ok so I am functioning on three hours of sleep and 7, count them, s-e-v-e-n espressos as a major act of compensation so as my eyelids keep telling me “sleep is good” we interrupt tonight's regularly scheduled programming for, you guessed it RERUNS!!!!!!! (Just like on TV!)
read this Henry Miller piece while waiting waiting waiting for a ride on Gus – the wonder bus this morning. (you wonder if the heat will be working, you wonder if it will show up or if there is a sciopero, you wonder if the guy who invented mortadella got the idea from being sandwiched inside one of these big orange suppositories) . it made me think….still making me think…but reading stuff this good just makes me want to take everything i have ever written and pile it in one big pile (ala bonfire of the vanities) and strike a match.
i will never, not even if i live to be a hundred, be able to express myself this well…..
~sparrow
Today it is the third or fourth day of spring and I am sitting at the Place Clichy in full sunshine. Today, sitting here in the sun, I tell you it doesn't matter a damn whether the world is going to the dogs or not; it doesn't matter whether the world is right or wrong, good or bad. It is - and that suffices. The world is what it is and I am what I am. I say it not like a squatting Buddha with legs crossed, but out of a gay, hard wisdom, out of an inner security. This out there and this in me, all this, everything, the resultant of inexplicable forces. A chaos whose order is beyond comprehension. Beyond human comprehension.
As a human being walking around at twilight, at dawn, at strange hours, unearthly hours, the sense of being alone and unique fortifies me to such a degree that when I walk with the multitude and seem no longer to be a human being but a mere speck, a gob of spit, I begin to think of myself alone in space, a single being surrounded by the most magnificent empty streets, a human biped walking between the skyscrapers when all the inhabitants have fled and I am alone walking, singing, commanding the earth. I do not have to look in my vest pocket to find my soul; it is there all the time, bumping against
my ribs, swelling, inflated with song. If I just left a gathering where it was agreed that all is dead, now as I walk the streets, alone and identical with God, I know that this is a lie. The evidence of death is before my eyes constantly; but this death of the world, a death constantly going on, does not move from the periphery in, to engulf me, this death is at my very feet, moving from me outward, my own death a step in advance of me always. The world is the mirror of myself dying, the world not dying any more than I die, I more alive a thousand years from now than this moment and this world in which I am now dying also more alive then than now though dead a thousand years. When each
thing is lived through to the end there is no death and no regrets, neither is there a false springtime; each moment lived pushes open a greater, wider horizon from which there is no escape save living.
- Henry Miller, Black Spring
read this Henry Miller piece while waiting waiting waiting for a ride on Gus – the wonder bus this morning. (you wonder if the heat will be working, you wonder if it will show up or if there is a sciopero, you wonder if the guy who invented mortadella got the idea from being sandwiched inside one of these big orange suppositories) . it made me think….still making me think…but reading stuff this good just makes me want to take everything i have ever written and pile it in one big pile (ala bonfire of the vanities) and strike a match.
i will never, not even if i live to be a hundred, be able to express myself this well…..
~sparrow
Today it is the third or fourth day of spring and I am sitting at the Place Clichy in full sunshine. Today, sitting here in the sun, I tell you it doesn't matter a damn whether the world is going to the dogs or not; it doesn't matter whether the world is right or wrong, good or bad. It is - and that suffices. The world is what it is and I am what I am. I say it not like a squatting Buddha with legs crossed, but out of a gay, hard wisdom, out of an inner security. This out there and this in me, all this, everything, the resultant of inexplicable forces. A chaos whose order is beyond comprehension. Beyond human comprehension.
As a human being walking around at twilight, at dawn, at strange hours, unearthly hours, the sense of being alone and unique fortifies me to such a degree that when I walk with the multitude and seem no longer to be a human being but a mere speck, a gob of spit, I begin to think of myself alone in space, a single being surrounded by the most magnificent empty streets, a human biped walking between the skyscrapers when all the inhabitants have fled and I am alone walking, singing, commanding the earth. I do not have to look in my vest pocket to find my soul; it is there all the time, bumping against
my ribs, swelling, inflated with song. If I just left a gathering where it was agreed that all is dead, now as I walk the streets, alone and identical with God, I know that this is a lie. The evidence of death is before my eyes constantly; but this death of the world, a death constantly going on, does not move from the periphery in, to engulf me, this death is at my very feet, moving from me outward, my own death a step in advance of me always. The world is the mirror of myself dying, the world not dying any more than I die, I more alive a thousand years from now than this moment and this world in which I am now dying also more alive then than now though dead a thousand years. When each
thing is lived through to the end there is no death and no regrets, neither is there a false springtime; each moment lived pushes open a greater, wider horizon from which there is no escape save living.
- Henry Miller, Black Spring
posted by ~Sparrow | Thursday, December 18, 2003
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