[Image: “Judy’s Husband’s Stuffed Pickles,” by John E. Simpson. (Shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH). Taken at the North Florida Fair in November 2018; the husband was not in evidence, but the wife and the pickles did a fine job of representing the enterprise.]
From whiskey river:
Choosing to Think of It
Today, ten thousand people will die
and their small replacements will bring joy
and this will make sense to someone
removed from any sense of loss.
I, too, will die a little and carry on,
doing some paperwork, driving myself
home. The sky is simply overcast,
nothing is any less than it was
yesterday or the day before. In short,
there’s no reason or every reason
why I’m choosing to think of this now.
The short-lived holiness
true lovers know, making them unaccountable
except to spirit and themselves – suddenly
I want to be that insufferable and selfish,
that sharpened and tuned.
I’m going to think of what it means
to be an animal crossing a highway,
to be a human without a useful prayer
setting off on one of those journeys
we humans take. I don’t expect anything
to change. I just want to be filled up
a little more with what exists,
tipped toward the laughter which understands
I’m nothing and all there is.
By evening, the promised storm
will arrive. A few in small boats
will be taken by surprise.
There will be survivors, and even they will die.
(Stephen Dunn [source unknown, but probably here; appearing here])
…and (italicized portion):
You cannot write by thinking. You have plenty of time to think in between times. The period in between is when you stuff your eyeballs, when you read diversified multitudes of material in every field. I absolutely demand of you and everyone I know that they be widely read in every damn field there is: in every religion and every art form and don’t tell me you haven’t got time! There’s plenty of time. You need all of these cross-references. You never know when your head is going to use this fuel, this food for its purposes. Stuff yourself with serious subjects, with comic strips and motion pictures and radio and music; with symphonies, with rock, with everything! What we often forget is that thought is to be used to correct life. It’s not a way of life. If you make thought the center of your life, you’re not going to live it. So, what you have to do is be this kind of hysterical, emotional, vibrant creature who lives at the top of his lungs for a lifetime and then corrects around the edges so that he doesn’t go insane or drive his friends mad. Thought is the skin around the organ. The organ is full of blood and a beating heart, a soul and the exaltation of being alive!
(Ray Bradbury [source])
Not from whiskey river:
We have everything in us that Buddha has, that Christ has—we’ve got it all. But only when we start to acknowledge it is it going to get interesting. Our problem is we’re afraid to acknowledge our own beauty. We’re too busy holding on to our own unworthiness. We’d rather be a schnook sitting before some great man. That fits in more with who we think we are. Well, enough already. We are beautiful.
(Ram Dass [source])
…and:
The Way It Is
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.
(William Stafford [source])
…and:
Maybe you’re right, boss. It all depends on the way you look at it… Look, one day I had gone to a little village. An old grandfather of ninety was busy planting an almond tree. “What, grandad! I exclaimed. “Planting an almond tree?” And he, bent as he was, turned round and said: “My son, I carry on as if I should never die.” I replied: “And I carry on as if I was going to die any minute.” Which of us was right, boss?
(Nikos Kazantzakis [source])
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