through my neurons, but that comprehension holds little sway on the way that I feel about the whole of the world. I casually think about the greater implications: how civilization itself could be seen as a collective dream of a billion beasts — and what will happen if they awake? … But I remember that I have felt this way before, and the world has not ended, not even this little one in which my personal experience dwells. I calm, and I stir the air within my mind to brush away the ill humors. For it is the opposite of how I feel: however intense the feeling of frailty, that is the illusion, and the things that function in my life are the solidities. Such are the pitfalls of the soul; that the whisper of bad things we hear, and the ordinary assurances spoken every day, we forget them all so easily.

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

2 Mar 2006

When time begins again, we shall see that all ending is illusion.

In dreaming, meeting yourself is more than just a metaphor.

I desired to fly until I became satisfied in understanding gravity.

The question is not death by fire or ice, but life by fire or ice.

All wisdom says that to be or not to be was never the question.

To fight with destiny is like setting a net for your shadow.

The unknown wise man said to me, “I’m famous in Heaven.”

posted by John H. Doe @ 12:01 am

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