it struck me kinda funny

10 minutes later i'm gonna hit the kitchen to fetch some coffee--then turn on bob's ttrh episode of "coffee" and dive into whitman and ginsberg. now i really do wanna finish a good part of that paper tonight, and maybe do the final touches tomorrow.

first, i have to start though. bummer.

once we hit new year--i promise you there'll be a lot to talk about--esp. dharma bums--sicne i haven't really told you guys anything about it since i finished it up. then i have some ginormo theories about dreams and faces of the past.

anyways--i'll take my cue now.

be well.

nyr--keep a better watch of your phone---so you won't give yourself a heart attack every time you think you lost it.

exodus

i'd say it's time to get our minds way down to the gutter.

turns out i was quite understating the situation with sam worthington the other day. i wish i had nobler reasons for this post, but I don't.

and he has a zeppelin tshirt. that makes him--perfect.



nyr--wear your own zeppelin shirt more often.

plums

what to do today---start writing that darn paper. so i'm gonna head downstairs in a minute, stock up coffee and hit the endless realms of uselesss impersonal academic knowledge.

ps: saw that movie avatar. mark my words---that lead guy's gonna be around for some time. he has that buffed up manly attitude with the puppy eyes--now that's a deadly combination. the movie was allright too--even had a decent storyline until it got all "oh i fell in love with you snif snif" speech. long live the hollywood cliches, i guess.

nyr---please please please do better course preparations. if you don't like--hmm let's say--latin america, then, please don't think you'll like it afterwards.

wail

dear allen (ginsberg, since allen sounds weird),

would you like to hear about the best minds of my generation?








well, that was all.

but if you try sometimes....

you might get exactly what you need.

and the pills that mother gives you don't do anything at all

now there is a woman you'd listen to. i hadn't really paid any attention to her before--but i have my psychedelic on tonight. and i think i need to get a bit more involved with the airplane, for better or worse. besides she has a creepily good voice, wrote two great set of lyrics (that i know of, at least)--and quite beautiful too.

and this song is practically an anthem people--i'm telling ya, it's up there with blowin' in the wind. in just a different category, that's all.

behavior lawless like snow flakes

dear god, it's snowing. so amazingly unrealistic in its own way. hadn't seen this coming--just reshaped the entire evening. (yes i am easily amused)

kinda gives a similar feeling that this one does:




edit---dammit i always forget. nyr-- take more pictures in 2010. but first get a better camera.

where have you been my blue eyed son?

i ravaged through whatever i could find to find something that feels like tonight--to post it up here to get my creativity rollin', but nothing came up.

i'm not sure if it's the weather and what not, but there seems to be some sort of a nonresponsive-ness going on around. people seem to be pulled back in little boxes of aimless evaluation. me--i'm all right with things either way. and honestly, what could ever be such an appropriate theme for winter time but desolation? for everyone else, that is. i tend to get happier and fuzzier when it gets dark and damp, i have no idea why, it's just the way things go.

anyways--got stuck in a badass storm today--trying to swim my way through the busy streets of the shattered city life--and i realized rain makes everything unatural miserable. bridges collapse houses flood--even your clothes get heavier on you. buses try to roar but can't repress the thunder, umbreallas knock each other off, rooftops always find you right it the spot to have that one ginormous drop of water puddling at the end fall right onto you with a thump! and you're all wet. jeans stick to your knees and your boots get all muddy and wet.

everything painful that tires you out in a rainstorm is actually something either man-made or forced upon. so maybe its all just a giant fountain to get us all clean and pure. or maybe i'm getting my head screwed over by my loveful kerouac again with his buddha ramblings and noble sadness.

well--oh wait, before i end my reign--here's a fun fact i learnt from bob. apparently, when it rains, turkeys look up and drink the rain until it drowns them. that may be the most interesting thing i heard all week.

all right, i'll wrap up now. be well, be kind and be warm lovers.

nyr--- enjoy the rainstorms even more in 2010. get soaking wet.

make a solid road

ok, i hate posting these gigantic only picture youtube frames in here but i had to get this song up here somehow. i was half bent out the window last night trying to figure out all the sounds that rain made on all the surfaces and in the back--well, in the back, it was 1962.

so enjoy. it's one of those good things in life.



nyr-- write more stories. just--you know, write more.

head in hand

last words on 8th of december--funny day, the way it is half death and half birth--tragic too in its own way. anyways i just wanted it to be known that i haven't forgotten about 12/8/80--the day John Lennon was forced to leave this confused cruel little ball of rocks and fire that we call earth-and somewhere i'm sure he's sharing a very awesome cab ride with someone just as cool. i don't know. it's hard to guess when it's Lennon you're talking about.

anyways--the meaning behind all this--i remember John, so do the entire world. not too bad for a life time cut short, right?



nyr-- spend a bit more time on the lennon phenomenon for the long hours of music in the upcoming days of 2010.

no--bel prize

see that little way of saying the first "nobel"--that is such a dylan thing.



nyr--pay more attention to people in 2010--try to see if you can pin down one signature move for each

a memorable fancy

dear jim,

i dug up that old notebook of mine today. the one that i had bought to fill with poems. didn't came much out of it (or me, i should have said, i guess) but there is this one about a kitten i named after you. it's just a random, weird couple of lines that i put down---probably in the early hours of the day drinking coffee and listening to some old song, if you know what i mean. anyways, it is about me informing you about the kitten's well being--and that it had a bloated belly now and dark black eyes.

well, i lost the cat. god knows where he is now, they usually just sort of put them out once they're grown. harsh world reality, ain't it?

sorry i'm a few days late, but happy birthday. i've been reading blake for the past few days-- for your sake--if it counts. haven't manage to cleanse any doors yet, but i'm trying. be patient with me.

oh and i have a question--what kinda sound do angels make when they fall? is it like a pop or a thump?

--D

ps: here's a funny thought--i was reading dharma bums today and good ol' jack was talking about this chick who thought according to some crazy ancient tibeatean i think lore that she felt like she was the mother of all and everything and everyone and i wondered how that would feel and i decided it would suck out loud since motherhood is such delicacy and unbounded selflessness and sincerety and uncoditioned love as it should be all those things i decided that i was too ripe too egotistical and too scared to be the mother of anything but then i realized a minute ago that i may as well been your mother because you in all you crazy drug induced alcoholic exploded liver obscene way manage to look like a long lost forgotten tragic angel i don't know why but i'm liking this spontaneous writing it or whatever it's called and i just need to wrap up now and i say once more it wouldn't have been burdening i guess to be you mother and blake would have been proud--so yeah that was the point to all this rambling so i thought you should know--

stars for your shoes

is there anything more christmas-y than pulling your gloves off your hands?


that time of the year's around. the crisp fresh cold sweeps the streets. such a good time to enjoy life. midterms are gone.

i have plans for tomorrow night--will be crashing somewhere else so i won't be back till friday evening--but when i do get back i'm gonna talk more about 8th of December, so don't you worry. now i gotta call it a night. i'm getting tired.

'night.

nyr-- bend more broken rules in 2010.

8th of december

it's gonna be a crazy day tomorrow-long hours of courses, tons of homework, then home, work for midterms etc...

but life will stand apart from those.



we'll see.

you should not treat me like a stranger

this song just grabs you tight and won't let go. i have no idea why. gotta be a zimmerman thing, I suppose.



nyr--find out more songs that are capable of crushing your world through the ordinary days of 2010

a supermarket in california

"Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does
your beard point tonight?"--Allen Ginsberg

I'll ask you, ginsberg, where do I go now? from here? where have you gone, and others like you?

is there any chance i may run into you along the way?

doubt it.

bright midnight

crap. found this great archive of all these crazy recordings---ginsberg lecturing on blake and whitman and all. real gems. bummer it's midterms time.

nyr of the post-- in the year of 2010, i'm gonna try out to freak less about how much newer stuff i wanna just digest--books, stories, poems, poets, songs--there will be time, I sure hope.

farewell

i don't know much about the man, but even as i watch his sections in no direction home, or whenever his name or image comes up, liam clancy gives me a feeling of that old land of saints and scholars and a wave of humanity and warmth. funny thing was, over the past few days i was thinking about that advise he had given dylan-- "no fear, no envy, no meanness."

i was thinking about it quite often too.



goodbye, liam. hope you made it to a better place.


ps: as of today, i'm gonna put down a new years resolution for each post that i add. today's needless ambition -- for the year of 2010, i'm gonna figure out a way to make socialism work. i'm not even kidding. you mark my words.

...

man, i'm bored.

bare november days

how did it happen? why did i let the month of november just pass me by? getting a little rusty, i suppose.

this is exactly what happens when you get lost in the daily obligations of midterms and papers. the bare november days pass you by. so here i am, first apologizing, then making amends, and celebrating the beautiful, noble, graceful month of november. the month that feels like it jumped out of an 18th century Russian poem. (not to mention that the October Revolution was also in november, you know, makes it all the more cooler)

i had always tried to appreciate and enjoy the november rain, or get all moody and crank up my morrison, drink coffee not to stay awake to memorize yet another name of yet another useless face of the history, but to stay awake to read a few more pages of frost and to wonder whether or not the school actually resembles a poem of robert's (as a teacher pointed out a few weks past) and to finally conclude that it does not. i don't know what it resembles. maybe it does resemble frost. who knows...

anyways--two of the greatest things ever done honoring the bare days of November. One's playing in the background as I type these. A love song that could easily go up against any poem, novel, story you can find. looks like it won't rain tonight and we ran out of dark, misty november nights as of midnight---but make sure you give this one a try on some other november day when it rains.



not to mention that this is a man you look at and just assume he has a good heart. he may be a lot of things, but he just doesn't sem evil, you know. besides, he had the greatest hair of human history. scratch all this, just listen to the song, it'll tell you all the backgound info you need to enjoy, which is none.

second great thing of november. requires no introduction, no explanation. The poem that made me love novembers--the poem that made me love poems even more. one of those that will be in my head till the day i die.

My November Guest

My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted grady
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so ryly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell he so,
And they are better for her praise.

R.F.

and i know all this seems a little misguided and lost within itself. but what can i do, i get all hasty when i get excited.

good bye is too good a word

gretest danger in the whole wide world must be conformity. someone might have said that before, i probably heard that somewhere, but it takes time for these kinda things to really pop up in your head. and it popped like an angry volcano right in the depths of my existence today.

one should never ever be condemned to yield to another. you can't exist unless you exist by yourself. i have known this all my life but over the past few weeks i had been letting it get away.

but now i'm back. you can't do much when you know you're very much likely just better than most. you can't let that fade away.

cut loose before it gets late

if i had the guts or the talent this may have been the very night that masterpieces came through. the right song is here enough coffee had been consumed even dug up some crammy building in ryerson street in nyc. all's ready. all could be forgiven on a night like this one. all is out there. and outside seems so ordinary pitch dark but just usual and who ever knows in which kinda darkness that the best of best lurks when it gets late and people expect poems to flow through pages. on switch and an off switch. how much power do we possess? how many end up with broken backs as earth rolls down to god knows where. i know all god knows and maybe even more.

...

if i had the power to destroy anything, i'd start with the human soul. i doubt there's anything more selfish in the whole wide world.

sure there are a handful worth a dime but let's face it one damn apple always manages to spoil the whole bunch.

take that then multiply that with six billion.

you get everyday life.

happy birthday

turns out the 27th has its own charms.



happy birthday jimi.

...

somethings in life need to be remembered often. this is one.

--show off

Meus animus audit solum virum cum caerulei oculi.
Eius verbum terrent mihi sed cupio ea tamen.

"beningn and salutary our Russian cold is, friends"

scratch that. it's a four day weekend, apparently.

god freaking bless the holidays. whether it's turkey on the table or sheep or a cow or just a loaf of bread--the holidays'll get in the mood. i honestly just love doing nothing in the holidays. a cup of coffee, a dylan song and a book....hallejuah.

anyways. i have tons to talk about--about "rain's little hands" and frost poems and about obligations and things you're proud of and thinngs you curse, about tiresome journeys and an unconscious attempts of swimming with the current, and sleep deprivation and why you would still be so moved to realize what an amazing song that song was that you have listened a million times, and family and sacrifise and religion and latin and friends and november and more...

but for now i'll just tell you this--

"Come, O comrade solitary
Of this cheerless youth of mine,
Take a cup, and let us bury
All our many woes in wine!"

Alexander Pushkin

...

man, finally, some fresh air.

i don't know why but these ast few weeks had been hell for school. so much crap to do--all the time.

i have a few more hours tomorrow then it's a three day weekend.

i should get some sleep.

...

isn't it funny how your brain just aches to go to the exact opposite direction from all your daily works and routines and how you just cramp and cramp to reach out for the ginsberg and try for the pushkin and not give a rat's freaking ass about any other bs like interviews and surveys and midterms?

and it always happens in that time of the year.

i'm making myself dizzy thinking about things these days.

hey hey fyodor dostoevsky i wrote you a song

I believe there are only a few people in the world that experienced an epiphany like I did. And my ground breaking revelation had roots way back to a noble November day in Moscow. I don’t know whether it was morning, or evening; though it would have made it sound prettier. But I’d rather keep it simple than to lie about it.

It was November 11, 1821. That’s all I know.

About 190 years after that, I was putting down a book back on the shelf. This thick, mean, bitch-of-a-reading book. I had been dragging it along for weeks, in the middle of all the tests and exams and studying, it had just silently stuck with me. It wasn’t too friendly or anything, the more I tried to figure it out, the more it got tangled in my head. But I held my breath and I finished it. It was the weirdest experience of my life. I put it down knowing something was now set. Something had changed.

It was all downhill after that. I had, without my knowing, had had a glimpse at the godliest thing I would ever come across. A god who can dance—and pretty good, too.
So now, I have that start point, that moment of clarity, that very second in which everything makes itself visible. I have that very instant which I will tell my children, and the children of their children, and everyone else who would ever take the time of the day to get to know me. I will point back to that day, that mystical day in which I changed drastically, the day that was the beginning of everything in me and about me. It was the day I put away that book. Crime And Punishment. That was what the book was called.

The day I knew, for the first time, what it felt like to read Fyodor Dostoevsky.
If there’s ever a birthday that needs to be celebrated, I’ll say this is it.

Now I could sit here and type words for hours, and you’d still not understand. No one would. It’s a journey you have to take on your own, and forgive me, but it’s a very privileged one. I’ve seen many crumble at the doorstep, and I‘ve seen many who couldn’t even make it there. I’ve seen people not getting it. I’ve seen people not feeling it. Because I assure you kids, it’s not about brains, it’s not about historical facts, it’s nothing about being all too well read and well knowing. It’s about closing you eyes and being able to reach out to it. Some may grab it; fold their fingers over spirits of the truest forms. Some will miss it.

You have to accept faithfully what had been given to you. I saw in a flash of light the dark, fiery eyes of Mitya, the innocence of Alyosha, the sincerity of Ivan; I saw the paranoid, self destructive Rodya in his painful existence; I saw Alexey smirk right before he put everything out on the table; I saw Myshkin’s pale face lying next to his dead beloved—yes I’ve seen it all, everything, and if not more, and I was there, in every second of it, I was at the heart of things and in the hearts of men, noble and honest, passionate, burning; and it happened right before my eyes.

Long story short, if there is ever a god, people; he must be jealous as hell that this feeble, suffering fella born on just another November day had created, somehow, far better and far precious things than he himself ever could.

Happy past birthday Fyodor.

...

i figured there are two kinds of people in this world: people you are capable of getting mad at, and people who you're not. the first ones are the ones you just want to be convenient. you want them to play the parts. that's all you really want them to do--and when they don't you get pissed. that's all there is to it. You need people to pass the time, after all.

then there are the people you truly love. people who would do just about anything--and you'd still feel all right. you won't feel violated---you don't feel screwed over. you just wouldn't care.

the first group under my list is pretty crowded--just about everyone else.

November 11th

Yes, I do know what today is and will talk about it in depth, but now I have the petty obligations of life breathing down my neck. But I will-and I repeat, I will write about it.

"Therein is my whole horror--that I comprehend everything." --F.M.D

ata

bu bloga yazılmış yazılacak tek türkçe yazı bu olacak. milliyetle kanla kökle alakası yok bunun, sadece O'nunla kurulmaya çalışılan bağın kişiselliği, sıcaklığı, samimiyetiyle ilgili.

bu bütün dogmalardan, çocukluğun ezberletilmiş şiirlerinden, kalıplardan, kalıplaşmalardan, yapılandırılmalardan, senelerden, asırlardan, düzenlerden, politik her eylemden arındırılmış, tamamen insanlığı kalmış bir sevgi. tümüyle Kişi'ye, Kişi'nin yüzüne, sözüne, eylemine duyulan bir sevgi. Anneye, babaya, dedeye duyulana yakın, arkadaşa duyulandan biraz daha tedbirli, sevgili duyulandan daha az bencil... Dostoyevski'ye duyulan gibi bir sevgi. Sözlere, kelimelere, dizelere duyulan gibi.

Bir insanın bir insana duyabileceği gibi bir sevgi.

Anlarsınız ya da anlamazsınız, kabul edersiniz ya da etmezsiniz, inanırsınız ya da inanmazsınız... ama eğer hissetmezseniz paylaşamaycaığımız bir sevgi.

Cennet varsa bir kösesinde bir kadeh rakı, arkasından da şekerli bir Türk kahvesi, iki güzel dize, bir de teşekkür borçluyum sana Ata. Bir gün olurda anlatırım belki daha neler borçlu olduğumu...

"the morning is flying on the wings of his age--"

Awake, my sleeper, to the sun,
A worker in the morning town,
And leave the poppied pickthank where he lies;
The fences of the light are down,
All but the briskest riders thrown
And worlds hang on the trees.

Dylan Thomas

Funny how we go through our days not knowing what they can possibly mean to anyone else. Here, a death. November 9, 1953. That makes...56 years? Is that it? A lifetime after a life's time.

Don't worry Dylan, when it starts raining again and I feel like seeing the world from the bottom of a whiskey bottle, and all the joys seem suffocating and all the grieves noble, all the melancholy in the world that you so cruelly made so beautiful--- I'll remember you again. And it'll be like you died just today.

say that you want the kind of things that money just can't buy

"The man we can call with justice 'modern' is solitary." --C.J.

True. But then again, at some point, you have to make peace with that. Let it all go. Anger and resentment wears you out. That's what I've learnt. I'm not talking about forgiving--that sounds so conceited--i mean genuine letting go. see things in a different light. i don't know--be happy for someone. reach out. million to one--you'll get burnt, but--you know, there are always happy beatles songs to turn that frown upside down.

now people just get uglier and i have no sense of time

ok i'm officially beat up and tired.

i was sick for days last week--and i'll admit, it was fun first, you know, all the uber attention you get and mom's constant couch service--but it gets boring, sooner or later. so i was back on my feet on monday--and now i'm back in bed. rain's not treating me good these days, it feels good to get all wet and emotional, but i just can't seem to get better. something triggers the illness again and bam, i'm done.

i did learn one thing though--you can't write much when you're not sound in the head. health turned out to be precious after all. so i don't really have that much to say, i'm tired, coughing my lungs out and have a mean headache.

but i will say this; human beings are in need of each other's attention almost pathetically. all you can think of when you're lying down in fever is who had noticed your absence--or who'll give you a call in a minute. The outcome of that? well, that's something to talk about for another day. now i have to run.

be well.

my advice is to not...

...let the boys in.

only zimmerman's twisted sense of humor can make you smile on a day like this.

man that will live longer than he

call it discourse. call it rigid categories of mind. call it the opposite of free thinking. call it lack of questioning. you may not respect the authority--you may not respect the way things are done.

but you have to respect those thousands of fallen angels---scattered all around the earth. you have to respect the selflessness of the act. you have to respect the humanity in it. and if you don't...well, i guess you don't really have a heart.

...

where are those vulnerable ones? the ones that burn out like roman candles?
I have my "aww" here stuck in my throat. where are those tender ones, now? the ashen ones, the pale ones.
the hands stretched out, the curtains lifted. the bare hearts and the bare minds.
where are those angelic ones? the broken ones, the kind ones. where are those loving ones?
the unbounded ones, the unlimited ones.
where are those simple ones? the open ones, the honest ones.
where are those beautiful ones?
I have my "aww" here stuck in my heart.

come out, come out wherever you are. only the true ones, the sharing ones, the loving ones, the maskless, planless, grudgeless, hopeless ones.

i have many many around of the other ones. i want you now.

...

not much to say really. i'm sick and having a major sick-couch day. good chance to go over no direction home again. but then again i should probably study.

oh well...

sugar for sugar, salt for salt

well done boys. you've made me proud.

ain't it clear that i just can't fit

I was gathering stuff up in the pit of stomach to write--but i just couldn't get the right words out. All day I've been trying to spit out something--just empty my chest enough to be able to breathe. but it just didn't happen. i couldn't find the words. i can't even find them in this very moment.

then i came across this. i don't know what it was about it--it may not even be the song, hell, i'm sure it's not the song--but that was it:

what i've been wanting to say all day.

...

"You don't figure out happenings, you dig happenings." -- B.D.

in Durance

"I am homesick after mine own kind,
Oh I know that there are folk about me, friendly faces,
But I am homesick after mine own kind.

"These sell our pictures"! Oh well,
They reach me not, touch me some edge or that,
But reach me not and all my life's become
One flame, that reaches not beyond
My heart's own hearth,
Or hides among the ashes there for thee.
"Thee" ? Oh, "Thee" is who cometh first
Out of mine own soul-kin,
For I am homesick after mine own kind
And ordinary people touch me not.
Yea I am homesick,
After mine own kind that know, and feel
And have some breath for beauty and the arts.


Aye, I am wistful for my kin of the spirit
And have none about me save in the shadows
When come they, surging of power, "DAEMON,"
"Quasi KALOUN." S.T. says Beauty is most that, a
"calling to the soul."
Well then, so call they, the swirlers out of the mist
of my soul,
They that come mewards, bearing old magic.


But for all that, I am homesick after mine own kind
And would meet kindred even as I am,
Flesh-shrouded bearing the secret.
"All they that with strange sadness"
Have the earth in mockery, and are kind to all,
My fellows, aye I know the glory
Of th' unbounded ones, but ye, that hide
As I hide most the while
And burst forth to the windows only whiles or whiles
For love, or hope, or beauty or for power,
Then smoulder, with the lids half closed
And are untouched by echoes of the world.


Oh ye, my fellows: with the seas between us some be,
Purple and sapphire for the silver shafts
Of sun and spray all shattered at the bows;
And some the hills hold off,
The little hills to east of us, though here we
Have damp and plain to be our shutting in.


And yet my soul sings "Up!" and we are one.
Yea thou, and Thou, and THOU, and all my kin
To whom my breast and arms are ever warm,
For that I love ye as the wind the trees
That holds their blossoms and their leaves in cure
And calls the utmost singing from the boughs
That 'thout him, save the aspen, were as dumb
Still shade, and bade no whisper speak the birds of
how
"Beyond, beyond, beyond, there lies . . . ""

Ezra Pound

October 21, 1969

" 'Where are you going?' which is precisely what they asked me a year later under television floodlights in New York--Just as you can't explain to the police, you can't explain to society 'Looking for peace.'"

Desolation Angels-- Jack Kerouac

october...

"God is words--" -- J.K.

lazarus' foot

"So as Lazarus walk through the villages, [of the ants] so God walks thru our lives, and like the workers and the warriors we worry like worrywarts to straighten up the damage as fast as we can, tho the whole thing's hopeless at the end. For God has a much bigger foot than Lazarus..." -- J.K.

bear with me for two more days, so death may not, after all, have its dominion.

the Good Night

"It is said that those condemned to death sleep soundly on the last night."
F.M.D.



even October has its miseries.

see you later, allen ginsberg

this french guy looks up to me, then to the Rimbaud I had just taken out of my purse and handed to him. He asks with all his good will, "You're also political science student, right?"

I nod. I know where this is headed.

"Then why are you reading Rimbaud?"

As if that has anything to do with it.

said sugar, make it slow and we'll come together fine

pain is looked upon as weak, but i tell ya, people sure do spend a whole lotta strength on avoiding an enemy they consider to be so inferior. and man, they avoid it like hell.

there's a noble, tender air to pain and misery that we just can't seem to stay away, i'll accept that too. I haven't seen many people who won't mellow out once someone sheds a few tears--mankind looks lost and bewildered and appealing in the process of crying--and the one across gets this unstoppable urge to just ease the sorrow and the sadness. we rarely manage to do so, or even more rarely we try to do so, but still...the feeling just creeps in. you just wanna stop the hurting of someone else, and tears and sobs make you feel desperate and helpless, even more than theone crying--and very much likely you don't understand, and you're of no use.

i always cherished the act of crying. i think it's one of those state of beings that puts everyone on an equal level. you can be anyone and anywhere, but when you let that wall go down, you're just like everyone else. you're no longer envious, evil, plotting, cruel--you're just crying. i like that idea. i like the prospect of beliving everyone's at the core just another human being. to be able to strip away from all those unpleasent side affects of humanity and just to admit defeat with childish surrender. it refreshes your faith in everyone--and accordingly, in everything.

and life's a crazy mumbling of words, and if "cody" is right, and if we do all go to heaven leaning on the arm of someone we helped, then there isn't much to say about anything else. some have better hearts, and some don't. and evil is just as common--if not more--as good, and i don't mean it in a religious sense, i just mean it in an emotional way. there are way too many people out there who lies and cheats and murders and steals and hurts others by a hundred percent, full on free will--by choice.

and those, oftenly, cause pain for others. but pain is quite easy to cause, and not just by meannes and cruelty too. it's all a neverending, crazy dylan song. you can't get hung up on the details. most likely, you won't have a clue what's happening. you just move along, at times it'll feel magnificent, at times it'll be down the drains. one you call friend today won't even get a "hello" the next day. these things happen. people go out like stars, and worse linger around like bugs fallen on their backs. everybody hurts, even the worst ones.

and pain can make you put a gun to your head or go dye your hair, but that's not the point. The point is, everybody cries.

Just not for the same stuff.

"All the passions in the end become virtues, and all the devils angels."
F.N.

how sweet is the baez

i had different plans for the night, but i got sidetracked.

i got the chance to watch a great documentary about joan baez--the woman who proved to me that not all women were evil (myself included, that is)--and it was just wonderful. and the best part was when my dad came in, took a look at the monitor, and just as i was getting ready to shove him out the room, he just let out, "That's Baez, isn't it?" A few seconds of my amazement passed and he added, casually, "she sings the sad stuff, though."

Baez gets to you in a different way, you know. It got to me in a different way at least. She's intimidating in her unusual beauty, and her fierceness, not to mention her pretty awesome sense of humour. Lady lived a good life, that's all I can say.

It makes you think, it really does. But I won't get to that here, for now. What's the use? I think I'm gonna keep my piehole shut tonight, listen to a few songs and maybe try to get my fingers to part wide enough to hit the right chords. who knows. i say all these things, and say some more, and then nothing happens in the end. and the saddest part is that I go back and say them once more.

...

more dylan, rimbaud, and pound to come. i just have some stuff to do tonight, but if i have the time and the muse i'll pop in later to write stuff. if not, i'll get back to ya tomorrow.

ps: ignore the entry on chronicles. like, compeletely. pretend that it never happened, i would have deleted but that would just be pathetic now, wouldn't it?

hey mr. tambourine man--

yay. finally. bought myself a guitar.

"down in the Village, nothing seemed wrong..."

It happened in a flash of light. I picked it up, and I put it down. The lines were rapid-- I tried to rip them into shreads to understand first. I held onto each word like my life depended on it, created a million visions out of them, grabbed them so tight that they couldn't even move. But that is no way to take the man down. I know that now.

It was the weirdest trip of my life. I wonder if this was how he felt when he read Bound For Glory, or probably he didn't--i seriously doubt that our minds--well, at least our hearts--work similarly.

I'll cut to the chase--I'm done with Chronicles, Volume One. I'm glad I'm done with it, cause god knows, my whole life was on hold since the day it landed in my hands. I read it through lectures, between lectures, i read it waiting for the bus, on the bus, at home, at school, on the streets while people passed me by with a wondering look in their eyes--I read it the minute I opened my eyes in the morning, and I read it right before I closed them. It was enchanting, it was magical, there wasn't much I could do about it. Even when I wasn't reading it, I kept it there on the desk, at the corner--as some teacher told me about some useless info on some useless political scheme, he just kept looking at me with a crooked, half beaten look on his face, almost telling me, well--more like snarling, "Is this some kind of a joke?"

And now I have tons too tell, but I'll try to make it quick and clear here and don't turn this into a needlessly bottomless pit. It's not a personal book, I'll start with that. Yeah, it's far more insight that he had ever given on anything but still, something's off. You circle and circle around him, you get to see his face, his ears, his mouth, you get too see all others hanging out by him, but you still can't get in. It's shut, it's too far off. It's just foreign. Whether or not its his intention--i know better than assuming when it's him we're talking about--or maybe, to him, it isn't even that way--but me, I'm still just lost. I'm still just as stranded and confused, just as ignorant.

But there are a few snapshots here and there that just lifts up the veil and you see a moment of his life--an image, a word --something, something that is more intimate and private than others. I'm not talking about some fancy romantic scene with a woman, or some insanely detailed explanation of inner self. Na-ah, nothing of that sort. Maybe it's the crazy way my brain works, but what really got to me, of all the rest, what rose up above the ground and shone like a bright star--was something much more simpler. He talks about--at the first chapter I think--about how he used to sneak into the kitchen of Cafe Wha?, with a pal of his while they were both playing there, and there would be a burger waiting for him, and they would munch on that. That's it, that's the singlehandedly most effective, radiant, mind blowing, magical moment of the book for me--this 20 some year old kid, with two piercing blue eyes, cocking a smile at a greasy burger.

Everybody has their own Dylan, and I think I found mine after much ravaging-- he's that one from Cafe Wha?'s kitchen on a snowy, freezing New York evening.

Let me see.. What else...man, I can talk about this all day. And everytime I start of a sentence, I realize that it's really not what I've been thinking to say at all, and I try to change it, but I don't know. I can't say much on the book other than the fact it just creeped me out--and I see that now--as if I entered some forbidden territory, and that all my prior convictions were bound to be burnt at the stake, along with my misguided, misled, selfish idoltary.

OK, that was a lie. There was nothing in that book that made me care less about his words or his songs or his way of thinking---but there was stuff in it that made him much more, well, ordinary. The parts about recording stuff. that for example, was very human and obviously very mechanical---not the usual way you picture these things to happen--because you expect him to create in a moment of craze and delusion, and you expect the muse to hit him hard--sort of sending him to a trance, but it doesn't have to work that way. I saw that. Another thing I saw--very very very rarely, maybe in one moment, or two--a more vulnerable figure than I took him to be.

But over all, I saw a man. That's it. A man of flesh and blood, of words that are worth saying and words of no importance whatsoever, of moments crucial and moments downright awkward; of a vague, human carelessness and a fiery way of defending territory at times, of childhood faith, anticipation, joy and confusion, anger, even pain, of a compassionate heart sometimes and a frowning one at others, of lifting a finger high up in the face of everyone who pushes and presses, then an unexplained desire to explain...

A man of not so much to discuss. He puts it out there, the way he wants to, and you can't take that too seriously.

There's too much in my head crawling--and it will be there for a few days until i digest--but until then, I'll bend my head sideways and peek through the cracked door, and a man-kid of 20 will be sitting on the kitchen counter, with a friend next to him, a bright smile on his thin but long lips, his insanely blue eyes jumping out of his pale face, and in his hands an hamburger large enough to devour him instead. And the man-kid keeps smiling, and takes a bite, then keeps on talking about whatever the hell he was talking about right before.

"Eventually, different anachronisms were thrust upon me--anachronisms of lesser dilemma--though they might seem bigger. Legend, Icon, Enigma (Buddha in European Clothes was my favorite)--stuff like that, but that was all right. These titles were placid and harmless, threadbare, easy to get around with them. Prophet, Messiah, Savior--those are tough ones."

Bob Dylan--Chronicles, Volume One

hiatus

i know, i know...too much silence. but stuff's happening, and god knows i have so much to say--and i will say it. just give me a little time.

mine've been like Verlaine's and Rimbaud...!

"..Death without tears, our active daughter and servant, a desperate Love and a pretty Crime crying in the mud of the streets...."

A. Rimbaud

you can still find some room

there there. sweet way to spend a sunday.

latin, that soft bastard

Puellae vitam poetae coservant.

...

must be getting old. i did actually considered today whether or not i have enough time to ever fully learn russian. creepy.

...

do you know what awesome is? awesome is when you pick up some random translation of rimbaud and later figure out that the guy who translated it wrote a book about jim morrison--that's what awesome is.

september 25th

"I wish he was here." -- John Paul Jones


I'm a few days late, but when it comes to remembering him--well, that happens everyday. Forgive me, Bonzo, for it slipped through my mind--but you are always in my heart. And in the hearts of many others.

Be well, wherever you are.

"why was cupid a boy?"

"The secret of artistic creation and of the effectiveness of art is to be found in a return to the state of of participation mystique--to that level of experience at which the weal or woe of the single human being does not count but only human existence. This is why every great work of art is objective and impersonal, but none the less prodoundly moves us each and all. And this is also why the personal life of the poet cannot be held essential to his art--but at most a help or a hindrance to his creative task. He may go the way of a Philistine, a good citizen, a neurotic, a fool or a criminal. His personal career may be inevitable and interesting, but it does not explain the poet."

Carl Jung

101

so apparently, before i knew it, we made it over 100 posts.

so I chose to talk about it. You know, the big issue. The cause of the greatest illnesses and the merriest joys, the thing that makes you cry and makes you laugh, the thing that can pump your heart right outta your chest or can make it stop dead in its spot. That one little word that opens up every door--mankind's most vulnerable soft spot. Those four letters that can make it spin, or make it ground.

It is just a four letter word, as someone once wrote, you know. Believe it or not, it is made up of four letters, and comes out of your mouth and disappears into thin air.

Yes, children. It is love.

Since I lack major experience on the matter, but too much confusion; I'm not gonna say much on it. But a friend of mine got me fooled for a minute today, and I believed something wonderful had happened to her. I was filled with joy and happiness and I wanted to know all about it and hear all about it--but there was that sharp, instant little pain in the left side of my chest, that just appeared and stopped right after. And that's when I realize, that unless you're fully an angel or completely fooling yourself--everybody gets that feeling of "why not me" in the pit of their stomach one time or another, over "the" issue.

SO that made me think of all the women we blamed up to this day, the women we made scapegoats out of--women who were at fault at times by the way--but we slashed them and torn them and accused them of breaking up friendships, killing their significant ones, or making them meet their ends. Like I said, some mustta had something to do with it all, but some maybe, just didn't. What am I getting at? Well, it's bullshit, ladies. All of it. The real truth is that we wanted it. We wanted to be them, we wanted songs to be written about us, we wanted to change someone's life. So kid yourself all you want, but I got it all figured out.

We just wanted what they had. It's not even who they had, it's just that they had'em. So, I apologize from all the women I've accused up to today. I should have been more honest. Not that any of you were true angels or anything, but I should have seen it before.

So maybe, it'll be more clear now. All we can really hope for, after all, is just what D.T once wrote: "Though lovers be lost, love shall not."










and a nameless thousand more.

bird that whistles, bird that sings

So my last few days of summertime has ended.

Can't say I'm not glad, I was getting tired of the "thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season", so I'm all up for some shivering and getting soaking wet in rain and coffee that doesn't just fill up your brain with warm thoughts but also fills up your blood with, well-only warmth. You can think of a lot of things as the summer passes, flings, families, weddings; if any, deaths, fruits, friends, lines, lines, lines and songs...But me, I wasn't thinking about anything as I just laid there on a towel over the sand, with a few sweet melodies in my ears and my gigantic hat covering up my face--now pinkish from the heat--and my sunglasses hiding my one swollen eye (i have no clue what happened, but the working theory is that I got bitten by a SOB of an mosquito, sucker got me right under my eye, and i walked around looking all badass with one red-brown circle around my right eye for 2 days straight), I just sat there. You know, like Buddha or whatever. I had a million ideas pass through my head I suppose, but none really got stuck, which happens to me at times, but this time it was weird--there was this feeling of peace and carelessness as if it could all just pass me right by and I could just sit there with the breeze in my hair and my toes in the sand.

It was only a few days away but it can always do you good, I tell you. First off, there's the road. Miles and miles of these fields, and dead sunflowers, and the shrewd yellowness that just spreads its wings everywhere, cows and lambs and all that having a feast over the half dried out grass, a single horse here and there staring into the sun (i'm not kidding, I've seen at least two horses just standing in the middle of a field, not eating, not doing a thing but just staring into the sun) and good music ringing in you ears. Tangled Up In Blue is proven to be one of the greatest road songs ever. 100 songs or so of the man and you never once get bored. 3 and a half hour straight. He gets you there.

Then there's the family. Good at times and bad at the others, but effortlessly enjoyable at the end. Family brings out the food and the old jokes and the stories a thousand times told, yet told once more. And I was stuck too, before I left, among all others that I have failed and who have failed me, so this was a good escape.

There are the experiences. Like, I walked for a while--among the grass and the crazy plants and the thorns and the million times i got bitten and stung and my legs became this mutated pieces of meat, but I didn't care. I tried to get out there, sun burning the top of my head and tried to see if I had it in me. To be there. To be on the road. Did I? Silent smile, that's all I can offer you. You take it anyway you want.

The single, most amazing, surreal thing that ever happened to me. Visiting this old chapel down in the village, I tried to wind up my path backwards to see what was back there, and bam, a little far out, this donkey turned around and let out the most infuriated cry--almost a scream--and I turned around to look at it as it screamed at my face. It was an angry donkey. I had never seen an angry donkey, but this one was furious. I know it sounds stupid now, but you should have been there, you should have seen it, an acid trip mustta been something quite close to that. Angry donkey. As if the world could get any weirder. A donkey, of all.

Finally, the way back home. Ice cream melting in your mouth at 6 o'clock in the morning, sun is barely up, the morning coldness of the winter school days is definitely out there and growing, and Dylan again. Shelter Of The Storm this time. "Do I understand your question man, is it hopeless and forlorn?" I dozed off before I could get the answer.

This is getting longer for no use, it's time to wrap it up. Summer, children, the best thing about summer is the end of it. When the air gets cooler, and the sun goes down and the beach is practically deserted and Corrina, Corrina plays inside your head, and you know when you get home there's gonna be a big dinner and desert and laughters and hugs and kisses, you bite on your last slice of apple, and the world is there, and it'll be there tomorrow and all you feel bad about is having not read enough. Soon it'll be october winds and november rains and new year's eve and snow, if we're a bit lucky, and coffee spoons and chocolate cakes and school and tears and fights and gossip, and if i live to see it, who knows, there might be more.

PS: Since these songs brought out the perfect nothingness for me the on the beach, here's a list of them, in case you get to sneak out of the city for a few days and hit somewhere a bit warmer. And you wonder why my head gets so crazy, well, this is a tiny piece of a very large, disorderly puzzle.

The James Gang- Walk Away (start with something up beat, while it's still warm and the afternoon is just rolling in)

Bob Dylan- It's All Good (some dark irony always helps)

The Doors-Hyacinth House (do you really need a reason for jimmy?)

Led Zeppelin- Down By The Seaside (your head feels a bit lighter now, and it's time to slow down the beat a bit)

The Rolling Stones- Time Is On My Side (haha-i read bobby the other day talking about how the stones ripped this song from somewhere and of course had a hit with it)

Elvis Presley- That's All Right Mama (not thinking begins round now)

The Beatles-All My Loving

The Beatles-I've Just Seen A Face (I've listened to so much Beatles this past few days I feel like I have John inside my head)

Robert Johnson- Love In Vain

The Doors- I Will Never Be Untrue

Ella Fitzgerald- It's Only A Paper Moon (you're completely blank by now)

Frank Sinatra- Oh! Look At Me Now

Billie Holiday-Let's Call A Heart A Heart (oh holy emptiness)

Ella Fitzgerald- My Melancholy Baby

Joan Baez- Love Is Just A Four Letter Word (now you get a bit depressed, i don't know whether its the words or the voice, or the combination of them)

Bob Dylan/ Johnny Cash- I Still Miss Someone (the original Cash version is perfectly fine too, but honestly, when I hear the yonder one's voice, I get a feeling of familiarity--so me and Johnny, we're using him as an icebreaker)

Bob Dylan- Corrina Corrina (the perfect ending to the day--you stretch yourself out, turn you face to last few beams of the sunlight and smile for the life of yours)

short notice

it may not be california, but looks like i'm going to somewhere after all.

i'm off to a few days of vacation kids, wrapping up the last days of summertime to go out and get cozy on the sand.

"Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than treason
To go with the drift of things
To yield to with grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?"

R.F.

So long.

positively 4th street

fried of a friend quotes a few words of mr kerouac and that draws the blues to my head like a magnet of lonesomeness and sorrow.

it gets a few days closer each day to the day i gather up my ideas and stick them inside a duffle bag and put on a proud look upon my face and declare "you don't know me!"

"friends will arrive, friends will disappear" sings the cranky old man. i don't know what to say. i wanted to say something but i think it slipped out of my mind, and i can't seem to get it back right now.

cause i certainly had some fancy heavy way to put it. some quotes here and there. now i got nothing, man. a thousand faces and they all run out.

might was well put this on--to make reading this not a total waste of time.

...

"Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence."

T.S.E.

"try new mexico, i hear he's on a tortilla"

hahahahaha. man, i love this show.

...

this is the kinda perk i'm talking about.

internet dinners

i admit, this one definetly has its ups, and its downs.

the world of everchanging technology, I mean. after a day of suffering in the hands of that gigantic cyber man i just had enough of it you know. if i could just take us all back to candle light and pen and pencil, i'd do it with pleasure. seems to be like we are overdoing this whole world wide web deal, and we're forcing ourselves to become dependent on those little intangible letters and arranging our lives accordingly.

not that it's a whole waste of time, don't get me wrong. there are tons of perks to the jobs, i think i owe half of my life to the internet. as i'm typing these down i'm listening to a playlist made up of woodstock performances, how cool is that? and how else, if not for that beast of burden that i would have gotten the chance to do that? things are much more accessible now, and that's good, that's all right.

but isn't it all just...disposable? if everyone else does it at the same time, can't we all just stop?

but i guess it makes me a hypocrite, since i'm going to scatter these words into that black hole in a minute or so. besides, the who's next on the playlist.

a million times or more dear

i've been looking for this complete version forever now. yay me.

it takes a lot to laugh, it takes a plane to cry

airports are funny places.

contrary to the other departing and returning places as train stations, ports and all, they're surprisingly cold and lack any kind of emotion of any sort. i went there today, thinking it'll be hell through and through, all those people on the way to a brand new life--breaking free, heading out you know, getting on the road....strangely, there was nothing. nothing of that sort. there were suitcases, passports and luggage weighing; there were children sleeping on the seats, too much grey was everywhere, people seemed tired and out of place.

you shouldn't depend on airports. airports are gigantic scaled versions of planning, paying, preparing schemes. there's no traveler's spirit there, no impulsive actions, nobody breaks free. it's like...like accepting everything you know. becoming a misplaced piece of an undefined system. see when you throw you bag over your shoulder and take that first step into the bus, that's a different feeling. when you slam the trunk close, when you take your one foot ahead of another--when you still can see the sky and the earth, when you're not stuck in some thousand ton steel box. i don't have anything against planes, don't get me wrong. it just, you know, feels like killing the essence of traveling, the true spark of the journey, of the road.

i stared at that screen with the arrivals and departures, there was nowhere i wanted to be (all right, Moscow maybe, but not now, i have a feeling that it's not now). I think we have an emotional clock too somewhere within that just lets you know when your time's right, and my time just isn't i guess. i don't know what or how or why, but i kinda saw myself today--in a way i hadn't before. I sat on the seats--i watched the people-- it just didn't click.

you shouldn't like airports. you should like that feeling of an eagle spreading its wings apart right in the middle of your chest, you should like hitting the asphalt, you should like chasing the sky, you should like moving, you should like having a home nonetheless, you should hate leaving, but die to leave--but whatever it is, you just shouldn't like airports.

...

i could say something smart, but i'm gonna let this one go by.

i kinda like this version. i will be back to write more today. now i goota eat.

...

"Sure you can sit around your house, without ever leaving home, stick in your ear buds, and listen to it all alone. But you gotta ask yourself, what’s the next generation gonna write about? Sitting home alone, you’re not gonna write a song like this.”

muttering small talk at the wall

i know that i've been just blabbering about the man forever now, but this is just way too cute for me to pass on. not to mention that i just used the word "cute" in the same sentence with him--even that's kinda creepy. there you go.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LX8VdSOsvJQ&feature=related

...

"The dream has sucked the sleeper of his faith."

D.T.

I guess at some point you start seeing the million dissapointed faces. everyone has a dream, and everyone had seen them dreams crushed.

they've got some hungry women there that'll make a mess out of you

yes i know it's superficial and very much a cliche, but i have to put this here, i think there's something more to this jimbo that just being the rebel with the pretty face, and being out on a gap purse or whatever--i think there's something in his eyes.

he gives you a feeling of spring. in such a time too.

a handful of rain

i turned up my radio and there comes stormy monday of allman brothers. now that's what i would describe as poetic.

the world's upside down today--i woke up to the rain and the wind and all the rest, full on natural disaster afoot. it hasn't been raining ever since noon, but people are still trying to pick up the pieces. we took a walk down the roads to see what was happening, and man, a lot had been happening.

first and foremost, the humane desire to see and recognize destruction is just plain awesome. people seem to be flocking only to see cars upside down, bridges fallen, trucks floating carelessly through the now flooded highways. and children--dragged outside by the parents who are after finding something to be thankful for in their own miseries-- just randomly run around. they don't really care about anything beneath the surface, you know. it's just plain fun to see 5 people trying to turn a wrecked car upside down. but they are still so beautiful, even in all that mud and craziness, they just play games, chasing one another down the road, they hold each others' hands, peeking once in a while over the barriers to see what's happening. long story short, it's weird to watch people react to unfortunate events. you know, as Whitman would put it in a slightly different concept, the wonder is always in a mean man or an infidel.

anyways, the electricity was off all day, so I had a chance to get down with The Town And The City. it's so weird ( i really need to start finding more adjectives, i really do) you know, it's so neat and orderly, and so not like Kerouac, but just juicy in its way of showing you where Kerouac had been before. there's more to it, but i'll hold my tongue until i'm done.

so what was i talking about? right, destruction, disaster, endings, pain, misery...gotta admit they're appealing people. sometimes, a disturbing feeling pierces me through the heart, and i wonder if we all just randomly go after the sudden combustion, if we all just admire the poet, the rock star, the beautiful one only because at the end of the day, the Morrison kind always burns itself out. and that's the kind we look for. that's the kind we seem to cherish. the kind we seem to love, once we are all blinded by the explosion, by the million lights.

or else expecting rain

it's been raining for two days now--and i'm sickly delighted with it. if it was up to me, it'd be raining all the time.

ordered chronicles vol.1, i'm home, warm; my phone's dead (i swear i didn't do anything), i'll be getting some coffee in a minute. i'm all right, i guess.

"Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain."

R.F.

wild child

"Childrren's hearts are full of innocent, almost unconscious, love, and such blows ewoke in them a sorrowful astonishment and tears which God beholds and will count. For their intellect is never capable of grasping their full guilt."
F.M.D

indian summer

i really don't have anything to say for the night, and the heat is killing me, but i've been looking at some old jim pics, i don't know, it makes you feel humane for some reason.

...

"Politics is entertainment. It's a sport. It's for the well groomed and well heeled. The impeccably dressed. Party animals. Politicians are interchangeable."

good one.

myself forever reproaching myself

"Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see
around me..."

this one's like a good bottle of wine, it gets even better as time passes by. i've been chewing up on it for two days now. i close my eyes and there the words are.

heave and sigh.

rats' alleys

it's about all those people who do what they want tonight. about a thousand dreams fulfilled. about a thousand more broken. the void. the void. the man who spoke of the void.



there is something graceful and angellike in a black-and-white photo, don't you think?

barbaric yawp

i felt like strolling down the whitman lane tonight, so i'll give you a few lines of his.

O Me! O Life!

O ME! O life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill'd with the
foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I,
and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the
struggle ever renew'd,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see
around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me
intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring-What good amid these, O me,
O life?

Answer.
That you are here-that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse


i requested my song on the radio, my stomach's full, my eyelids get heavier, i began
the town and the city , but something still doesn't feel right. huh.

well, i plugged it in my socket and the house exploded

"More light."


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fBvKSiljieo&feature=fvw

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jxGrGaVipQc

"damn it, one can't die without explanations."

so, I'm done with the idiot.

i don't have to tell you how good it was, or how talented the man is, or anything of that sort. the name fyodor just naturally comes with those attachments, and i'm sure my endless praises to the legend won't really make him any more or less than what he already is. you don't make bob dylan any better of a song writer by stating out the obvious, you know what i mean? not like you have to be a genious to realize it either. anyways, moving on...

myshkin is now definetly one of my favorite of them dostoevski boys (i do still have to say that mitya is still the king of the lot) and he, as always, remimded me the simpleness and purity that i've been missing in everyone lately, including myself. oh well, we can't have too many idiots now, can we? that would ruin the beauty of those that exist among us. i'm guessing we have to just admit the fact that we have fallen to far to get back by now, and you gotta accept the human nature as it is--corrupted and complicated.

though i have to say, his angellike heart didn't stop him from ruining practically everyone's life, and well, it was sort of intentional too. I think his real sweetheart was Natasya (suck it up, Aglaia!) but i'm not really sure whether if that is just my way of seeing things or that it was the way it was told in the story. i guess everyone would see it differently.

the ending was a bit abrupt, I have to say. i won't get into details here to ruin everyone's pleasure, but man, i kinda didn't see that one coming.

anyways, as always, praise the lord of the words, and here are a few words of wisdom fallen from his pen, to conclude:

"But I'll add though, that there is something at the bottom of every new human thought, every thought of genious or even every earnest thought that springs up in any brain, which can never be explained to others, even if one were to write volumes about it and were explaining one's idea for thirty-five years, there is something left which can not be induced to emerge from your brain, and remains with you forever; and with it you will die, without communicating to anyone perhaps, the most important of ideas..."

i'd give you a few more, but i'll let you digest that first.

love you all.

"repetition of salutes"

well , this is an odd day.

yesterday was just great. it's that feeling you get when you know you are among the right people, it's priceless. looking upon faces and bright and beatiful and knowing that you are loved among them, and you would be taken care of. treated like a glass vase at times and as the wall to lean against in others. friendships are valuable, delicate things. and you take as much as you give. that's what i notice last night, my dearest angels, they take what i give them and work with it, and manage to love me and call me a friend with that. it's a good feeling. it's home. it's warm.

there is this thing in the pit of my stomach though. unsettling, restless feeling. i've been cruel to people, i've been acting like a spoiled brat, and it works out fine anyways, cause they are family, and they will be with you no matter what, but this constant guilt inside is just killing me. in a way, it makes me happy, to know that i'm decent enough to feel bad about the wrongs i've done, but it also sucks the life out of ya. i mean that, i feel like doing nothing today. i do have to get done with the idiot though, it's been like 3 weeks, and i think fyodor would turn in his grave if don't get with it soon.

just watched the season 4 gag reel of supernatural. as always, they are just adorable. turned my frown upside down a bit. also watched when harry met sally last night. it was fun, but i'm done on the romantic comedies for the next decade or so. too much is just too much.

one of my dearests told me today that she was planning to get me no direction home as a birthday present. i love people who stop for a minute and actually give a damn about what they are getting to the other person. i think it shows how much you care about someone. that's why i love my gals, one had got me a dvd about the gospel years of dylan and the other dostoievski's life story. i love'em, i really do for pondering over things.

CCR are is on as i type these. gotta love that manly, midwest, truck stop type of raw, macho, thick tone of fogerty.

maybe i should switch to harmonica

some people are born to play guitar, some--not so much.

see my fingers are small and chubby, i have tiny bones and a little too soft meat on them. so i can't even press down a string before i kill myself. not to mention my lack of long term--or short term--memory. the fish in the ocean remember stuff longer than i do.

so it was a dumb decision from the get go, but still, i had always wanted to play the guitar so i forced my cousin to teach me a few things last night. my index still hurts that soft spot right by the nail, it's all dry and uber sensitive. can't say i embrace a whole lotta talent, i'm no jimmy page, i'll give you that. what i do can say though, is i suck. but it was still so much fun. and i almost kinda sorta got the first part of jingle bells by the end of the night.

then i came home after midnight and put on my the other side of the mirror and watched a few clips--esp the one where Zimmerman can't get the guitar to sound right and Joan just bluntly declares that "maybe it doesn't do anything", to which he replies, casually, "oh wow. maybe it doesn't tell a story."

so maybe my guitar won't tell a story. not in the near future at least. but the moment i get my hands on some cash, i'm getting me one of those devils.

ps: last 60 pages of the idiot. poetry time for a bit after that--then Kerouac in his best.

ps*: tomorrow, we're having a house gathering with the gals. yummster.

it's a single L

so, literally spent my last money on books. over the course of two days, i bought eliot, thomas and of course, my loving kerouac (the town and the city). been reading eliot all night, and it's just...it made me cry the other day, when i was reading him for the first time, you know. so we get along good for now. i could give him more time, but myshkin needs to be finished and i still have about 200 pages to go.

not much else to say, still in the darker ends of times. spoke of broken hearts and betrayal and love and all that with friends today. my heart's kinda tired. "Out worn heart in time out-worn..." Right?

but, i would be cruel if i don't leave you off with a few words from eliot:

And I must borrow from every changing shape
To find expression...dance, dance.