Month: April 2017

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The State of Affairs

Aka, The Way Things Are

I’ve just disconnected from Twitter. Somehow my personal page got hijacked and many tweets are displaying as retweeted by me. Not so! I tried repeatedly to block, mute, report, and undo the retweet to no success. I don’t want anyone to think that is my site, (just because it has my name attached to it!). Oh, and I redid all of the settings to basically allow nothing. Still it continues. So I’ve quit. This is all too bad as I was enjoying some of the tweets I was able to view. *sigh* And oh well. Bye-bye Twitter.

And, I don’t know how much longer Facebook is going to last for me. I’ve heard that it is over but I don’t know where people have gone. Perhaps nowhere. There certainly is a lack of interaction. Few posts, fewer comments. A good thing after all that.

Tumblr? I’m there but not really able to use it to any advantage. Basically unsure, certainly a novice. (Or whatever is below a novice.) And none of these attempts at connecting with others has led to book sales of The Fat Man. And so. And so this is where we are: me, my book, and social media. It should also be noted that all of this posting and fussing and doing and undoing keeps the writing at bay. Limits it certainly.

Here we are, then, at this sad state of affairs. The lock and load of frustration. The fractals of the Universe continuing without me while including me. Time to write.

 

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Ludie

So here’s my pal, Ludie—The Sicilian. And here’s what he had to say about himself: “You People who think or say that I am hostile, stubborn, or misanthropic, how greatly you wrong me. You have no idea of the secret reason which makes me seem that way to you.” Of course his secret was that he was deaf.

His very dedicated fans like to call Beethoven “The Sicilian” because of his dark appearance and the looks of someone from Sicily. Those very passionate fans struggle with the stories of how badly he treated his nephew. There were also rumors about the time that Ludwig was given the care of his nephew, that the child was actually his own son, having had an affair with his brother’s wife. Beethoven did mistreat his nephew as there appears to be enough evidence to substantiate that. However, there has not been anything to prove that the nephew was anything other than just that—a nephew.

The music world generally considers Beethoven to be the greatest composer who ever lived.

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Posted by Ludwig van Beethoven Site
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The Mansion of Self

ViewAroomThat dream of the room. The room that becomes a house and the house becomes filled with rooms. The rooms unknown that hold many surprises and other pathways, doors, and tunnels. The attic filled with jewels. The dungeon below that you dare not enter yet moves with you, no matter the places you leave. Always there, always below. Except when it is above. Some rooms breathe and you can hear the in-and-out pranayama of the thing itself. Or is it the whole house? The house which has now become a mansion. It possesses you, that dream. It moves with you in madness and complete possession. It fills you with the transcendence of a miracle that gives you the life beyond. It takes you flying beside yourself, past yourself, this dream that is beyond words where you are baptized by the Light that has come alive, has re-imagined itself there. And you know the truth of the words “In my Father’s House there are many mansions.” And it is not that Father you know, but the Father that is Self, the self contained beyond itself and transmuted into the Universe.

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All photos posted by Room With a View

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The Library

Isn’t there something magical about photos of books and home libraries? It’s especially wonderful when the books have their very own room. Yes, “A Room of One’s Own”—for books. But then, it’s always books, books, books…Living there within the scent and tenor of the things themselves.

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Room With A View Post

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When Lilacs Last In The Dooryard…

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posted by Slice of Life on Facebook

…Bloomed. And so they did. Lilacs bloomed throughout the town, that same hometown. They grew in alleys and at the edges of yards, in the cemetery, and here and there. Then there was a here and there, when the town was less mannered. Before things got organized and groomed. On the way home from school I would pick the lilacs off the bushes, enough to make a bouquet for my mother. And it was all right.