g manley hopkins

But what more can be said?  Perhaps a poem from Gerard Manley Hopkins:

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;

As tumbled over rim in roundy wells

Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's

Bow swing finds tongue to fling out broad its name;

Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:

Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;

Selves-goes itself;myself it speaks and spells,

Crying What I do is me: for that I came.

I say more: the just man justices;

Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces;

Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is-

Christ-for Christ plays in ten thousand places,

Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his

To the Father through the features of men's faces.

Spring and Fall:

Margaret, are you grieving

Over Goldengrove, unleaving?

Leaves like the things of man, you

With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?

Ah! as the heart grows older

It will come to such sights colder

By and by, nor spare a sigh

Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;

And yet you will weep and know why.

Now no matter, child, the name:

Sorrow's springs are the same.

Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed

What heart heard of, ghost, guessed:

It is the blight man was born for,

It is Margaret you mourn for.

writing and music

The dude in the bean plays on, sharing all of his most strange guitar chords and feelings with the audience, and the clouds spin on, and people sit and talk and think, and hardly speak in the least, but the world is what it is,...

The dudes go into a lenghy and spirited session of soloing, and I feel that the just tapping of the keys on the pad are enough to keep me rescucitated to some degree.  The fact that I don't understand everything can surely be resolved by the gradual application of the general principle that to do the right thing in every circumstance is the right thing to do. 

In the long and short of it.....what more is there left to say, but more of the writing and the thinking, inscribed and set down in some way....and hopefully negotiated to a better conclusion.

If I had a gun, for every ace I've drawn,

I could arm a town the size of Abilene

Don't you push me baby, because I'm holdin' low

And you know I'm only in it for the gold.

All that I am asking for is ten gold dollars

And I could pay you back with one good hand

You can look around about the wide world over

And you'll never find anoher honest man.

Last fair deal in the country, Sweet Suzie,

Last fair deal in the town

Put your gold money where your love is baby,

Before you let my deal go down.

----now they are playing "Cold Rain and Snow"----what a great song..."I married me a wife, she's been trouble all my life.  Pushed me....out in the cold rain and snow.".....

Don't you push me baby, cause I'm holdin' low

And I know a littel something you won't every know

Don't you touch hard liquor, just a cup of cold coffee

Gotta get up in the morning and go

Everybody's praying and drinking that wine

I can dell the Queen of Diamonds by the way she shines

Come to daddy on the inside straight,

.....

These guys are rocking out with the "Cold Wind and Snow"...going to be the next major jam band of the modern era.  

Another decent song ....

Hello cowgirl in the sand

Is this place at your command

Can I stay here for a while

Can I see your sweet sweet smile

Old enough now to change your name

When so many love you is it the same?

Its the woman in you that makes you want to play this game.

Hello Ruby in the dust

Has you band begun to rust

After all the sin we've had

I was hoping that we turn back

Old enough now to change your name

When so many love you is it the same....

Hello woman of my dreams...

I guess the good thing about that song is the lyrics...

Stuck in the Bauhaus again, in the middle of a sea of silent laptops, aside from the noise of the young people talking in the background.

Sep 10, 2008

In other news, apparently the beavs played today.  Some people are out partying somewhere, more or less partying depending on how the game went, but plenty in either case.

 Reading a great story by Geoge Eliot, a true genius of a writer, and it occurs to me that despite the disappearance of books, a writer of that calibre will aways be recognized as such.

The fact is that it is a Saturday night, with nothing to do, no money to impress much of anyone, but that don't appear to make much of a difference to anyone.  In the long run, there is a depth to life in the great writers, and a depth to the words of all people, and if one can look into that and see the true nature of life and things, then any sort of acceptance is workable, or any sort of existence is fine for things and ideas and the nature of words.  In the end, we need to have our lives measure up to the ideas of them, but then again, our ideas of necessary achievement may be quite different from day to day.

from song of the rolling earth

weapon shapely, naked, wan,

head from the mother's bowels drawn

wooded flesh and metal bone, limb only one and lip only one,

gray-blue leaf by red-heat grown, helve produced from a little seed

sown,

resting the grass amid upon,

to be leaned and to lean on.

--actually, from Song of the Broad-Axe

open afresh your round of starry folds,
Ye ardent marigolds!
Dry up the moisture from your golden lids,
For great Apollo bids
That in these days your praises should be sung
On many harps, which he has lately strung;
And when again your dewiness he kisses,
Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses:
So haply when I rove in some far vale,
His mightly voice may come upon a gale.
-keats

starting from paumanok

Starting from fish-shape Paumanok, where I was born,
Well-begotten, and raised by a perfect mother;
After roaming many lands-love of populous pavements;
Dweller in Manhatta, my city-or on southern savannas;
Or a soldier camp'd, or carrying my knapsack and gun-or a miner in California;
Or rude in my home in Dakota's woods, my diet meat, my drink from the spring;
Or withdrawn to muse and meditate in some deep recess,
Far from the clank of crows, .....


Shut not your doors....

Shut not your doors to me proud libraries,
For that which was lacking on all of your well filled shelves, yet
needed most, I bring,
Forth from the war emerging, a book I have made,
The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing,
A book separate, not link'd with the rest nor felt by the intellect,
But you ye untold latencies will thrill to every page.

--both of these are from Walt Whitman, of course. I would try to pretend like I wrote them myself. Somehow they seem full of life, and full of untold latencies, you might say.

weather report

the weather is kind of sunny, which is nice, and I am happy with my new beautiful laptop, featuring windows vista.  I don't know what the deal with this system is.  For all the bad I have heard about it, it seems to work just fine, easily understandable for a longtime xp user.  I'm no idiot with computers, but for all that I want to like Linux, when you sit down with it it is unbelievably frustrating.  It is not ready for us casual users, I would venture to say.

  The seem to be fairly quiet in this little cafe, as is usually the case on any afternoon, even during the school year.  

  As for me, I remain undirected, but is that so bad a thing?  I guess there could be worse.  Aside from karate, I have no real direction.

  Perhaps this Whitman poem partially applies to me:

Beginning my studies

Beginning my studies, the first step pleas'd me so much,

The mere fact, consciousness-these forms-the power of motion,

The least insect or animal-the senses-eyesight-love;

The first step, I say, awed me and pleased me so much,

I have hardly gone, and hardly wished to go, and farther,

But stop and loiter all the time, to sing it in ecstatic songs.

  

Praising, that's it! One ordained to praise,

he sprang like ore from the silence of stone.

His heart, oh, perishable winepress

of an infinite wine, for man alone.

His voice no dust can choke or dim

when divine instance seizes him.

All turns vineyard, clusters of grapes,

in his susceptible south grown ripe.

Nor mold in the kings' sepulchers

gives the lie to his laudings, nor

that from the gods a shadow falls.

Of the abiding messengers,

he reaches far into death's door

glorious fruit in golden bowls

-from Sonnets to Orpheus, Rilke