that existence should consist of the inane as much as of the significant

Esti Sheinberg, Irony, Satire, Parody and the Grotesque in the Music of Shostakovich: A Theory of Musical Incongruities

If the Moon Were Only 1 Pixel - A tediously accurate map of the solar system ›

you probably think this post is about you

“You may have noticed that the books you really love are bound together by a secret thread. You know very well what is the common quality that makes you love them, though you cannot put it into words: but most of your friends do not see it at all, and often wonder why, liking this, you should also like that. Again, you have stood before some landscape, which seems to embody what you have been looking for all your life; and then turned to the friend at your side who appears to be seeing what you saw — but at the first words a gulf yawns between you, and you realize that this landscape means something totally different to him, that he is pursuing an alien vision and cares nothing for the ineffable suggestion by which you are transported. Even in your hobbies, has there not always been some secret attraction which the others are curiously ignorant of -

- something, not to be identified with, but always on the verge of breaking through, the smell of cut wood in the workshop or the clap-clap of water against the boat’s side? Are not all lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in the best) of that something which you were born desiring, and which, beneath the flux of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for? You have never had it. All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it — tantalising glimpses, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest

— if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself

— you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt you would say

"Here at last is the thing I was made for".

We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we shall still desire on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friend or work.

While we are, this is. If we lose this, we lose all.”

C.S. Lewis

And a Happy New Year

You will lose everything. Your money, your power, your fame, your success, perhaps even your memories. Your looks will go. Loved ones will die. Your body will fall apart. Everything that seems permanent is impermanent and will be smashed. Experience will gradually, or not so gradually, strip away everything that it can strip away. Waking up means facing this reality with open eyes and no longer turning away. But right now, we stand on sacred and holy ground, for that which will be lost has not yet been lost, and realizing this is the key to unspeakable joy. Whoever or whatever is in your life right now has not yet been taken away from you. This may sound trivial, obvious, like nothing, but really it is the key to everything, the why and how and wherefore of existence. Impermanence has already rendered everything and everyone around you so deeply holy and significant and worthy of your heartbreaking gratitude. Loss has already transfigured your life into an altar.

Jeff Foster

(via coketalk)

I did not think of heaven, but I saw that the clouds were beautiful, and I watched them cover the sun.

I’m working three jobs and this is the last of laments, I promise

Summer, where is my sweltering heat? Where are my drunk bike rides, where are my two-for-one piercings? Where are my picnics, my new tattoos, my cottage visits? Where are all my coffee dates? Where is all my skinny dipping? My music festivals? My house parties until dawn breaks? Where is my tanning in the park? Where are my barefoot walks? My wine-infused discussions about philosophy in the middle of the night? My cigarettes on balconies, my ear-shattering shows, my beers? Where is all the music we used to make? Where is all of my carefree? Where is the love that the season had for me before? I still love summer just the same. Where has everything gone?

1 year ago on May 26, 2013 at 08:54am