hi, light

resolved:

to write everyday.

or rather,

half-resolved.

=)

either here, or in my fictional magnum opus.

my fictional little magnum opus. pequena opus. better: opus pequena.

i had an important realization today. as i was getting out of my car, in the dark of the basement and readying myself for a day of work, i thought, "am i disappointed in myself?" it echoed and scurried into the shadows of the walls.

"and if so, why?"

i am slightly disappointed myself, because i don't believe i have been exerting the courage to be who i want to be. i have simply been, in my natural state, which is an unthinking and fearful one.

i do not want to be afraid to be.

to be contrary and demanding,

to be dependent and trusting.

to be myself in all gargantuan form.

millions of legs!

octopus legs, flailing ever which way.

and today i kept thinking:

"be who you want to be."

and i became, a little more.

a little more esther! a little more Esther.

a little more happy.

a little more courageous.

dat da da

( david once told me he thought sounds were more meaningful than words ) (or perhaps that sometimes he can't find the words )

i often can't find the words

and - i keep thinking about this shirt, these words

scho good

...my happy laughter

thoughts on literature. life.

"You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living. Then you read a book… or you take a trip… and you discover that you are not living, that you are hibernating. The symptoms of hibernating are easily detectable: first, restlessness. The second symptom (when hibernating becomes dangerous and might degenerate into death): absence of pleasure. That is all. It appears like an innocuous illness. Monotony, boredom, death. Millions live like this (or die like this) without knowing it. They work in offices. They drive a car. They picnic with their families. They raise children. And then some shock treatment takes place, a person, a book, a song, and it awakens them and saves them from death. Some never awaken."

"I would like to have your sureness. I am waiting for love, the core of a woman's life."
Don't wait for it," I said. "Create a world, your world. Alone. Stand alone. And then love will come to you, then it comes to you. It was only when I wrote my first book that the world I wanted to live in opened to me."

"The other night we talked about literature's elimination of the unessential, so that we are given a concentrated "dose" of life. I said, almost indignantly, "That's the danger of it, it prepares you to live, but at the same time, it exposes you to disappointments because it gives a heightened concept of living, it leaves out the dull or stagnant moments. You, in your books, also have a heightened rhythm, and a sequence of events so packed with excitement that I expected all your life to be delirious, intoxicated."
Literature is an exaggeration, a dramatization, and those who are nourished on it (as I was) are in great danger of trying to approximate an impossible rhythm. Trying to live up to Dostoevskian scenes every day. And between writers there is a straining after extravagance. We incite each other to jazz-up our rhythm."

— Anaïs Nin (The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 1)

you

There's always something
In the way
There's always something
Getting through
But it's not me
it's You

Sometimes ignorance
Rings true
But hope is not in
What I know
Not in me
It's in You

It's all I know

And I find peace
When I'm confused
I find hope when
I'm let down
Not in me
But in You

I hope to lose myself
For good
I hope to find it in the end
Not in me
It's You
It's all I know

fly away

listening to 'worlds apart'

and jars of clay

'i'll fly away',

i grasped something-

i think people who believe in God believe because its the closest thing to flying in this world.

asdf

:)

its called

행복

why music / why art / is special

someone just said the best music, is the music that makes you remember.
i agree.

things to focus on

i like:
intellectual stimulation:

i desire,
friends for the journey-
to inspire and challenge me.

i longed for the other yesterday during worship.
i felt,
i needed to see and understand and be pushed around by something different.

i am relishing the challenge.
i hope my faint heart doesn't take over.

iron sharpening iron.

a potpourri
i wish i could recite
the poetry that moves
inside my heart
only fragments and bits
that i know in my head
but are unutterable once i try
to enunciate and bring them,
birth them into reality.

william carlos williams and
sonoma
and ginsberg and jack,
to look you in the eyes.
spring,
in paris.
know that you love who you are
down the road
there was one less travelled
and it has made all the difference
that you love who you are
the bright orange flame
the gift in her hand
she left me with a gift
and a red wheelbarrow,
plums that were cold too
delicious to eat alone.
monsieur
living voices and we drown.
the raving of eliot and
the dog with a collar
an epitaph-
pope.
alexander, dumas.
now we enter the realm of story
telling and myth making,
reality which we hoped to live
and live through the words written down.
ach!
if only i were strong enough for a lobotomy,
no, or the howling
howl
of the road. l'engle's mysterious and word
meshing combining that is almost not a poem,
just a sentence a thought fragmented
splintered like a jewel
with the robbins singing.
For I could not stop for Death.
so Death stopped for me.

i'm looking for life you know.