“Slowly the evening draws on its coat
Held out to it by a row of ancient trees:
You gaze: and the landscape splits in two,
One part lifting skywards, while one falls,
Leaving you not quite part of anything,
Not quite so dark as the house, the silent one,
Not quite as surely invoking the eternal,
As that which turns to star, each night, rising –
Leaving you (indescribably, to unravel)
Your anxious, immense, and ripening life:
So that, now bounded, and now grasped,
It becomes, in turn, stone in you, and star.”
Evening by Rainer Maria Rilke
Jethro Buck Little Big Bang
Jethro Buck The Night of the Glowing Sembar
“I live my life in widening circles
that reach out across the world.
I may not complete this last one
but I give myself to it.
I circle around God, around the primordial tower.
I’ve been circling for thousands of years
and I still don’t know: am I a falcon,
a storm, or a great song?”
my heart open
a little red
my heart open
a little red
–shinzo no tobira, mariah (Yasuaki Shimizu)
“I have walked behind the sky.
For what are you seeking?
The fathomless bliss of blue.
To be an astronaut of the void, leave the comfortable house that imprisons you with reassurance. Remember, to be going and to have are not eternal- fight the fear that engenders the beginning, middle and end.
Mughal-e-Azam (1960) featuring Madhubala, song by Lata Mangeshkar
Ask: the hum of branches ringing in the body,
a nervous shimmer, change inside a frequency. Therein
a tone, blood red.
Listen quietly to the storm, until we turn away,
The pattern of the wind twisting, a theory of everything: a rush of heat to the face.
Ask: gravity, radiation, making it visible.
To accept that, is music. Notes from a meeting:
Giving. Is central.
Wanting to ask. Not answer. And the universe expands.
“We thought we could control the night.” And it continues:
From Astroecology by Johannes Heldén
in Hinduism the ringing of a bell is said to engage all the senses, stimulating the inner ear. the moment the bell rings, the mind is disengaged from thoughts and becomes more receptive.
“heroic dose: the narco-imaginary establishes a circuit, maps an ancient course. The mystique that surrounds the narco-imaginary concerns it’s mystical beginnings; intoxication names the cypher through which mere mortals correspond with the gods.”
a pleasure or a poisoning or a vision of the future.
“what happens when the immediate familiarity of the present overwhelms the ability of the subject to frame his or her experience in language? What happens when “what is” appears to be exactly like what just was. When the “new development” appears to be an exact replica of the old development, relocated? Take a simple reburial, for example, the same old bones.”
bird bones may be hollow, but they are also heavy.
“a map of desire works like discourse; it fails to account for marauders that attack from unmarked territories. To understand it’s terrain you enter; or rather, already inside, you try and find your way out.”
“Although my mind confuses eruption for euphoria and devotion for diaspora, it clearly distinguishes today from tomorrow and yesterday from today. Or does it? Perhaps it blurs yesterday and tomorrow with the present so that life is one extended breath, minced to calendric intervals. Perhaps we are fit to perform only one duty: exhaling. Perhaps in life and in language, one can substitute one word for another word like pouring water from one glass into another. And perhaps I would like to surrogate exhaling for a more fitting dualistic jab: expiring.”
“Like a wind, like a storm, like a fire, like an earthquake, like a mud slide, like a deluge, like a tree falling, a torrent roaring, an ice floe breaking, like a tidal wave, like a shipwreck, like an explosion, like a lid blown off, like a consuming fire, like spreading blight, like a sky darkening, a bridge collapsing, a hole opening. Like a volcano erupting. Surely more than just the actions of people: choosing, yielding, braving, lying, understanding, being right, being deceived, being consistent, being visionary, being reckless, being cruel, being mistaken, being original, being afraid…”
“In other versions I am a doctor or a ghost. Perfect devices: doctors, ghosts, and crows. We can do things other characters can’t, like eat sorrow, un-birth secrets and have theatrical battles with language and god. I was friend, excuse, deus ex machina, joke, symptom, figment, spectre, crutch, toy, phantom, gag, analyst, and babysitter. I was after all ‘the central bird… at every extreme’. I’m a template. I know that, he knows that. A myth to be slipped in. Slip up into…
(I do this, perform some unbound crow stuff, for him. I think he thinks he’s a little bit Stonehenge shamanic, hearing the bird spirit. Fine by me, whatever gets him through.)
Grief is a Thing With Feathers by Max Porter
gifts. it’s time for gifts.
and the meaning,
it comes in waves.