En uno de sus escritos autobiográficos, Simone de Beauvoir comenta sobre Simone Weil (filósofa francesa): «Me intrigaba por su gran reputación de mujer inteligente y audaz. Por ese tiempo, una terrible hambruna había devastado China y me contaron que cuando ella escuchó la noticia lloró. Estas lágrimas motivaron mi respeto, mucho más que sus dotes como filósofa. Envidiaba un corazón capaz de latir a través del universo entero».
Simone de Beauvoir, sobre Simone Weil (filósofa francesa)
En uno de sus escritos autobiográficos, Simone de Beauvoir comenta sobre Simone Weil (filósofa francesa): «Me intrigaba por su gran reputación de mujer inteligente y audaz. Por ese tiempo, una terrible hambruna había devastado China y me contaron que cuando ella escuchó la noticia lloró. Estas lágrimas motivaron mi respeto, mucho más que sus dotes como filósofa. Envidiaba un corazón capaz de latir a través del universo entero».
Bob Dylan Interview for 20/20 (1985)
“I want to figure out what’s happening. I did look into it. It didn’t necessarily make life easier, but it definitely made it clearer. Again, a lot of things, really—hard to say in a few words what I gained from it. But it’s always easier if you understand something than if you don’t. If you don’t understand something, you’re just tossed about. If there’s a storm coming up, it’s always much easier on you knowing that it’s only going to last a certain time.
Is there another world after this one? This is a testing ground. This is a place you have to work certain things out. You have to work out where your place is and who you are. But we’re all spirit—that’s all we have. Just walking, dressed up in a suit of skin. And that we’re going to leave that. You make of it what you make of it. Nothing’s forever—everything is temporary. You don’t leave any nice place behind. You just have to have some kind of focus on what you need and what people force you to need. It’s only your work you’re leaving behind.
At a certain time, all the people from history will stand up. I believe in the resurrection. There are certain things—certain knowledge—that I’m not sure is available right now on a mass level. It may be sometime, because some of it is a little extreme. It might go against what a lot of people already think. A lot of what’s happening today throughout the world operates under something like a spiritual religious order, but it’s actually happening more in terms of a financial empire. And this is from what I can see—it has nothing really to do with spirituality or the next world, or the soul—the trip that the soul’s on. I could go deeper, but I’m not sure how much of it I want to state right out and say, because I’m not sure how much of it applies here. Oh yeah, sure—I think this whole thing’s got to end. Well, there’s a messianic kingdom that would be coming in. When it comes in, some people say tomorrow—I don’t particularly think it’s going to be tomorrow, but I believe it’s going to happen.”
Destino de poeta - Octavio Paz
¿Palabras? Sí, de aire,
y en el aire perdidas.
Déjame que me pierda entre palabras,
déjame ser el aire en unos labios,
un soplo vagabundo sin contornos
que el aire desvanece.
También la luz en sí misma se pierde.
Jay Shetty
The door was never locked. You just stopped checking after the first time it felt heavy. Try the handle again.
And I felt that
Jay Shetty
Morning - Frank O'Hara
I’ve got to tell you
how I love you always
I think of it on grey
mornings with death
in my mouth the tea
is never hot enough
then and the cigarette
dry the maroon robe
chills me I need you
and look out the window
at the noiseless snow
At night on the dock
the buses glow like
clouds and I am lonely
thinking of flutes
I miss you always
when I go to the beach
the sand is wet with
tears that seem mine
although I never weep
and hold you in my
heart with a very real
humor you’d be proud of
the parking lot is
crowded and I stand
rattling my keys the car
is empty as a bicycle
what are you doing now
where did you eat your
lunch and were there
lots of anchovies it
is difficult to think
of you without me in
the sentence you depress
me when you are alone
Last night the stars
were numerous and today
snow is their calling
card I’ll not be cordial
there is nothing that
distracts me music is
only a crossword puzzle
do you know how it is
when you are the only
passenger if there is a
place further from me
I beg you do not go
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Dr. Gabor Maté (with Jay Shetty): Self-Improvement Can Be an Attack on Yourself
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JqHaPGLgW6I
Thomas Merton: how we live in other peoples' minds...
born for love: how other people think of us?
do they (other people) see us?
who we are and how they see us...
we have trouble loving people the way they need to be loved
culture's incapacity to see people as they really are
midlife crisis
recognition and curiosity, actually dealing with our own stuff
Bluebeard - Safiya Sinclair (Jamaican poet)
It’s true I put my head
into the mouth
of the lion,
touched my tongue to the rough
of his tongue, slicked the dark
underside of him,
unspooling what nature
demands
of my wanting.
Yes, I watched the false man prowl,
and begged as he starved my wicked
flame from me,
learning to breathe only when
he breathed, until my world was
his, each day was his. His silence
I longed to set a fuse inside.
Desire, my hunter.
My hunger—
Red witch roaming the scorched house
of fires I have been, fires I have built,
and nurtured, all my good days burnt
to guilt and bluster, his good skin stripping,
that sinful itch.
What is permanence?
These gashes will heal, eventually. Scratch
of madness teething love, be infinite. But who
could endure this?
He roars, unblinking, but never releases
me—
woman turning underpaw,
crushed as a straw doll under
her longing.
I kiss the bruise. Dress my famished
wound, its heaving. I kneel, he opens.
His cruel mouth a humid snare.
God or devil. Annihilation.
Brute inferno of any feeling—
I beg you.
Devour me.
Poem - Frank O’Hara
Light clarity avocado salad in the morning
after all the terrible things I do how amazing it is
to find forgiveness and love, not even forgiveness
since what is done is done and forgiveness isn’t love
and love is love nothing can ever go wrong
though things can get irritating boring and dispensable
(in the imagination) but not really for love
though a block away you feel distant the mere presence
changes everything like a chemical dropped on a paper
and all thoughts disappear in a strange quiet excitement
I am sure of nothing but this, intensified by breathing
Negative Capability - John Keats
"I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason — Coleridge, for instance, would let go by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Penetralium of mystery, from being incapable of remaining content with half-knowledge. This pursued through volumes would perhaps take us no further than this, that with a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration."
Digging - Seamus Heaney
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.
From Death of a Naturalist. Copyright 1966 by Seamus Heaney.
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