Quotes to like or puzzle over: “There comes a time when you realize that everything is a dream, and only those things preserved in writing have any possibility of being real.” ― James Salter, All That Is
There is this, isn’t there. I expect I’ve posted this before as it’s my own personal deadly sin. The sin of SLOTH.
And a belated happy birthday to Jos Heller. A good man, a good writer. One still revered and honored as well he should be.
Joseph Heller’s Birthday was May 1, 1923. He of course wrote Catch 22, a novel much quoted still today, or at least referred to although few know of the origin. An absurd or contradictory choice. (You have to be insane to want to stay in the army. You want to get out, plead insanity. Ha! If you’re insane you wouldn’t want to get out! A catch 22.)
And that’s the way things are, this today, this now.
“Whatever you’re meant to do, do it now. The conditions are always impossible.” Doris Lessing
And why do we wait to be told? Told anything. As if we need permission to be, to believe, to become. Someone else said, “It is never too late to become what you were meant to be.” (Jung, I believe, tho others are also credited with the quote.)
“And no one understands me. I know that life, that love, should change. What my mask is saying about the animal I am alludes painfully to an alliance between words and shadows. From which results a state of terror that rejects the human order.”—Alejandra Pizarnik
She was a Bosch painting Of mangled bodies deformed And perverted into a nightmare of her own screams And The meadows of Spring Running through tall Indian grass and daises and daffodils And A child of the Ether in skirts Made of silver spider webs and butterfly wings
She was Hell itself anchored in Despair and the flames of Demons Rocked in the cradle of Doubt Opened by a bloody knife of her own wounds and scarred the same
She was a Poem of Light And Smiles of soft shining fireflies, Curls around an eternal face Sparkled in diamonds and sunlight
She saved a life and killed a man Ran full force across the world and Dove off the cliffs unto the rocks Unstoppable Unbreathable Unbearable
She searched for God so she could punch Him in the face, Tear off His gowns to leave Him Naked in His own blasphemy of Creation He Who created the Minotaur As well as Theseus Father of Evil, Tormentor of Souls
She wrote and Sang and Painted She marched the stairs and Laughed and cooked and baked And Created her own music and Love And Still kept the unborn in jars Fermented in the formaldehyde of Alcohol underneath the floor
Until she became the Nightmare Itself drowned alone in the vomit of her sins And in the stream below the rocks her body broken Where it can at last Sing out… “So this is it? This is all ‘ya got?”
And she was all things
And she was nothing
And she wore boots so heavy she could not leave the earth her moans heard now by only Angels who cry to God…our pain, her worth
“Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination and life to everything.” ~ Plato
And my darling mother so loved music. It was sad as she was totally pitch imperfect, though I don’t think she knew it. (Perhaps you can’t know it for if you do you could then adjust to sing in tune!) She would raise her voice loud and proud as we sang hymns in Church. Flat. Off. As a child I was embarrassed. Now I would love to hear her sing.