Will I remember this day only as the time… when there was so much hope, when so much seemed possible? For such times have always happened, as far back as there was time itself, and in my thinking, many of those times have come and passed: when it seemed like anything could happen, and then nothing did. What came of them, what became of those fires, that lit all the senses in their ignitions? I wonder now what shall befall me, what will become of these inspirations — as time relentlessly presses on, does its best to wear down the every mechanism it sets in motion. This is the test of a man, I think: just for a moment to outrace the decay, and taste of that Tree of Life he was denied in Eden. One must decide to do what he can. Make something of hope.

I might as well face the fact that for all the fancy titles I’ve held (well, maybe not that fancy, but “Software Engineer…” hm…), I’m still a hacker at heart. That’s how I started: unstructured, undisciplined, whatever I can throw into it to get it to work, printf’s to debug… a hacker. My life has been a lot like that, and I might think it is no mistake that the two are so related. I’ve never structured these hours that I am waking upon the world like perhaps I should; I’ve never had the discipline in anything, really, that I’ve ever done. And so, right now I may say that I have apollonian desires, but a dionysian heart: to make something that not only is itself organized, but which is to increase the order of the world around it; and yet what I create I do so without real planning. I do not know if I will succeed, with how I go about things; but perhaps if the desire itself is strong enough, the method of achievement is little but the utensils to finish the meal. Whatever gets you through the night.

You know I’m always moanin’
But you jumpstart my serotonin

– Arab Strap

Fritz Winter: Approaching

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God help me, I’m beginning to believe that I’ll make it.

Time, an upsurge of idealike inklings in dreaming,
statues breathing out the dust of those hands’ original passion,
all returning to the Self that knew no other, and complete.

Light shall pour from the sky, broader than the sunbeams of dawn. The sky itself shall become iridescent, like mother of pearl, or opal, like the air had suddenly turned into a thousand minerals. It shall rain wine, as if heaven had cracked open its most precious vintage, and not a drop was spared from sending down to earth. We shall see the faces of our brothers and sisters all aglow from the reflections of that of love, open treasures from within our beings. I say to you that this will come to pass, and not now do I speak of whatever woe is to come between now and that enchanted time. For it cannot end in senseless finity, however much we have grown used to the idea. Light shall prevail: look within yourself and see that you believe it too, however far into darkness you have traveled. However much you have lost to despair.

Let us pardon those who have wronged us. For that which others scarcely accomplish — I mean the blotting out of their own sins by means of fasting and lamentations, and prayers, and sackcloth and ashes — this it is possible for us easily to effect without sackcloth and ashes and fasting, if only we blot out anger from our heart, and with sincerity forgive those who have wronged us.

She will come when I least suspect, though I suspect all the time. How it’s supposed to happen I have no idea, but that’s the way the best things come to pass, n’est-ce pas? She will be all I dreamed of and more, and nothing like I’d ever expected. Actually, dreams are too hazy to be any good guide to these solidities, and I wonder if anyone can ever have it go that any arrangement of molecules could have such perfect geometries. She will love me. This I have the hardest time believing, though I imagine it is not outside the realm of plausibility — just that, you know, there are so many things she’d have to look past — it’s tantamount to saying she’d have to be blind to see the real me. And I might guess that in the final analysis, that’s what we all want: the impossible, flesh and blood, whispering sweet nothings in our ear.

i exhale fire from where my heart is forged
the iron and irony are surprisingly fragile
though sometimes impenetrable, like some looks
wondering where i lost the time
how many times did i ever love, as i approaches death
a slow trip, to be sure, looking back
or did i already turn into a pillar of salt
messy collisions, supernormal ordinarinesses
wonder have i ever understood more than pretending
what that so infinitely simple means
or is no one contrary to the incomprehensibility
when we all know exactly what no one does
for to look out from these eyes is the only way
believing without realizing, seeing
what we cannot explain when touched
for to look out from these eyes is so very alone
night when the sparks fly, anywhere but here
whose hand it is i cannot say, hammering
forging a thing so precious and forgettable
and i inhale the darkness like drinking soup
somehow to bang it into light, the fire
i wonder how i could have, how i would have, if
if she had only said yes without telling me
and i understood without letting me in on it

I don’t need to fight
To prove I’m right
I don’t need to be forgiven

– The Who

Pierre Soulages: Composition

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Got dream?

I was absorbed by it, the understanding; it overtook my entirety as if it were all that was to be known about the whole world — and it was only, it took only a few words in our Lord’s prayer: “…Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.” The mystic understands this, that our smallness in comparison to the Endless is incomprehensible, that one jot of any know whose parameters fall even near the bounds of the divine… our minds can be filled to brimming by trivial truths, and our soul overwhelmed by anything with meaning beyond the surface. In fact, it wasn’t even that whole phrase that had me swooning, suffice it only that “Thy will” could cover what I was trying to wrap my imagination around, finding it wrapped around me, instead, quite the more easily.

I am inspired by the home page of the New York Times. It makes me think that I can do things, not of anything like spectacular beauty, but something like the structure of the layout: clean, competent, and useful. It is a mundane thing that gives me pleasure, not created out of any genius, and most probably not from the hand of one individual: this is the capacity of the human being when in fine of mind, I could say. It makes me feel as if I could accomplish something good, if I only put some spit and polish into it, if I only worked hard at something. It says to me that things are possible, practical things, that which has effect in day to day life. I don’t know how many others have felt these things about it; I suspect as most things, it will be taken for granted. But that is part of its purpose: how neat. Not all things to be must change the whole world for someone to notice.

We need not despair of any man, so long as he lives. For God deemed it better to bring good out of evil than not to permit evil at all.

enter the dream where the fountainhead of forever lies
it is nearer than your own heart, and even more trustworthy
flight is not merely for the angels — light not merely to see

darkness in the face of light
the world turns on the news
forgets the idea; seize the show
these fleeting, incomplete senses
all that uncollected life randomly forgets
randomly remembers little
things that spoke to us through the wall
thrown against the back of action
we knew how when we knew nothing
what was it we had when
we lived, knew why because it was unasked
through imagination flew
and understood what it was without
knowing because it’s too much
to keep all of it in pretty color coded values
now in the surrounding inner spaces
wires did we mean to carry
all the things we found in reflection
throughput hearts and electricity
even love picked up on radar
but even lightning is corruptible
a fall from heaven, eternity into time
though in one hour the sky dark with sins
the mote in That eye huge
asked why, why, even if he knew
i am what i am, tell them
because the news is still happening
that one hour death misunderstood
darkness in the face of light