Sure, I know that you are tired of hearing about it But most repeat the same theme over and over again, It’s as if they were trying to refine what seems so strange And off and important to them.
It’s done by everybody Because each must work out what is before them over and over again Because that is their personal tiny miracle. Like now as like before And before I have been listening to symphony after symphony from this radio It makes me realize that certain people now long dead Were able to transgress graveyards and traps and cages and bones and limbs In tiny rented rooms I was struck by miracles
The flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there And sometimes a soul and the women break vases against the walls And the men they drink too much And nobody ever finds the one But keep looking crawling in and out of beds. Flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh.
There is a loneliness in this world So great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of a clock People so tired, mutilated, either by love or no love. People just are not good to each other. We are afraid. Our educational system tells us that we can all be big winners But it hasn’t told us about the gutters or the suicides. Or the terror of one person aching in one place Alone, untouched, and unspoken to.
People are not good to each other. People are not good to each other. I suppose they never will be. I don’t ask them to be. But sometimes I think about it. There must be a way. Surely, there must be a way
There’s no chance at all: We are all trapped by fate. Nobody ever finds the one. Nobody ever finds the one.
There’s no chance at all: We are all trapped by fate. Who put this brain inside of me? It says that there’s a chance. It’s kept the rope from my throat Maybe it will loosen yours.
The city dumps fill. The junkyards fill. The graveyards fill.
“All of the characters in my films, they share one commonality. It doesn’t matter whether they are good or bad, it doesn’t matter whether they are smart or stupid, these characters all take responsibility for their own behavior. I’m much the same. Depending on what project I’m working on, for each film, I would build scenes that are most appropriate for that film, and that’s how I would make films. Whatever reputation ensues, I take full responsibility. The funny thing is, people who have actually seen my films, they imagine they saw something that in fact wasn’t presented on screen.”—Park Chan-Wook
“Death induces the sensual person to say: Let us eat and drink, because tomorrow we shall die – but this is sensuality’s cowardly lust for life, that contemptible order of things where one lives in order to eat and drink instead of eating and drinking in order to live.”—From Three Discourses on Imagined Occasions by Søren Kierkegaard (via kierkegaarddane)
“I see it all perfectly; there are two possible situations — one can either do this or that. My honest opinion and my friendly advice is this: do it or do not do it — you will regret both.”—Soren Kierkegaard, Either/Or. (via hobbyhorsical)
“What does your Art clarify?
What does your Art obscure?
What does your Art question?
What does your Art affirm?
What does your Art release?
What does your Art restrain?
What does your Art contend?
What does your Art filter?
What does your Art cannibalize?
What does your Art resurrect?
What does your Art separate?
What does your Art suture?
What does your Art ignite?
What does your Art embarrass?
What does your Art seduce?
What does your Art renounce?
What does your Art cost?
What does your Art control?
What does your Art climax?”—(via howitzerliterarysociety)
“An ancient legend of India reminds us that there is a river whose tributaries cannot be known. In the end its flow becomes circular and begins to boil. A tremendous confusion can be seen as it sweeps along, things totally unlike and trivial coexist with jewel-like symmetries and harmonious love. This is the Purana, carrying everything in its waters, always seeming to be in confusion, with no analogue or like-ness possible. And yet this is the river that leads to the gates of Paradise. Amid the reflections of its waves pass in procession the potter’s vestibule, the tree of coral, the chain of the tiger’s eye, the celestial Ganges, the malachite terrace, the hell of the lances and the repose of the perfect man. A ceaseless contemplation of the river transmits its dualism, the adventure of the analogue and the couple who retire to their small island. A tree before certain eyes, a tree of coral before the tiger’s eye; the lances before the terrace, and then the infernal lances before the paradisiacal terrace of malachite. Blessed are we the ephermal who can contemplate movement as an image of eternity and follow intently the parabola of the arrow until it is buried beneath the line of the horizon.”—JoséLezamaLima, Confluences (1968)