There is only oneself facing forever the problem of one's self discovery.
Lawrence Durrell
********************
Hello Marty
********************
Where I am is not my home. I don't like living here. I don't want to live here any more. I want to go to my home. But I don't know where that is.
My childhood was one of those unfortunate ones you sometimes read about where a child has to keep moving for financial or other reasons. I moved over 25 times before I left high school. As a result there is no place that I can identify as home.
One bit of knowledge I have as a result of that experience is that a home is a major source of support for anyone facing the rigors of understanding himself and establishing himself in the world. It's a safety net of sorts. As Robert Frost said "Home is the place where, when you've got to go there, they've got to take you in." But what is a person to do who has no home to go to when he's got to go there?
You sometimes hear about folks who never leave home. A man may grow up, have a job, get married and bring his wife home to live with his parents. Sometimes that even works out.
But the danger of growing up without a home is a major deprivation of a large facet of his identity. A man who has never had a home usually doesn't know how to make one because he doesn't know what it is. That's my problem. I used to joke that wherever my career took me as an actor I usually wanted to stay there. And that's why I ended up where I am now.
"Where are you from?" they ask.
"All over." I reply.
"Who are you?"
"I'm an actor." But even that's not good enough. I haven't been on the stage for almost 12 years. Without the badge of a home to cling to the puzzle of self discovery becomes more difficult. There is no place to go at Christmas time where an uncle might ask "How's your career going?" My career is in my back pack and only I know how it's going.
The thorniest questions and the hardest answers are worked out on the cement sidewalks of the city. Those who know me the best are those who have been on those same sidewalks and have tightened the knots that hold the cobweb together.
I took a long, necessary walk this evening on shaky legs, in the bitter cold. It doesn't matter to me. The discomfort, the exhaustion, the solitary struggle, they don't matter to me. And they would not matter to the fellow in the nice warm home that might have been mine. But I alone know where my heroism is. I discovered it.
Dana Bate
Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
*****************************
Showing posts with label Lawrence Durrell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lawrence Durrell. Show all posts
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Finding The Door
Somewhere in the heart of experience there is an order and a coherence which we might surprise if we were attentive enough, loving enough or patient enough.
Lawrence Durrell
********************
Hello Margie
*******************
I know there is a meaning behind the words I write and that I keep writing to discover it. An artist draws inspiration from the universal bank of ideas, which is eternal and infinite in its varieties, as numerous as the stars and as vast as the distances between them. What the artist makes of those ideas depends partly on his talent and skill, partly on dedication and hard work and partly on the need to seek and find, and then to expose, or not, the unknown reality of the existence of those ideas, the unheard sounds and unseen colors.
When searching through the universal mind of ideas and creations trying to find the reality of all realities, we artists are poor tailors, cutting out patterns and trying to fashion together something that fits. It never does and that's why we keep trying.
I know that what I write has a greater meaning and a greater purpose that isn't mine. Musicians know that also. There is no end to what can be discovered in music. In a certain way music is what all art is trying to achieve.
But as science is trying to discover the universal law of physics which will explain everything, and medicine is trying for the universal panacea, the door remains not closed and locked but undiscovered. Once the opening is found, and the genius can step out into the unknown, unheard and unseen, art may disappear or take a new form, science may also, but we will know that all of our efforts to find the truth and understand it, from the simple drawing of a flower to a monumental Russian novel were never done in vain.
Durrell is correct. The first important step is to pay attention, to carefully read the words, really listen to the music and really look at the painting, realizing that you are looking "through a glass darkly."
Next comes the love. "The mightiest space in fortune nature brings to join like likes and kiss like native things" says Shakespeare. The courage of honest desire to find the light and share it no matter what it may be is requisite to understand what is written. That honest, humble affection can't help bring a greater coherence into one's experience.
It is the nature of truth to reveal itself, especially to the waiting, expectant mind. But the hidden secret of truth is harder to find because it is so mysterious and so undefinable and yet so simple. The paintings, poems, songs and dances are merely the outward shapes and patterns of the gown. They are invitations for the immortal truth to visit us.
The patient, persistent, unselfish search for the truth behind the truth will never end. It can't.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give up.
http://vagabondjourneys/blogspot.com
**************************************
Lawrence Durrell
********************
Hello Margie
*******************
I know there is a meaning behind the words I write and that I keep writing to discover it. An artist draws inspiration from the universal bank of ideas, which is eternal and infinite in its varieties, as numerous as the stars and as vast as the distances between them. What the artist makes of those ideas depends partly on his talent and skill, partly on dedication and hard work and partly on the need to seek and find, and then to expose, or not, the unknown reality of the existence of those ideas, the unheard sounds and unseen colors.
When searching through the universal mind of ideas and creations trying to find the reality of all realities, we artists are poor tailors, cutting out patterns and trying to fashion together something that fits. It never does and that's why we keep trying.
I know that what I write has a greater meaning and a greater purpose that isn't mine. Musicians know that also. There is no end to what can be discovered in music. In a certain way music is what all art is trying to achieve.
But as science is trying to discover the universal law of physics which will explain everything, and medicine is trying for the universal panacea, the door remains not closed and locked but undiscovered. Once the opening is found, and the genius can step out into the unknown, unheard and unseen, art may disappear or take a new form, science may also, but we will know that all of our efforts to find the truth and understand it, from the simple drawing of a flower to a monumental Russian novel were never done in vain.
Durrell is correct. The first important step is to pay attention, to carefully read the words, really listen to the music and really look at the painting, realizing that you are looking "through a glass darkly."
Next comes the love. "The mightiest space in fortune nature brings to join like likes and kiss like native things" says Shakespeare. The courage of honest desire to find the light and share it no matter what it may be is requisite to understand what is written. That honest, humble affection can't help bring a greater coherence into one's experience.
It is the nature of truth to reveal itself, especially to the waiting, expectant mind. But the hidden secret of truth is harder to find because it is so mysterious and so undefinable and yet so simple. The paintings, poems, songs and dances are merely the outward shapes and patterns of the gown. They are invitations for the immortal truth to visit us.
The patient, persistent, unselfish search for the truth behind the truth will never end. It can't.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give up.
http://vagabondjourneys/blogspot.com
**************************************
Friday, April 13, 2012
Guardianship
So long as that strange sad cry rings out over the world, the birth pangs of an artist - all cannot be lost.
Lawrence Durrell
************************
Hello Jon
************************
I went to the market yesterday to get a few things. As I was leaving I passed a display of wind chimes. I stopped to try them out, There was one very fancy one made of shells, another of little bells, some traditional metal strips and pipes, and some wooden tubes. I tested them all out, listening to each of them ring and tinkle.
As I did that I noted that I was not listening for the prettiest sounding one or the one that would be most pleasing for my neighbors. I was listening for the sound that I thought best described my own character and personality as an artist. As it turned out I didn't buy one. I was on my crutches with several other items to maneuver. But I vowed to go back today or tomorrow a get one of the wooden ones, with a gentle, natural sound.
Most people would probably not think of it that way. But the world of an artist is an immediate one. As I write this I'm hearing a symphony by Franz Joseph Haydn. That music was composed in the 18th Century. The reason it is still relevant today is because the composer wasn't trying to mimic anyone. He wrote originally and immediately. He took the risk, based on his knowledge and experience as a master artist to say something new, fresh and prophetic. We thank him by still playing and listening to these creations from the true and trusted heart of that original man.
To be a serious artist is not always a joyous experience. It's an obligation. It has uncertainty and anguish built in to the process. There is great sadness over lost and discarded ideas. There is the intense struggle against an empty mind, a vanished imagination., temporary madness There is throwing yourself into the work when it is the last thing you feel you can do (every performing artist know that feeling). And, yes, there are regrets.
Every work of art has a conception, a gestation and a birth. Sometimes it's painless. Often it is not. But when it happens it is, like the birth of a human being, a reaffirmation of life. There are many forces in this world that would silence the artists, make them conform to rigid recidivism and codes of complacent inanity. The struggle is always against neglect, starvation, financial and spiritual, and ignorant disrespect and disregard. We are society's orphans.
So why would anyone be an artist? Because today's artist is the guardian of the world.
***********************************************
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
****************************
Lawrence Durrell
************************
Hello Jon
************************
I went to the market yesterday to get a few things. As I was leaving I passed a display of wind chimes. I stopped to try them out, There was one very fancy one made of shells, another of little bells, some traditional metal strips and pipes, and some wooden tubes. I tested them all out, listening to each of them ring and tinkle.
As I did that I noted that I was not listening for the prettiest sounding one or the one that would be most pleasing for my neighbors. I was listening for the sound that I thought best described my own character and personality as an artist. As it turned out I didn't buy one. I was on my crutches with several other items to maneuver. But I vowed to go back today or tomorrow a get one of the wooden ones, with a gentle, natural sound.
Most people would probably not think of it that way. But the world of an artist is an immediate one. As I write this I'm hearing a symphony by Franz Joseph Haydn. That music was composed in the 18th Century. The reason it is still relevant today is because the composer wasn't trying to mimic anyone. He wrote originally and immediately. He took the risk, based on his knowledge and experience as a master artist to say something new, fresh and prophetic. We thank him by still playing and listening to these creations from the true and trusted heart of that original man.
To be a serious artist is not always a joyous experience. It's an obligation. It has uncertainty and anguish built in to the process. There is great sadness over lost and discarded ideas. There is the intense struggle against an empty mind, a vanished imagination., temporary madness There is throwing yourself into the work when it is the last thing you feel you can do (every performing artist know that feeling). And, yes, there are regrets.
Every work of art has a conception, a gestation and a birth. Sometimes it's painless. Often it is not. But when it happens it is, like the birth of a human being, a reaffirmation of life. There are many forces in this world that would silence the artists, make them conform to rigid recidivism and codes of complacent inanity. The struggle is always against neglect, starvation, financial and spiritual, and ignorant disrespect and disregard. We are society's orphans.
So why would anyone be an artist? Because today's artist is the guardian of the world.
***********************************************
DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
****************************
Monday, October 3, 2011
The Hunt
The new creature we artists are hunting for will not "live" so much, as like time itself, "elapse."
Lawrence Durrell
**********************
Hello Bruce
********************
The hunt goes on. The original thinker paces out and measures out areas of the mind that no one has visited before. It is the challenge of darkness, the always elusive forms, invisible but adjacent to reality.
"Come and find me" says the Creature, but is it my voice I hear? I cannot tread these dangerous paths forever. Or can I? Can't we trust the eternality of truth? I have forgotten, like the rest, what the truth is made of, or rather how to recognize it. What is it that hides behind the headlines? What was it that deformed the light and then said "What light?" The hunt goes on.
I do not want to live in a time or place when children turn against each other and the world. There is no explanation given but the truthless, lightless one. I have almost forgotten, like the rest, that the light was deformed and thus so was reason. I have not forgotten the creature who hides before me, invisible but adjacent to reality. And the hunt goes on.
The hunt goes on in the dangerous places where human thought has not been before, where time and space are inventions, like gravity or the wheel, where the inevitable measure of earth light is used up by children in their special games.
There and then, when everything is lost, everything will be gained, and I, like the rest, will remember. One of us artists will be there as it passes by in it's eternal cycle. The uncertainty of living truth is accepted, acceptable. Will my mnemonics or yours see the creature hidden there before us? Will you, or I, or one of us catch it in the net?
So far so good. The hunt goes on.
DB - Vagabond Journeys (The Original)
Never Give Up
******************************
AUTUMN QUESTION
What event over the past year changed your life, a lot or a little?
3 answers so far.
dbdacoba@aol.com
I await your answers.
DB
********************
Lawrence Durrell
**********************
Hello Bruce
********************
The hunt goes on. The original thinker paces out and measures out areas of the mind that no one has visited before. It is the challenge of darkness, the always elusive forms, invisible but adjacent to reality.
"Come and find me" says the Creature, but is it my voice I hear? I cannot tread these dangerous paths forever. Or can I? Can't we trust the eternality of truth? I have forgotten, like the rest, what the truth is made of, or rather how to recognize it. What is it that hides behind the headlines? What was it that deformed the light and then said "What light?" The hunt goes on.
I do not want to live in a time or place when children turn against each other and the world. There is no explanation given but the truthless, lightless one. I have almost forgotten, like the rest, that the light was deformed and thus so was reason. I have not forgotten the creature who hides before me, invisible but adjacent to reality. And the hunt goes on.
The hunt goes on in the dangerous places where human thought has not been before, where time and space are inventions, like gravity or the wheel, where the inevitable measure of earth light is used up by children in their special games.
There and then, when everything is lost, everything will be gained, and I, like the rest, will remember. One of us artists will be there as it passes by in it's eternal cycle. The uncertainty of living truth is accepted, acceptable. Will my mnemonics or yours see the creature hidden there before us? Will you, or I, or one of us catch it in the net?
So far so good. The hunt goes on.
DB - Vagabond Journeys (The Original)
Never Give Up
******************************
AUTUMN QUESTION
What event over the past year changed your life, a lot or a little?
3 answers so far.
dbdacoba@aol.com
I await your answers.
DB
********************
Friday, May 13, 2011
Underneath The Stones
Only there, in the silence of the painter or the writer can reality be rendered, reworked, and made to show its significant side.
Lawrence Durrell
***********************
Hello Djibouti
***********************
We are artists and it is our responsibility to define life to itself. Reality is a gossamer thing that must be poked and probed at all times. Both the scientist and the artist are those who turn things upside down and look underneath. We do it from similar curiosity, but for different reasons.
I, as an artist, like most artists, am on a campaign to reveal the truth about truth, the reality about reality, the beauty about beauty and to render unto humans the shock of pleasure I experience when I discover the reality of the things we take for granted.
I'm not a poet. I wish I were. But I know that in the silence and aloneness of my life I continually reach for the poet's words to express what I find in that silence. To the philosopher the truth will reveal itself in a momentary flash of lightning as a giant landscape with all of it's details clearly seen. At that point the artist attempts to recreate what the philosopher saw. We can only do it in part, but it is in that doing that the mysteries and secrets reveal themselves.
One of the great secrets is the need and reasonability for the thinker to hold the specific and the general in mind at the same time. Every single extant, or thing that is, has its own individual sacred identity which gives it its right to exist, And it is also a part of the whole creation without which the universe would be incomplete. The attachment of a single truth to the whole of reality is more than just a natural network, it is the signification of the determination of existence and beauty.
DB - The Vagabond
*********************
Lawrence Durrell
***********************
Hello Djibouti
***********************
We are artists and it is our responsibility to define life to itself. Reality is a gossamer thing that must be poked and probed at all times. Both the scientist and the artist are those who turn things upside down and look underneath. We do it from similar curiosity, but for different reasons.
I, as an artist, like most artists, am on a campaign to reveal the truth about truth, the reality about reality, the beauty about beauty and to render unto humans the shock of pleasure I experience when I discover the reality of the things we take for granted.
I'm not a poet. I wish I were. But I know that in the silence and aloneness of my life I continually reach for the poet's words to express what I find in that silence. To the philosopher the truth will reveal itself in a momentary flash of lightning as a giant landscape with all of it's details clearly seen. At that point the artist attempts to recreate what the philosopher saw. We can only do it in part, but it is in that doing that the mysteries and secrets reveal themselves.
One of the great secrets is the need and reasonability for the thinker to hold the specific and the general in mind at the same time. Every single extant, or thing that is, has its own individual sacred identity which gives it its right to exist, And it is also a part of the whole creation without which the universe would be incomplete. The attachment of a single truth to the whole of reality is more than just a natural network, it is the signification of the determination of existence and beauty.
DB - The Vagabond
*********************
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Who Owns You?
Who has a stiffer battle to fight than the man who is striving to conquer himself.
Thomas a Kenpis
*********************
"Not forever by still waters
Would I idly quiet stay;
But would smite the living fountains
From the rocks along my way."
(Willis)
I accepted there would be troubles when I admitted myself into the world of an artist. There would be no getting off the road and no going back, though I didn't realize it at the beginning. How do I do it? I asked. And how did I continue without the gift of being a poet?
There are no excuses. A performing artist is not one who puts on shows. The play, the dance, those are the effects. They are the results of the treacherous highway traveled alone. I would not deprive anyone of such a journey. But I would warn that it goes through dangerous territory. It goes through green pastures and still waters. It goes through the poppy fields. It passes the signs that say "stop, rest, you've done enough." Those are the danger signs.
It goes up steep, slippery slopes and through dank swamps. It cuts through jungles where vipers dangle from trees, it takes you into blazing, arid deserts. It takes you through the valley of the shadow of death.
How will I survive this, is the question that frequently surrounds you and the answer is always silence. You're on your own. It takes you through the lion's den and the fiery furnace. It puts you on the front line of battle and in the hold of a slave ship.
The highway takes you out on to a stage to hear excited applause for your work, cheers, approval, anointing, love. Your cup runs over. It takes you into wealth, and then into poverty, so that you know the value of both. It teaches you not to believe everything you tell yourself about yourself.
You pass road signs that say "You are not welcome here." There are no mile markers on this highway and ultimately no company. You're on your own. And that is as it should be, until you become your own best company.
"There is only oneself facing forever the problem of one's self discovery." (Lawrence Durrell)
Has anyone reached the ultimate destination? If so that one has achieved a remarkable and necessary goal of existence, the justification for all mercy and all strength, the white stone with a new name, that person has achieved completeness. Unchallenged and divinely approved ownership of himself.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
******************************
WINTER QUESTION
(This is not a contest)
What was the most significant event that happened in 2010?
dbdacoba@aol.com
Only 7 responses so far
I await your answer.
DB
******************************
Thomas a Kenpis
*********************
"Not forever by still waters
Would I idly quiet stay;
But would smite the living fountains
From the rocks along my way."
(Willis)
I accepted there would be troubles when I admitted myself into the world of an artist. There would be no getting off the road and no going back, though I didn't realize it at the beginning. How do I do it? I asked. And how did I continue without the gift of being a poet?
There are no excuses. A performing artist is not one who puts on shows. The play, the dance, those are the effects. They are the results of the treacherous highway traveled alone. I would not deprive anyone of such a journey. But I would warn that it goes through dangerous territory. It goes through green pastures and still waters. It goes through the poppy fields. It passes the signs that say "stop, rest, you've done enough." Those are the danger signs.
It goes up steep, slippery slopes and through dank swamps. It cuts through jungles where vipers dangle from trees, it takes you into blazing, arid deserts. It takes you through the valley of the shadow of death.
How will I survive this, is the question that frequently surrounds you and the answer is always silence. You're on your own. It takes you through the lion's den and the fiery furnace. It puts you on the front line of battle and in the hold of a slave ship.
The highway takes you out on to a stage to hear excited applause for your work, cheers, approval, anointing, love. Your cup runs over. It takes you into wealth, and then into poverty, so that you know the value of both. It teaches you not to believe everything you tell yourself about yourself.
You pass road signs that say "You are not welcome here." There are no mile markers on this highway and ultimately no company. You're on your own. And that is as it should be, until you become your own best company.
"There is only oneself facing forever the problem of one's self discovery." (Lawrence Durrell)
Has anyone reached the ultimate destination? If so that one has achieved a remarkable and necessary goal of existence, the justification for all mercy and all strength, the white stone with a new name, that person has achieved completeness. Unchallenged and divinely approved ownership of himself.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
******************************
WINTER QUESTION
(This is not a contest)
What was the most significant event that happened in 2010?
dbdacoba@aol.com
Only 7 responses so far
I await your answer.
DB
******************************
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
The Touch Of Silence
Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?
Lawrence Durrell
**********************
I awoke at 7 o'clock in the morning. It was 19 degrees. That's -7.22222 Celsius for my Canadian, English and Australian friends. An hour later it had dropped to 18 degrees. I don't much mind the cold. Having spent half my life covered in a blanket of ice and pummeled by the freezing rain of New England winters, my steel has been properly tempered.
With the Winter Solstice knocking at the door it's a signal for the end of the year festivities. Since I am in a better place mentally and emotionally than I was last year when I had the wolves circling around my life, growling and snarling, I've been wondering if I should do something to celebrate Christmas, like decorate.
The first winter I spent here I bought a small fibre optic tree and set it up on the front porch. The next day it was gone. Someone stole it. Since then I haven't thought much about any tokens of celebration. This apartment is too small for a real tree and since no one is coming to visit me, to share Christmas dinner or anything else, there will be no prettily wrapped packages to put under it anyway. I could hang some colored lights, I suppose, but way up here in my third floor aerie no one would see them from the street. So maybe I'll just make some cranberry cookies for my housemates and let it go at that.
In the apartment below me lives Dan. He's a nice fellow, intelligent and friendly, but he has a temper. He works as an odd job carpenter and hearing him tell stories of some of the people and circumstances he has to work with I'm not surprised. Sometimes he slams his door. I always jump when he does that because it's unexpected. I don't mind it because I know what it is, and in fact I'm glad he does it because it tells me there is life going on in the building. It is also, sometimes, the only sound I hear.
I've never before lived in a place that was so quiet. The other half of my life I spent in New York, which is not only the city that never sleeps, it's the city that never shuts up. There's 24 hour noise. If I wasn't there I was living with someone, so there was human conversation and activity around me. But here there is such delicious quiet that it sometimes seems I am alone in the universe.
I have come to enjoy and cherish the quiet and also to respect it. It is a blessing to trade the cacophony of the world for silence. Abiding graciously the loneliness from the lack of human contact affords me the gift of sharing with myself my own best company.
I will play music which helps to define the silence like a frame around a work of art. But silence is the best music. Silence invites me to listen, it unfolds things that can't be heard in any other way, it opens a dialogue of ideas, impressions and realities which only it knows. And silence listens, without judgement or argument, to my thoughts, and forms them to fit it's own accumulated wisdom. It gives back more to me than I give to it.
Sometimes I talk out loud to myself just to put the sound of my voice into my space. The silence waits patiently for me to finish and then fills up the empty space with it's own oratory, richer and more majestic than the mere plodding of human thought.
How do I interpret the silence around me? In bright daylight or dark of night as a friend, a companion, a teacher, a traveler who has been everywhere and knows everything, an unlocked chest of treasures, a benign and mysterious ghost frightening only in its grand and persistent presence.
DB - The Vagabond
***********************
AUTUMN QUESTION
(This is not a contest.)
At what event of the past do you wish you could be present? Why?
Only 9 responses so far. Autumn is almost over. I await your answer.
dbdacoba@aol.com
Thank you.
DB
************************
Lawrence Durrell
**********************
I awoke at 7 o'clock in the morning. It was 19 degrees. That's -7.22222 Celsius for my Canadian, English and Australian friends. An hour later it had dropped to 18 degrees. I don't much mind the cold. Having spent half my life covered in a blanket of ice and pummeled by the freezing rain of New England winters, my steel has been properly tempered.
With the Winter Solstice knocking at the door it's a signal for the end of the year festivities. Since I am in a better place mentally and emotionally than I was last year when I had the wolves circling around my life, growling and snarling, I've been wondering if I should do something to celebrate Christmas, like decorate.
The first winter I spent here I bought a small fibre optic tree and set it up on the front porch. The next day it was gone. Someone stole it. Since then I haven't thought much about any tokens of celebration. This apartment is too small for a real tree and since no one is coming to visit me, to share Christmas dinner or anything else, there will be no prettily wrapped packages to put under it anyway. I could hang some colored lights, I suppose, but way up here in my third floor aerie no one would see them from the street. So maybe I'll just make some cranberry cookies for my housemates and let it go at that.
In the apartment below me lives Dan. He's a nice fellow, intelligent and friendly, but he has a temper. He works as an odd job carpenter and hearing him tell stories of some of the people and circumstances he has to work with I'm not surprised. Sometimes he slams his door. I always jump when he does that because it's unexpected. I don't mind it because I know what it is, and in fact I'm glad he does it because it tells me there is life going on in the building. It is also, sometimes, the only sound I hear.
I've never before lived in a place that was so quiet. The other half of my life I spent in New York, which is not only the city that never sleeps, it's the city that never shuts up. There's 24 hour noise. If I wasn't there I was living with someone, so there was human conversation and activity around me. But here there is such delicious quiet that it sometimes seems I am alone in the universe.
I have come to enjoy and cherish the quiet and also to respect it. It is a blessing to trade the cacophony of the world for silence. Abiding graciously the loneliness from the lack of human contact affords me the gift of sharing with myself my own best company.
I will play music which helps to define the silence like a frame around a work of art. But silence is the best music. Silence invites me to listen, it unfolds things that can't be heard in any other way, it opens a dialogue of ideas, impressions and realities which only it knows. And silence listens, without judgement or argument, to my thoughts, and forms them to fit it's own accumulated wisdom. It gives back more to me than I give to it.
Sometimes I talk out loud to myself just to put the sound of my voice into my space. The silence waits patiently for me to finish and then fills up the empty space with it's own oratory, richer and more majestic than the mere plodding of human thought.
How do I interpret the silence around me? In bright daylight or dark of night as a friend, a companion, a teacher, a traveler who has been everywhere and knows everything, an unlocked chest of treasures, a benign and mysterious ghost frightening only in its grand and persistent presence.
DB - The Vagabond
***********************
AUTUMN QUESTION
(This is not a contest.)
At what event of the past do you wish you could be present? Why?
Only 9 responses so far. Autumn is almost over. I await your answer.
dbdacoba@aol.com
Thank you.
DB
************************
Thursday, October 21, 2010
The Best Song
Music is only love looking for words.
Lawrence Durrell
*******************
Ah. love! That mysterious, invisible, indescribable madness that afflicts human beings and makes them lose sleep, collect things, forget things and risk their lives. It is the malady with no remedy, the race that has no finish line, the space that can't be measured. It makes us want everything, give up everything and fantasize everything. We don't know what it is until we feel it or sense it when it comes into the room.
Her knitting, his shoes, a young face poised to hear the real. A phone number scribbled on the edge of a newspaper, plans made for lunch, buying her that poinsettia even if you miss your train. Learning the right guitar fingering from one who knows, discussing what vegetables to buy, forgiving yesterdays. Showing off, watching the ball game, sitting in the waiting room.On the road to nowhere together, being there for her first dance recital, extra frosting. Finding his watch for him, loosening the binding cords of fear, feeding the cat. Magnolia, mantra, maple tree and milk. The pathos, the puppy, the pajamas and the pearls. The great adventure, the simple sharing.
All music is either a song or a dance and sometimes both. Almost all of the songs ever written or sung are love songs. Many of those songs are without words. That's not strange. When music tells the story love has found its words.
DB - The Vagabond
*****************
AUTUMN QUESTION
(This is not a contest.)
At what event of the past do you wish you could be present? Why?
5 responses so far.
dbdacoba@aol.com
Thank you.
DB
************************
Lawrence Durrell
*******************
Ah. love! That mysterious, invisible, indescribable madness that afflicts human beings and makes them lose sleep, collect things, forget things and risk their lives. It is the malady with no remedy, the race that has no finish line, the space that can't be measured. It makes us want everything, give up everything and fantasize everything. We don't know what it is until we feel it or sense it when it comes into the room.
Her knitting, his shoes, a young face poised to hear the real. A phone number scribbled on the edge of a newspaper, plans made for lunch, buying her that poinsettia even if you miss your train. Learning the right guitar fingering from one who knows, discussing what vegetables to buy, forgiving yesterdays. Showing off, watching the ball game, sitting in the waiting room.On the road to nowhere together, being there for her first dance recital, extra frosting. Finding his watch for him, loosening the binding cords of fear, feeding the cat. Magnolia, mantra, maple tree and milk. The pathos, the puppy, the pajamas and the pearls. The great adventure, the simple sharing.
All music is either a song or a dance and sometimes both. Almost all of the songs ever written or sung are love songs. Many of those songs are without words. That's not strange. When music tells the story love has found its words.
DB - The Vagabond
*****************
AUTUMN QUESTION
(This is not a contest.)
At what event of the past do you wish you could be present? Why?
5 responses so far.
dbdacoba@aol.com
Thank you.
DB
************************
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
What's So Funny?
Like all young men I set out to be a genius, but mercifully laughter intervened.
Lawrence Durrell
*********************
What constitutes being a genius? What are the qualifications? You can take a Mensa test and pass it. You can have your IQ measured. You can out think and out talk your friends. You can flash your Phi Beta Kappa key across the over stuffed vest of your three piece suit. And you can brag to yourself about how intelligent you are. But do any of those things qualify you as a genius? On the other hand if you can make a healthy patch of squash grow where no one else could you may have the right to the title.
Einstein said he wasn't a genius but that he was just very curious. And he had a good sense of humor.
It took me many years before I was able to look at myself with a comedian's eye. I got offended when friends laughed at the things I said and did which I considered important and serious. They told me I was too sensitive. They were being kind, although I didn't realize it. But eventually the subjective gave way to the objective and I was able to see the clown's nose on my face. Then I was on the door step of seeing how humorous the world is and particularly the human race. We can smirk at the antics of babies and some animals but to really get that down in the rib cage laugh we have to see an adult human acting like an idiot. Things we do are worthy of a good French farce or a Neil Simon comedy, and that's why they've been written.
In theatre, one of the definitions of farce is " a passion carried to a ridiculous extreme." Even after the awakening to my own foolishness I would sometimes get caught up in such a passion. I could say to myself "Come one, DB, you're being ridiculous." But I knew the farce had to play itself out and that one day the "comedia" would be "finite" and I could then laugh at myself for it.
Now I get to laugh at the self-important antics of our politicians and TV personalities. Who's wearing the clown's nose today and at whom is she or he thumbing it? It's very entertaining. I once queried if the Congress was ever going to be comprised of grown ups. But the fact is they are all grown ups. That's what makes them so funny. Are there any geniuses in the group? It's hard to tell considering the muddy playing field they're on. But mud wrestling has always been an amusement for some.
So what constitutes a genius? I don't know, but a very curious, intelligent person with a sense of humor gets my vote.
DB - The Vagabond
**********************
AUTUMN QUESTION
(This is not a contest.)
At what event of the past do you wish you could be present? Why?
5 responses so far.
dbdacoba@aol.com
Thank you.
DB
************************
Lawrence Durrell
*********************
What constitutes being a genius? What are the qualifications? You can take a Mensa test and pass it. You can have your IQ measured. You can out think and out talk your friends. You can flash your Phi Beta Kappa key across the over stuffed vest of your three piece suit. And you can brag to yourself about how intelligent you are. But do any of those things qualify you as a genius? On the other hand if you can make a healthy patch of squash grow where no one else could you may have the right to the title.
Einstein said he wasn't a genius but that he was just very curious. And he had a good sense of humor.
It took me many years before I was able to look at myself with a comedian's eye. I got offended when friends laughed at the things I said and did which I considered important and serious. They told me I was too sensitive. They were being kind, although I didn't realize it. But eventually the subjective gave way to the objective and I was able to see the clown's nose on my face. Then I was on the door step of seeing how humorous the world is and particularly the human race. We can smirk at the antics of babies and some animals but to really get that down in the rib cage laugh we have to see an adult human acting like an idiot. Things we do are worthy of a good French farce or a Neil Simon comedy, and that's why they've been written.
In theatre, one of the definitions of farce is " a passion carried to a ridiculous extreme." Even after the awakening to my own foolishness I would sometimes get caught up in such a passion. I could say to myself "Come one, DB, you're being ridiculous." But I knew the farce had to play itself out and that one day the "comedia" would be "finite" and I could then laugh at myself for it.
Now I get to laugh at the self-important antics of our politicians and TV personalities. Who's wearing the clown's nose today and at whom is she or he thumbing it? It's very entertaining. I once queried if the Congress was ever going to be comprised of grown ups. But the fact is they are all grown ups. That's what makes them so funny. Are there any geniuses in the group? It's hard to tell considering the muddy playing field they're on. But mud wrestling has always been an amusement for some.
So what constitutes a genius? I don't know, but a very curious, intelligent person with a sense of humor gets my vote.
DB - The Vagabond
**********************
AUTUMN QUESTION
(This is not a contest.)
At what event of the past do you wish you could be present? Why?
5 responses so far.
dbdacoba@aol.com
Thank you.
DB
************************
Friday, October 1, 2010
Follow The Music
Art occurs at the point where a form is sincerely honored by awakened spirit.
Lawrence Durrell
***********************
Years ago I did a South African play. It was a true story about a young white doctor who had been arrested for political reasons, tortured and eventually executed. I was told he was the only white man to be executed by the South African government. I played the boy's father. He was a farmer/rancher who had moved from Kenya to South Africa.
The producer of the play had acquired a brief film of the real parents at their son's funeral. Thousand s of people of all races had shown up for the funeral and the parents were amazed. In the film clip they stand there for a few moments, then turn and walk away. The director wanted the actress and I to stand in front of the film and move when the two parents did, tricky business because we couldn't see the film.
Besides the producer, director and assistant director there were a number of African actors in the show. To my knowledge I had never worked with Africans before. They were impressive. I was particularly struck by the fact that the while Africans considered themselves Africans and not anything else. They were not transplanted Englishmen. Other than a shared language and empire they had no connection with Britain or The Netherlands or the culture of any other European nation. They were born and brought up in Africa. They were Africans, first and last.
I was also impressed by the music. It's very distinctive. African music is not Western Rock, it's folk music is not like American folk music. It has a very individual and unmistakable sound. Once you know African music you will immediately recognize it as such. Africans love their music.
Pondering the problem of how to find the cue for the movement away from the film we sat and watched it over again a few times. During the scene in which the film clip occurred there was no dialogue but there was a recording of a sad folk song sung by a group in a native language. After a few times through viewing the film I realized the song ran concurrently with the visual. It was exactly the same every time. Once more and I caught the exact phrase in the song where the movement came and said "I can take it from the music." "No. You can't do that" the director said. "It's too repetitive." "Let me try" I said. So the actress and I stood up while they ran the film and at the precise moment in the song I turned and we walked off just as the two peopl on the film did. The director was impressed.
DB - The Vagabond
*************************
WEEKEND PUZZLE
*******************
A'S UBAW' MB IXCWUO SG ZCG BR NAKAW'
AR MXCM CAWM OWBYUX
MXOW A'NN IXCWUO MXO ZCG
MXCM A DMVYM SG DMYRR.
'ICTDO WPFPLG ZCWMD GPY
ZXOW GPY'VO BNL CWL UVCG
MXOVO'NN FO DBSO IXCWUOD SCLO MBLCG.
Good luck
DB
*****************
Reprinted from May 13, 2010
In old age we are like a batch of letters someone has sent. We are no longer in the past, we have arrived.
Knut Hamsun
*******************
I'm a mad man. No, there's no doubt about it, I'm completely cracked; stark, shivering crazy. I've lost it.
Shakespeare calls old age "second chilishness." It is a theory that all babies are born insane and gradually grow into sanity and wisdom as they mature. I don't remember much about my babyhood but I'm of the opinion that it might be the other way around. I think it's possible that all babies are born completely sane and knowing everything which they can't articulate except to other babies and that they gradually grow to lose it in the carriages and play pens of the world. Imagine how frustrating it must be for a baby not being able to tell anyone what you know. It's enough to make you wet yur diaper and wake up in the middle of the night crying for no apparent reason.
Not having lived a normal life has taught me that there is no such thing. Being a wanderer has taught me that the only place anyone really lives is in his own head. And being an artist has taught me to gracefully let go of the ball and chain which is generally known to the world at large as common sense.
But being mad is a good healthy way to be as far as I can determine. I do illogical things. If I am on my way to the market I stop and feel the leaves of a tree or a bush. If I pass the kitchen sink I squeeze a little soap into the sponge and wash three dishes instead of the whole sink full. If anyone lived with me they would become exasperated at my behavior or else go mad themselves.
I say things no one understands. I know that, because every time I make a statement of pure, simplified wisdom it's met with a blank, uncomprehending stare. There's a small tree in front of the house. When I refer to it as "yonder wood" no one cares to know why.
When I find conservative nonsense and liberal grunting humorous people don't get it. But when I become fascinated by some obscure news item that doesn't make the papers or the TV news every day they just think I'm off the beaten path of life. Well, I am. I'm the crazy old loon who lives by himself in the attic, harmless in his madness. He listens to Wagner operas and reads philosophy. He's a total fruitcake.
The letters have been sent and read and the attempt to summarize the contents has taught me that there are no summations (which it also says in my Profile).
So what's left for an old crackpot to do? To what have I arrived? A certain benign orneriness, acceptance and refusal, an abiding sense of humor, willingness to face the fog and walk into it. I can now change my own diapers, if I wake up in the middle of the night the only thing I want to know is what time it is. I accept the fact that I will never have all the things in my playpen that I want. I refuse to get angry at any one but myself. I refuse to do today what I can put off to tomorrow. I don't follow the Phillies. I refuse to accept everything any authority tells me. I will think for myself and not worry about it if the thoughts come from the mind of a lunatic.
I refuse to be afraid of death. If you go to England you can visit the grave of Charles Dickens, but Dickens isn't there, he's still alive. If I could live my life all over again I would change almost everything. But would I then have something to summarize? I doubt it.
Being an actor has taught me that the world is a stage and the roles keep changing, but they are all masquerades. So I will set Sir Percival spinning, wash my hands and face in the words of some other old maniac's sink, play in my pen and enjoy, as much as possible, the role in which I have somehow cast myself.
DB - The Vagabond
Lawrence Durrell
***********************
Years ago I did a South African play. It was a true story about a young white doctor who had been arrested for political reasons, tortured and eventually executed. I was told he was the only white man to be executed by the South African government. I played the boy's father. He was a farmer/rancher who had moved from Kenya to South Africa.
The producer of the play had acquired a brief film of the real parents at their son's funeral. Thousand s of people of all races had shown up for the funeral and the parents were amazed. In the film clip they stand there for a few moments, then turn and walk away. The director wanted the actress and I to stand in front of the film and move when the two parents did, tricky business because we couldn't see the film.
Besides the producer, director and assistant director there were a number of African actors in the show. To my knowledge I had never worked with Africans before. They were impressive. I was particularly struck by the fact that the while Africans considered themselves Africans and not anything else. They were not transplanted Englishmen. Other than a shared language and empire they had no connection with Britain or The Netherlands or the culture of any other European nation. They were born and brought up in Africa. They were Africans, first and last.
I was also impressed by the music. It's very distinctive. African music is not Western Rock, it's folk music is not like American folk music. It has a very individual and unmistakable sound. Once you know African music you will immediately recognize it as such. Africans love their music.
Pondering the problem of how to find the cue for the movement away from the film we sat and watched it over again a few times. During the scene in which the film clip occurred there was no dialogue but there was a recording of a sad folk song sung by a group in a native language. After a few times through viewing the film I realized the song ran concurrently with the visual. It was exactly the same every time. Once more and I caught the exact phrase in the song where the movement came and said "I can take it from the music." "No. You can't do that" the director said. "It's too repetitive." "Let me try" I said. So the actress and I stood up while they ran the film and at the precise moment in the song I turned and we walked off just as the two peopl on the film did. The director was impressed.
DB - The Vagabond
*************************
WEEKEND PUZZLE
*******************
A'S UBAW' MB IXCWUO SG ZCG BR NAKAW'
AR MXCM CAWM OWBYUX
MXOW A'NN IXCWUO MXO ZCG
MXCM A DMVYM SG DMYRR.
'ICTDO WPFPLG ZCWMD GPY
ZXOW GPY'VO BNL CWL UVCG
MXOVO'NN FO DBSO IXCWUOD SCLO MBLCG.
Good luck
DB
*****************
Reprinted from May 13, 2010
In old age we are like a batch of letters someone has sent. We are no longer in the past, we have arrived.
Knut Hamsun
*******************
I'm a mad man. No, there's no doubt about it, I'm completely cracked; stark, shivering crazy. I've lost it.
Shakespeare calls old age "second chilishness." It is a theory that all babies are born insane and gradually grow into sanity and wisdom as they mature. I don't remember much about my babyhood but I'm of the opinion that it might be the other way around. I think it's possible that all babies are born completely sane and knowing everything which they can't articulate except to other babies and that they gradually grow to lose it in the carriages and play pens of the world. Imagine how frustrating it must be for a baby not being able to tell anyone what you know. It's enough to make you wet yur diaper and wake up in the middle of the night crying for no apparent reason.
Not having lived a normal life has taught me that there is no such thing. Being a wanderer has taught me that the only place anyone really lives is in his own head. And being an artist has taught me to gracefully let go of the ball and chain which is generally known to the world at large as common sense.
But being mad is a good healthy way to be as far as I can determine. I do illogical things. If I am on my way to the market I stop and feel the leaves of a tree or a bush. If I pass the kitchen sink I squeeze a little soap into the sponge and wash three dishes instead of the whole sink full. If anyone lived with me they would become exasperated at my behavior or else go mad themselves.
I say things no one understands. I know that, because every time I make a statement of pure, simplified wisdom it's met with a blank, uncomprehending stare. There's a small tree in front of the house. When I refer to it as "yonder wood" no one cares to know why.
When I find conservative nonsense and liberal grunting humorous people don't get it. But when I become fascinated by some obscure news item that doesn't make the papers or the TV news every day they just think I'm off the beaten path of life. Well, I am. I'm the crazy old loon who lives by himself in the attic, harmless in his madness. He listens to Wagner operas and reads philosophy. He's a total fruitcake.
The letters have been sent and read and the attempt to summarize the contents has taught me that there are no summations (which it also says in my Profile).
So what's left for an old crackpot to do? To what have I arrived? A certain benign orneriness, acceptance and refusal, an abiding sense of humor, willingness to face the fog and walk into it. I can now change my own diapers, if I wake up in the middle of the night the only thing I want to know is what time it is. I accept the fact that I will never have all the things in my playpen that I want. I refuse to get angry at any one but myself. I refuse to do today what I can put off to tomorrow. I don't follow the Phillies. I refuse to accept everything any authority tells me. I will think for myself and not worry about it if the thoughts come from the mind of a lunatic.
I refuse to be afraid of death. If you go to England you can visit the grave of Charles Dickens, but Dickens isn't there, he's still alive. If I could live my life all over again I would change almost everything. But would I then have something to summarize? I doubt it.
Being an actor has taught me that the world is a stage and the roles keep changing, but they are all masquerades. So I will set Sir Percival spinning, wash my hands and face in the words of some other old maniac's sink, play in my pen and enjoy, as much as possible, the role in which I have somehow cast myself.
DB - The Vagabond
Friday, September 10, 2010
Taking The Steps
It takes a lifetime to grow. People haven't the patience any more.
Lawrence Durrell
*********************
Anyone who has ever run a marathon knows that there is no other athletic event like it. It rquires strength, stamina, endurance and comfortable shoes. A marathon race is precisely 26 miles, 385 yards. To vigorously put one foot in front of the other for that distance without stopping is a formidable task.
At the New York City Marathon the finishers are given a light, plastic silver colored robe to wear. After the race one can see people wearing the robe around town. When you see someone with one of them you say "How did you do?" And the answer will be "7 hours, 29 minutes." "4 hours, 17 minutes." "3 hours, 36 minutes." And so on. You hardly ever see the front runners, the 2+ hours people, because they are scooped up and taken to celebration parties. It takes great skill to win a marathon race or to even come in close to the winner.
Yesterday I read an article which said that writing is like a marathon. It also takes strength, stamina, endurance and skill. There is one big difference however. The marathon runner doesn't take a break. He doesn't make another cup of coffee, answer the phone or go down for the mail. A writer has a powerful advantage that he is able to stop what he's doing and think about it.
There are some similarities to both activities. At the start of the race the runner may wish to be at the finish line and all his energies are focused on that. The starting gun of an idea may provoke the writer to begin and wish the novel or essay was finished. On the other hand when the runner crosses the finish line he knows the race is over. The writer is never quite sure. Nobody is going to ask the writer "How did you do?" And even if they did the answer is not going to be "5 hours, 47 minutes."
There are two qualities they both absolutely have in common: faith and patience. The runner has to call on reserves of strength and energy he doesn't feel he has, to trust that those reserves are there and to keep running until they appear. And when the writer gets stuck and can't seem to proceed he must ask himself what the words and phrases, the ideas are that he needs and then wait patiently for them to occur to him.
I, like most writers, will enter a word knowing it's the wrong word, just to keep writing, to keep running, knowing that the right word will occur to me eventually. And it does. Sometimes after I think I've finished the piece I get a sudden knock on my mind and there's the word I want.
And just as a marathon is not an aimless run of 26 miles with no direction but a clearly defined path from beginning to end, so writing is a precise art form where every sentence and every paragraph should be a precise equation of thoughts and ideas. (So mine aren't always, I admit it. But I'm getting better.)
Another great, silent harvest of running a marathon or writing a novel is that when doing it you learn a whole lot about yourself that you didn't know. a growing of yourself, a self discovery. And that is a grand, life changing thing.
Dana Bate
The Vagabond
******************
WEEKEND PUZZLE
Here we go.
A man is walking down the street and comes upon a store that sells coconuts. He goes in and buys half the coconuts in the store plus half a coconut. When he gets home his wife shakes her head and wonders what she's going to do with all those coconuts.
He gets an idea and goes out and buys a bottle of rum. But on the way he passes the same store with the coconuts, goes in and buys half the coconuts in the store plus half a coconut. When he gets home his wife has opened one of the coconuts and is ready to make a nice cocktail with the juice.
The man is so delighted that he goes out again and buys half the coconuts in the store plus half a coconut. Upon returning home he finds his wife has made them some delicious rum and coconut cocktails.
He drinks one which inspires him to go to the store again and buy half the coconuts in the store plus half a coconut. When he leaves the store that time there are no coconuts left. No one else bought any coconuts. They're all kiwi or papaya freaks or something. Who knows.
Back home he and his wife have a very pleasant evening drinking their rum and coconut cocktails.
"Yoo poot thee rum in thee coconautt and than yoo dahnce cahleepso.
Questions: How many coconuts were there in the store when he went in the first time?
Goog lub.
DB
*******************
Lawrence Durrell
*********************
Anyone who has ever run a marathon knows that there is no other athletic event like it. It rquires strength, stamina, endurance and comfortable shoes. A marathon race is precisely 26 miles, 385 yards. To vigorously put one foot in front of the other for that distance without stopping is a formidable task.
At the New York City Marathon the finishers are given a light, plastic silver colored robe to wear. After the race one can see people wearing the robe around town. When you see someone with one of them you say "How did you do?" And the answer will be "7 hours, 29 minutes." "4 hours, 17 minutes." "3 hours, 36 minutes." And so on. You hardly ever see the front runners, the 2+ hours people, because they are scooped up and taken to celebration parties. It takes great skill to win a marathon race or to even come in close to the winner.
Yesterday I read an article which said that writing is like a marathon. It also takes strength, stamina, endurance and skill. There is one big difference however. The marathon runner doesn't take a break. He doesn't make another cup of coffee, answer the phone or go down for the mail. A writer has a powerful advantage that he is able to stop what he's doing and think about it.
There are some similarities to both activities. At the start of the race the runner may wish to be at the finish line and all his energies are focused on that. The starting gun of an idea may provoke the writer to begin and wish the novel or essay was finished. On the other hand when the runner crosses the finish line he knows the race is over. The writer is never quite sure. Nobody is going to ask the writer "How did you do?" And even if they did the answer is not going to be "5 hours, 47 minutes."
There are two qualities they both absolutely have in common: faith and patience. The runner has to call on reserves of strength and energy he doesn't feel he has, to trust that those reserves are there and to keep running until they appear. And when the writer gets stuck and can't seem to proceed he must ask himself what the words and phrases, the ideas are that he needs and then wait patiently for them to occur to him.
I, like most writers, will enter a word knowing it's the wrong word, just to keep writing, to keep running, knowing that the right word will occur to me eventually. And it does. Sometimes after I think I've finished the piece I get a sudden knock on my mind and there's the word I want.
And just as a marathon is not an aimless run of 26 miles with no direction but a clearly defined path from beginning to end, so writing is a precise art form where every sentence and every paragraph should be a precise equation of thoughts and ideas. (So mine aren't always, I admit it. But I'm getting better.)
Another great, silent harvest of running a marathon or writing a novel is that when doing it you learn a whole lot about yourself that you didn't know. a growing of yourself, a self discovery. And that is a grand, life changing thing.
Dana Bate
The Vagabond
******************
WEEKEND PUZZLE
Here we go.
A man is walking down the street and comes upon a store that sells coconuts. He goes in and buys half the coconuts in the store plus half a coconut. When he gets home his wife shakes her head and wonders what she's going to do with all those coconuts.
He gets an idea and goes out and buys a bottle of rum. But on the way he passes the same store with the coconuts, goes in and buys half the coconuts in the store plus half a coconut. When he gets home his wife has opened one of the coconuts and is ready to make a nice cocktail with the juice.
The man is so delighted that he goes out again and buys half the coconuts in the store plus half a coconut. Upon returning home he finds his wife has made them some delicious rum and coconut cocktails.
He drinks one which inspires him to go to the store again and buy half the coconuts in the store plus half a coconut. When he leaves the store that time there are no coconuts left. No one else bought any coconuts. They're all kiwi or papaya freaks or something. Who knows.
Back home he and his wife have a very pleasant evening drinking their rum and coconut cocktails.
"Yoo poot thee rum in thee coconautt and than yoo dahnce cahleepso.
Questions: How many coconuts were there in the store when he went in the first time?
Goog lub.
DB
*******************
Friday, June 18, 2010
In The Cave
Complacency seems always to return with time.
Ira Lipman
*********************
I'm not a professional writer. No one has paid a nickel for anything I've written except for some advertising copy, and I've never been published. But even a nonprofessional writer who writes, writes because he has to. Yesterday I read an article about how those in charge of the Holocaust Museum in Israel are feeling that it's losing it's significance. I also read as many of the comments (mostly silly) that I could. It is amusing to note that even historians don't agree with each other about what it was and what it signifies.
I don't want to write about the Holocaust because if I had a dollar for every word written and published about it I could buy the Earth. But the impression I got from reading the comments is that no one has really figured out what it means.
The phrase "never again" has become a hollow one considering what is happening in some parts of the world today, at this moment. "Comparisons are odorous" Shakespeare wrote. While what is happening in some places may not be the same as the cold blooded, systematic murder carried out by the Nazis, the fact of blanket, insane hatred of other people for whatever reason still exists in one form or another. One doesn't need gas chambers to practice hate.
Long ago I learned that intelligence includes the ability to hold the specific and the general in mind at the same time. To the Jew the Holocaust may represent an all too current antiSemitic danger in the world and something to be defended against. But the events of the Holocaust also hold keys to that which is the worst in human nature.
To read the news of what is happening right now in Africa, Asia and even in our own "hallowed" lands is enough to make one think the whole world has gone crazy.
Lawrence Durrell wrote "It is the living who might be spared if we could quarry the message which lies buried in the heart of all human experience." Clearly the message for me is how the derangement of a whole group of people can happen to the extent of destroying another group of people. It must surely go beyond not thinking for oneself. There must be something more hideous involved, and whatever that it is is the main thing to be defended against. It goes beyond whites, blacks and Hispanics, beyond Christians, Muslims, Hindus and Jews, beyond Green sand Orange Irishmen, beyond African tribes, beyond Turks and Armenians and beyond Liberals and Conservatives. It reaches down into the very well, the natural source of our existence and the possibility of our survival.
Blacks, Jews and Native Americans are being told to get over it, to forget about it. There is some value to that. It is all spilt milk after all. The danger is that by holding on to the specific events and looking for some restitution or revenge one loses, or never gets, a grip on the essential meaning behind them. About that we must never become complacent.
The questions that need to be asked are do the nasty signs like "God hates fags" or pictures of President Obama looking like Hitler, no matter how ridiculous they may seem. point and lead to the same hideous circumstances and, if so, how long will it be until there are concentration camps again, murder, efficient, systematic cleansing of the human race justified by religion, the lack of religion, eugenics, wealth or poverty, relative value to society, IQ, education level, mental health, place of birth, ancestral history, language, color of skin, height or lack of it, athletic ability or anything that makes one guy not like another guy. All of the above have been used at one time or another to prejudicial effect against people and often fatally.
There is a dangerous, angry, hate filled dragon living in the cave of human thinking. it has been struck and slightly wounded by the Holocaust Museum and many others, but it is still alive. Decide who you hate and the dragon will come out spewing venom, lies, rage, violence, torture and death. Where is the Super Hero to slay it once and for all?
DB - Vagabond
*********************
SPRING QUESTION
(This is not a contest.)
The end of Spring is inches away.
In your opinion what is the most amazing thing that could happen during this decade? Make it as outrageous as you want but keep it within the realm of what you consider a possibility.
15 responses so far.
Answers will be published the first day of Summer.
Thank you.
dbdacoba@aol.com
DB - The Vagabond
*******************
Ira Lipman
*********************
I'm not a professional writer. No one has paid a nickel for anything I've written except for some advertising copy, and I've never been published. But even a nonprofessional writer who writes, writes because he has to. Yesterday I read an article about how those in charge of the Holocaust Museum in Israel are feeling that it's losing it's significance. I also read as many of the comments (mostly silly) that I could. It is amusing to note that even historians don't agree with each other about what it was and what it signifies.
I don't want to write about the Holocaust because if I had a dollar for every word written and published about it I could buy the Earth. But the impression I got from reading the comments is that no one has really figured out what it means.
The phrase "never again" has become a hollow one considering what is happening in some parts of the world today, at this moment. "Comparisons are odorous" Shakespeare wrote. While what is happening in some places may not be the same as the cold blooded, systematic murder carried out by the Nazis, the fact of blanket, insane hatred of other people for whatever reason still exists in one form or another. One doesn't need gas chambers to practice hate.
Long ago I learned that intelligence includes the ability to hold the specific and the general in mind at the same time. To the Jew the Holocaust may represent an all too current antiSemitic danger in the world and something to be defended against. But the events of the Holocaust also hold keys to that which is the worst in human nature.
To read the news of what is happening right now in Africa, Asia and even in our own "hallowed" lands is enough to make one think the whole world has gone crazy.
Lawrence Durrell wrote "It is the living who might be spared if we could quarry the message which lies buried in the heart of all human experience." Clearly the message for me is how the derangement of a whole group of people can happen to the extent of destroying another group of people. It must surely go beyond not thinking for oneself. There must be something more hideous involved, and whatever that it is is the main thing to be defended against. It goes beyond whites, blacks and Hispanics, beyond Christians, Muslims, Hindus and Jews, beyond Green sand Orange Irishmen, beyond African tribes, beyond Turks and Armenians and beyond Liberals and Conservatives. It reaches down into the very well, the natural source of our existence and the possibility of our survival.
Blacks, Jews and Native Americans are being told to get over it, to forget about it. There is some value to that. It is all spilt milk after all. The danger is that by holding on to the specific events and looking for some restitution or revenge one loses, or never gets, a grip on the essential meaning behind them. About that we must never become complacent.
The questions that need to be asked are do the nasty signs like "God hates fags" or pictures of President Obama looking like Hitler, no matter how ridiculous they may seem. point and lead to the same hideous circumstances and, if so, how long will it be until there are concentration camps again, murder, efficient, systematic cleansing of the human race justified by religion, the lack of religion, eugenics, wealth or poverty, relative value to society, IQ, education level, mental health, place of birth, ancestral history, language, color of skin, height or lack of it, athletic ability or anything that makes one guy not like another guy. All of the above have been used at one time or another to prejudicial effect against people and often fatally.
There is a dangerous, angry, hate filled dragon living in the cave of human thinking. it has been struck and slightly wounded by the Holocaust Museum and many others, but it is still alive. Decide who you hate and the dragon will come out spewing venom, lies, rage, violence, torture and death. Where is the Super Hero to slay it once and for all?
DB - Vagabond
*********************
SPRING QUESTION
(This is not a contest.)
The end of Spring is inches away.
In your opinion what is the most amazing thing that could happen during this decade? Make it as outrageous as you want but keep it within the realm of what you consider a possibility.
15 responses so far.
Answers will be published the first day of Summer.
Thank you.
dbdacoba@aol.com
DB - The Vagabond
*******************
Sunday, June 13, 2010
No Fooling
Journeys, like artists, are born and not made.
Lawrence Durrell
*****************
I suppose there are as many ways to be a fool as those who've done it, which pretty much includes everyone. We have all stepped in the mud piddle at least once in our lives, taken the wrong turn off the highway and forgotten to record a check we wrote.
I think one of the biggest foolish steps a person can take is to deny who they are, either by not sufficiently understanding themselves or by convincing themselves, or being convinced by others, to try being someone they are not.
I was doing a play in Virginia and on a day off another actor and I went to talk to some high school seniors who had seen the play. They were a smart, bright and lively group. One boy asked us what it took to be an actor. That's a question which requires a 400 page book to answer. So I turned the question back to him and asked if he was thinking about a life in the theatre. He said "Mildly." My colleague said "Well, if you're thinking about it mildly, don't think about it."
The boy was a little shocked, but I hastened to say that my friend was not being insulting, he was saying the truth, a truth about any endeavor in life that is important. I didn't want to dissuade the youngster from following a career in show business. But I wanted him to know that he should think earnestly and honestly about whatever he did, to investigate things that interested him and to keep an open mind. I told him that one day, maybe in 5 years, maybe in 5 minutes, a light would go on and he would know "This is what I want to do for the rest of my life" whether it's acting, science, business, sports or something else.
I distinctly remember when it happened to me. I was about the same age as that boy. I had been calmly contemplating off and on what road I would take in life. Suddenly, at one moment it came to me in a flash. I was an actor and had been an actor since the day I was born.
I call myself a vagabond because my life is a wayfaring one, a journey, as yours is, even if you never leave your house. My journey is particular to me. It has taken me through many experiences that all relate in some degree to my life as an artist and entertainer. It has been a risky journey, chocked with dangers, but totally necessary to be who I am to the best of my understanding and ability.
I have known those who have fooled themselves right out of the lives they should have. I know a man who refuses to give up his regular job to pursue a career. He would rather be sleep deprived than to give up the safety and security he thinks he has. He is denying himself the life of the fine artist he could be. What foolishness!
My own family eventually began to treat me with envy and scorn because they all turned their backs on the talents and abilities they were born with to take orthodox roads to the future, and I didn't.
Now more than 50 years since that moment of realization I can look back and see that I did a lot of foolish things and have a lot of regrets. But for accepting the journey I was given from the day I was born I have no regrets.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
***********************
Weekend Puzzle - Weekend Puzzle
What? No contestant? Not one?
If I have to tell you the answers you are going to be ashamed of yourselves.
I've added two more questions at the bottom which should be major hints.
I give you the questions, you give me the answers.
Ready. Set. Strike up the band.
-------------------------------------
1. What's here to stay?
2. Who am I dreaming of?
3. What are free?
4. Where should you tell your feet to go?
5. When did I know the time?
6. What do the light winds say?
7. How did she live her life?
8. Where should you take me?
9. Where have I got you?
10. What shall I brush up?
11. Who ran Venezuela?
12. Why should I keep my violin and bow?
13. What don't I know?
14. Who looks good on a tandem bike?
----------------------------
I'm tapping my foot waiting. Good luck.
DB
*********************
Lawrence Durrell
*****************
I suppose there are as many ways to be a fool as those who've done it, which pretty much includes everyone. We have all stepped in the mud piddle at least once in our lives, taken the wrong turn off the highway and forgotten to record a check we wrote.
I think one of the biggest foolish steps a person can take is to deny who they are, either by not sufficiently understanding themselves or by convincing themselves, or being convinced by others, to try being someone they are not.
I was doing a play in Virginia and on a day off another actor and I went to talk to some high school seniors who had seen the play. They were a smart, bright and lively group. One boy asked us what it took to be an actor. That's a question which requires a 400 page book to answer. So I turned the question back to him and asked if he was thinking about a life in the theatre. He said "Mildly." My colleague said "Well, if you're thinking about it mildly, don't think about it."
The boy was a little shocked, but I hastened to say that my friend was not being insulting, he was saying the truth, a truth about any endeavor in life that is important. I didn't want to dissuade the youngster from following a career in show business. But I wanted him to know that he should think earnestly and honestly about whatever he did, to investigate things that interested him and to keep an open mind. I told him that one day, maybe in 5 years, maybe in 5 minutes, a light would go on and he would know "This is what I want to do for the rest of my life" whether it's acting, science, business, sports or something else.
I distinctly remember when it happened to me. I was about the same age as that boy. I had been calmly contemplating off and on what road I would take in life. Suddenly, at one moment it came to me in a flash. I was an actor and had been an actor since the day I was born.
I call myself a vagabond because my life is a wayfaring one, a journey, as yours is, even if you never leave your house. My journey is particular to me. It has taken me through many experiences that all relate in some degree to my life as an artist and entertainer. It has been a risky journey, chocked with dangers, but totally necessary to be who I am to the best of my understanding and ability.
I have known those who have fooled themselves right out of the lives they should have. I know a man who refuses to give up his regular job to pursue a career. He would rather be sleep deprived than to give up the safety and security he thinks he has. He is denying himself the life of the fine artist he could be. What foolishness!
My own family eventually began to treat me with envy and scorn because they all turned their backs on the talents and abilities they were born with to take orthodox roads to the future, and I didn't.
Now more than 50 years since that moment of realization I can look back and see that I did a lot of foolish things and have a lot of regrets. But for accepting the journey I was given from the day I was born I have no regrets.
DB - Vagabond Journeys
***********************
Weekend Puzzle - Weekend Puzzle
What? No contestant? Not one?
If I have to tell you the answers you are going to be ashamed of yourselves.
I've added two more questions at the bottom which should be major hints.
I give you the questions, you give me the answers.
Ready. Set. Strike up the band.
-------------------------------------
1. What's here to stay?
2. Who am I dreaming of?
3. What are free?
4. Where should you tell your feet to go?
5. When did I know the time?
6. What do the light winds say?
7. How did she live her life?
8. Where should you take me?
9. Where have I got you?
10. What shall I brush up?
11. Who ran Venezuela?
12. Why should I keep my violin and bow?
13. What don't I know?
14. Who looks good on a tandem bike?
----------------------------
I'm tapping my foot waiting. Good luck.
DB
*********************
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Ducks And Gulls
The world we live in is fortunate in something too simple to be over-described as cosmic law - as easy to grasp as, say, an act of tenderness.
Lawrence Durrell
************************
I hope you had a pleasant weekend with some joy and not much sorrow. I spent some of it feeding the birds.
I currently live on the banks of the Delaware River. I don't have any real friends here, people I've known and loved for a while. I'm always hoping one or more of my journal friends will come to visit. I tell them if they come we can go down to the river and throw stones at the sea gulls. Whenever I say that a few people actually think I'm being serious. "You don't do that do you? How awful." I laugh.
The only one who has been to visit is Just Plain Bill and when he comes it usually means a happy trip to the King George for manhattans, (Pictures to come one day when I can figure out how to do it.) I always enjoy it when Bill shows up.
No. The only things I throw at the gulls are treats, in the form of bread crumbs. There are gulls and there are ducks and I've made some observations about their behavior I find rather interesting. (Am I boring you?)
Sea gulls are elegant birds. They can take off just like that, fly around and land on a spot and they look beautiful in flight. But they speak with a raucus noise, like fingernails scraping on a blackboard. It seems like one of nature's big jokes but maybe it's a sound that can travel some distance over water so they can keep in touch with each other, sort of like a world wide web.
I used to admire the gulls in Provincetown, on Cape Cod. They would swoop down, grab an oyster or a clam which they could see under the water from a height, fly back up and drop it on a rock to crack it open so they could eat the meat. Their aim was amazing.
Here on the Delaware there are also ducks. Compared with the gulls the ducks are rather dumb. They paddle around in the water or waddle around on the shore and more or less take what comes.
But here's the most amazing thing. (Are you bored yet?) When it comes to feeding time the gulls defer to the ducks. The ducks will gather around and pick up the crumbs gleefully while the gulls hover around the edges. Even if I throw crumbs out to them they won't touch them. I think they observe the ducks and if one of them doesn't fall over in sudden death or stagger around with indigestion a gull will occasionally sneak in, grab a crumb and scram, as if he was a thief. He will soon be followed by the others. Once the ducks are done the gulls will go to it with a feeding frenzy
But if there are no ducks around the following scenario takes place. (Still not bored?)I sit on the bench with my bag of crumbs and fling a few out in front of me. The gulls are immediately alert. Most of them just circle around. A few of them, the older and more tired of them perhaps, land at a distance. But no one approaches the crumbs. Then one of them swoops down, right in front of me, flies over the lunch, then right over my head, evidently checking me out along with the cuisine. He must then squawk a "roger" because soon the gulls are all over the crumbs and looking for more.
You can't tell me there isn't some intelligence at work here, some cosmic law of diligence, deference, community and cooperation, a system for an ornithologically inclined scientist to pander.
(I hope I didn't bore you.)
May June bring you great robust blessings.
DB
******************
Question of the day: Does the condition in the Gulf of Mexico suggest that the country should increase conservation while it spends more time and efforts on developing alternative sources of energy or that it should concentrate its efforts on more ground based resources such as the Alaskan oil fields?
Thank you,
DB
Lawrence Durrell
************************
I hope you had a pleasant weekend with some joy and not much sorrow. I spent some of it feeding the birds.
I currently live on the banks of the Delaware River. I don't have any real friends here, people I've known and loved for a while. I'm always hoping one or more of my journal friends will come to visit. I tell them if they come we can go down to the river and throw stones at the sea gulls. Whenever I say that a few people actually think I'm being serious. "You don't do that do you? How awful." I laugh.
The only one who has been to visit is Just Plain Bill and when he comes it usually means a happy trip to the King George for manhattans, (Pictures to come one day when I can figure out how to do it.) I always enjoy it when Bill shows up.
No. The only things I throw at the gulls are treats, in the form of bread crumbs. There are gulls and there are ducks and I've made some observations about their behavior I find rather interesting. (Am I boring you?)
Sea gulls are elegant birds. They can take off just like that, fly around and land on a spot and they look beautiful in flight. But they speak with a raucus noise, like fingernails scraping on a blackboard. It seems like one of nature's big jokes but maybe it's a sound that can travel some distance over water so they can keep in touch with each other, sort of like a world wide web.
I used to admire the gulls in Provincetown, on Cape Cod. They would swoop down, grab an oyster or a clam which they could see under the water from a height, fly back up and drop it on a rock to crack it open so they could eat the meat. Their aim was amazing.
Here on the Delaware there are also ducks. Compared with the gulls the ducks are rather dumb. They paddle around in the water or waddle around on the shore and more or less take what comes.
But here's the most amazing thing. (Are you bored yet?) When it comes to feeding time the gulls defer to the ducks. The ducks will gather around and pick up the crumbs gleefully while the gulls hover around the edges. Even if I throw crumbs out to them they won't touch them. I think they observe the ducks and if one of them doesn't fall over in sudden death or stagger around with indigestion a gull will occasionally sneak in, grab a crumb and scram, as if he was a thief. He will soon be followed by the others. Once the ducks are done the gulls will go to it with a feeding frenzy
But if there are no ducks around the following scenario takes place. (Still not bored?)I sit on the bench with my bag of crumbs and fling a few out in front of me. The gulls are immediately alert. Most of them just circle around. A few of them, the older and more tired of them perhaps, land at a distance. But no one approaches the crumbs. Then one of them swoops down, right in front of me, flies over the lunch, then right over my head, evidently checking me out along with the cuisine. He must then squawk a "roger" because soon the gulls are all over the crumbs and looking for more.
You can't tell me there isn't some intelligence at work here, some cosmic law of diligence, deference, community and cooperation, a system for an ornithologically inclined scientist to pander.
(I hope I didn't bore you.)
May June bring you great robust blessings.
DB
******************
Question of the day: Does the condition in the Gulf of Mexico suggest that the country should increase conservation while it spends more time and efforts on developing alternative sources of energy or that it should concentrate its efforts on more ground based resources such as the Alaskan oil fields?
Thank you,
DB
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Strange Art
We artists are driven towards personal lives nourished in these strange techniques of self-pursuit.
Lawrence Durrell
***************
YEEESH. I see I'm having to address the subject of my last entry. "It can always be better" does not mean that it isn't good. It does NOT mean that you have to sweat and struggle to climb Mount Everest or run a Marathon. And it does NOT mean that you can't settle for good enough. I cite the example of myself in the recording studio. I wouldn't have been there in the first place if I wasn't good enough. I merely took the opportunity to try to make it better by fixing a little thing here and a little thing there. Faulkner said "Try to be better than yourself."
He didn't say you must be better or you ought to be. He merely said "try." If a thing isn't perfect, and it never is, then it can always be better. If you do a thing well then it's good. If you have the chance to make it better, take it. If you don't then so what it's still good. I hope that better explains what I mean to say. Now let me talk about my painting.
************************************
I used to practice what is sometimes called "Mail Art." At first I just took blank index cards. On one side I would address it and write a note and on the other side I drew an original picture, sometimes it was a scene, sometimes just an abstract design, stamp it and mail it.
Then I found a pad of post card size water color paper and with very thin acrylic paint, which is magical stuff, I would paint a picture and mail that.
Another time I took a regular white envelope, opened it up and used it as a pattern to cut out on interesting colored paper on which I would paint designes, then fold it up and glued it back into the shape of an envelope and mail that with a letter inside.
I finally realized that, with a few exceptions where people actually framed things and displayed them on a table or book shelf, most of those items ended up in the trash. Someone might look at it, say "Hmm" and toss it.
It's okay. They were just simple ways of saying "Hello" in a personal manner beyond words.
I've just had a rare experience with one of my paintings. The local artists organization, of which I am a member recently held an exhibit of members' works. We were told that the pieces had to be framed and/or wired so that they could be easily hung. I have a litter of paintings which I love, some better than others, but very few of them are framed. Two of them are hanging in the gallery where no one ever comes. Another one I had planned for a different exhibit. I wasn't particularly fond of the few remaining pieces. I finally chose a small painting I had done years ago. I didn't know if it was even any good. No one had ever seen it before so I had no comments about it to go on. It was the runt of the litter. But I took it over there and entered it in the exhibit. When I went to the opening reception, there it was hanging bravely with many other larger pieces.
The exhibit lasted for about a seek and was open to the public every day. When the exhibit had ended and the day came to pick up the picture I saw it furtively leaning against the wall, tucked between other pictures that hadn't been picked up yet. I picked it up and took it home. As I held it in my hands it slowly began to take on a different character. It had made its debut, it had been seen by total strangers, to whatever degree it had expressed itself, it had projected itself into the world, it had a history. The runt had grown up a little. It has its own life.
Now I cherish it. It is displayed here now and not sitting in a canvas bag in the corner. I have had other paintings on exhibit but they were works I proudly put up. I don't know if this one will ever be shown again, but it sure has had its day and has won my heart.
DB - The Vagabond
*********************
Lawrence Durrell
***************
YEEESH. I see I'm having to address the subject of my last entry. "It can always be better" does not mean that it isn't good. It does NOT mean that you have to sweat and struggle to climb Mount Everest or run a Marathon. And it does NOT mean that you can't settle for good enough. I cite the example of myself in the recording studio. I wouldn't have been there in the first place if I wasn't good enough. I merely took the opportunity to try to make it better by fixing a little thing here and a little thing there. Faulkner said "Try to be better than yourself."
He didn't say you must be better or you ought to be. He merely said "try." If a thing isn't perfect, and it never is, then it can always be better. If you do a thing well then it's good. If you have the chance to make it better, take it. If you don't then so what it's still good. I hope that better explains what I mean to say. Now let me talk about my painting.
************************************
I used to practice what is sometimes called "Mail Art." At first I just took blank index cards. On one side I would address it and write a note and on the other side I drew an original picture, sometimes it was a scene, sometimes just an abstract design, stamp it and mail it.
Then I found a pad of post card size water color paper and with very thin acrylic paint, which is magical stuff, I would paint a picture and mail that.
Another time I took a regular white envelope, opened it up and used it as a pattern to cut out on interesting colored paper on which I would paint designes, then fold it up and glued it back into the shape of an envelope and mail that with a letter inside.
I finally realized that, with a few exceptions where people actually framed things and displayed them on a table or book shelf, most of those items ended up in the trash. Someone might look at it, say "Hmm" and toss it.
It's okay. They were just simple ways of saying "Hello" in a personal manner beyond words.
I've just had a rare experience with one of my paintings. The local artists organization, of which I am a member recently held an exhibit of members' works. We were told that the pieces had to be framed and/or wired so that they could be easily hung. I have a litter of paintings which I love, some better than others, but very few of them are framed. Two of them are hanging in the gallery where no one ever comes. Another one I had planned for a different exhibit. I wasn't particularly fond of the few remaining pieces. I finally chose a small painting I had done years ago. I didn't know if it was even any good. No one had ever seen it before so I had no comments about it to go on. It was the runt of the litter. But I took it over there and entered it in the exhibit. When I went to the opening reception, there it was hanging bravely with many other larger pieces.
The exhibit lasted for about a seek and was open to the public every day. When the exhibit had ended and the day came to pick up the picture I saw it furtively leaning against the wall, tucked between other pictures that hadn't been picked up yet. I picked it up and took it home. As I held it in my hands it slowly began to take on a different character. It had made its debut, it had been seen by total strangers, to whatever degree it had expressed itself, it had projected itself into the world, it had a history. The runt had grown up a little. It has its own life.
Now I cherish it. It is displayed here now and not sitting in a canvas bag in the corner. I have had other paintings on exhibit but they were works I proudly put up. I don't know if this one will ever be shown again, but it sure has had its day and has won my heart.
DB - The Vagabond
*********************
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Mining The Heart
It is the living who might be spared if we could quarry the message which lies buried in the heart of all human experience.
Lawrence Durrell
********************
A person could be content being an observer of his own life if he could find a safe place to stand. I think every person's life is a book that should be written and read. We all share the human story of joy and sorrow, pain and pleasure, success and failure, fulfilled dreams and destroyed hopes. Suffering is wrong, whether it's great or small. But all conditions are faced somehow, in some way, by a creature who has intelligence, reason, experience and ability. How each one of us copes with the demands of life in our own individual way goes to write the history of the human race.
Buried in that history is a fundamental truth about our lives and why we have these phantasmagorias to deal with. It is way too much to expect, in spite of legend and hero worship, for any one individual to unearth the great, golden ore of human nature. And yet there it is. Some people roll up their sleeves and dig, others quit the quarry.
The ancient prophets preached the dignity and divinity of natural law. Who turned the human race away from that rich mine and made us deny ourselves? When did the valuable vein of human experience become wrong, a sin, a destruction? When did the human being become insignificant, slightly better than the beasts?
I like to remember that when I walk down the street I am treading on an edge of the universe. People look out at the stars and sense something so grand that it diminishes the importance of us humans. I look at it rather as an example of how grand we are to be a part of it, and a part that is free to explore every inch of it. And why do we have that freedom? Because we want it. And wanting it is not a sin, it's part of our human nature.
One of the great and necessary benefits I see from investigating and trying to understand, whether it's in your living room or in outer space, is that we are slowly getting away from an old mistaken notion about who we are. We grew used to thinking that there is the Earth and then there is the rest of the universe, and somehow one is separate from the other. There is I and then there is the rest of the people. Two groups: I and everyone else. And, of course, no one else's life is a complicated as mine, I think.
What is your life like? How have you coped with it's dangers and dilemmas and what have you mined from the quarry of human experience? What is the message in your heart you can share with us? What is life like on your star?
DB - The Vagabond
Lawrence Durrell
********************
A person could be content being an observer of his own life if he could find a safe place to stand. I think every person's life is a book that should be written and read. We all share the human story of joy and sorrow, pain and pleasure, success and failure, fulfilled dreams and destroyed hopes. Suffering is wrong, whether it's great or small. But all conditions are faced somehow, in some way, by a creature who has intelligence, reason, experience and ability. How each one of us copes with the demands of life in our own individual way goes to write the history of the human race.
Buried in that history is a fundamental truth about our lives and why we have these phantasmagorias to deal with. It is way too much to expect, in spite of legend and hero worship, for any one individual to unearth the great, golden ore of human nature. And yet there it is. Some people roll up their sleeves and dig, others quit the quarry.
The ancient prophets preached the dignity and divinity of natural law. Who turned the human race away from that rich mine and made us deny ourselves? When did the valuable vein of human experience become wrong, a sin, a destruction? When did the human being become insignificant, slightly better than the beasts?
I like to remember that when I walk down the street I am treading on an edge of the universe. People look out at the stars and sense something so grand that it diminishes the importance of us humans. I look at it rather as an example of how grand we are to be a part of it, and a part that is free to explore every inch of it. And why do we have that freedom? Because we want it. And wanting it is not a sin, it's part of our human nature.
One of the great and necessary benefits I see from investigating and trying to understand, whether it's in your living room or in outer space, is that we are slowly getting away from an old mistaken notion about who we are. We grew used to thinking that there is the Earth and then there is the rest of the universe, and somehow one is separate from the other. There is I and then there is the rest of the people. Two groups: I and everyone else. And, of course, no one else's life is a complicated as mine, I think.
What is your life like? How have you coped with it's dangers and dilemmas and what have you mined from the quarry of human experience? What is the message in your heart you can share with us? What is life like on your star?
DB - The Vagabond
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Fashioning The Infinite
Somewhere in the heart of experience there is an order and a coherence which we might surprise if we were attentive enough, loving enough or patient enough.
Lawrence Durrell
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
A few days ago in this journal I posted an entry entitled Behind The Wall in which I said that I know there is a meaning behind the words I write and that I keep writing to discover it. I know I didn't make myself clear. Comments came back to me saying that words mean one thing to one person and another to another person. That's true, of course, but that is not what I was hoping to put forth.
An artist draws inspiration from the universal bank of ideas, which is eternal and infinite in its varieties, as numerous as the stars and as vast as the distances between them. What the artist makes of those ideas depends partly on his talent and skill, partly on dedication and hard work and partly on the need to seek and find, to expose or not, the unknown reality of the existence of those ideas, the unheard sounds and unseen colors.
When searching through the universal mind of ideas and creations trying to find the reality of all realities, we artists are poor tailors, cutting out patterns and trying to fashion together something that fits. It never does and that's why we keep trying.
I know that what I write has a greater meaning and a greater purpose that isn't mine. Musicians know that also. There is no end to what can be discovered in music. In a certain way music is what all art is trying to achieve.
But as science is trying to discover the universal law of physics which will explain everything, and medicine is trying for the universal panacea, the door remains not closed and locked but undiscovered. Once the opening is found, and the genius can step out into the unknown, unheard and unseen, art my disappear or take a new form, science may also, but we will know that all of our efforts to find the truth and understand it, from the simple drawing of a flower to a monumental Russian novel were never done in vain.
Durrell is correct. The first important step is to pay attention, to carefully read the words, really listen to the music and really look at the painting, realizing that you are looking "through a glass darkly."
Next comes the love. "The mightiest space in fortune nature brings to join like likes and kiss like native things" says Shakespeare. The courage of honest desire to find the light and share it no matter what it may be is requisite to understand what is written. That honest, humble affection can't help bring a greater coherence into one's experience.
It is the nature of truth to reveal itself, especially to the waiting, expectant mind. The hidden secret truth of the universe is harder to find because it is so complex and so undefinable and yet so simple. The paintings, poems, songs and dances are merely the outward shapes and patterns of the gown. They are invitations for the immortal truth to visit us.
The patient, persistent search for the truth behind the truth will never end. It can't.
DB
******************
OTHER VOICES
Next weekend there will be a special Vagabond Journey about the Art of Acting and the Actor's Life with special contributions from as many of my actor friends as I can inspire to write their thoughts and feelings, their experience and wisdom.
That's next weekend. Don't miss it. Tell your friends. Post a notice in all the crooks and nannies around town.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Weekend Puzzle
Weekend Puzzle
You are to identify the following references and tell me which one has the worm.
So get busy.
Bismark
Cardinal Van Galen
Doctor Hogg
Early Joe
Fukunishiki
Goof
Imperial Gala
Janica Jonagold
Limbertwig
Mendocino Cox
Novaspy
Porter's Perfection
Reverand Morgan
Somerset of Maine
Twin Bee Gala
Weatfield Seek-No-Further
****************************
Leave your answer on dbdacoba@aol.com please.
4 responses so far.
I'm waiting.
Lawrence Durrell
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
A few days ago in this journal I posted an entry entitled Behind The Wall in which I said that I know there is a meaning behind the words I write and that I keep writing to discover it. I know I didn't make myself clear. Comments came back to me saying that words mean one thing to one person and another to another person. That's true, of course, but that is not what I was hoping to put forth.
An artist draws inspiration from the universal bank of ideas, which is eternal and infinite in its varieties, as numerous as the stars and as vast as the distances between them. What the artist makes of those ideas depends partly on his talent and skill, partly on dedication and hard work and partly on the need to seek and find, to expose or not, the unknown reality of the existence of those ideas, the unheard sounds and unseen colors.
When searching through the universal mind of ideas and creations trying to find the reality of all realities, we artists are poor tailors, cutting out patterns and trying to fashion together something that fits. It never does and that's why we keep trying.
I know that what I write has a greater meaning and a greater purpose that isn't mine. Musicians know that also. There is no end to what can be discovered in music. In a certain way music is what all art is trying to achieve.
But as science is trying to discover the universal law of physics which will explain everything, and medicine is trying for the universal panacea, the door remains not closed and locked but undiscovered. Once the opening is found, and the genius can step out into the unknown, unheard and unseen, art my disappear or take a new form, science may also, but we will know that all of our efforts to find the truth and understand it, from the simple drawing of a flower to a monumental Russian novel were never done in vain.
Durrell is correct. The first important step is to pay attention, to carefully read the words, really listen to the music and really look at the painting, realizing that you are looking "through a glass darkly."
Next comes the love. "The mightiest space in fortune nature brings to join like likes and kiss like native things" says Shakespeare. The courage of honest desire to find the light and share it no matter what it may be is requisite to understand what is written. That honest, humble affection can't help bring a greater coherence into one's experience.
It is the nature of truth to reveal itself, especially to the waiting, expectant mind. The hidden secret truth of the universe is harder to find because it is so complex and so undefinable and yet so simple. The paintings, poems, songs and dances are merely the outward shapes and patterns of the gown. They are invitations for the immortal truth to visit us.
The patient, persistent search for the truth behind the truth will never end. It can't.
DB
******************
OTHER VOICES
Next weekend there will be a special Vagabond Journey about the Art of Acting and the Actor's Life with special contributions from as many of my actor friends as I can inspire to write their thoughts and feelings, their experience and wisdom.
That's next weekend. Don't miss it. Tell your friends. Post a notice in all the crooks and nannies around town.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Weekend Puzzle
Weekend Puzzle
You are to identify the following references and tell me which one has the worm.
So get busy.
Bismark
Cardinal Van Galen
Doctor Hogg
Early Joe
Fukunishiki
Goof
Imperial Gala
Janica Jonagold
Limbertwig
Mendocino Cox
Novaspy
Porter's Perfection
Reverand Morgan
Somerset of Maine
Twin Bee Gala
Weatfield Seek-No-Further
****************************
Leave your answer on dbdacoba@aol.com please.
4 responses so far.
I'm waiting.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Deliverance Duty 5/04/09
For us artists there waits the joyous compromise through art with all that wounded and defeated us in daily life.
Lawrence Durrell
*****************
Welcome back.
----------------------
I can think of a lot of things about my past that please me, fun memories and good friends. But why is it so much easier to remember the hurts, the pains, the failures. I am glad to have learned the lessons from all of them. Now why can't I bind up the whole mess in a big plastic baggie, throw it out in the trash can and forget about it?
There used to be a popular question asked of older people when they were interviewed on radio or TV. If you had it to do all over again what would you change? The answer was "I wouldn't change a thing." I have never understood that remark. I sit here and fervently wish I could start all over again, change almost everything and do it right.
I would say, when asked, that most of the roles I played as an actor were either autobiographical or wish fulfillment, sometimes a combination of both. It was very helpful to call upon events of my past, both positive and negative, to supply me with images and emotions that synergized with the life of the character I was playing. But since I'm not an actor any more why do I need them? And, thus, why do they keep popping up to hurt me like mosquito bites or bee stings?
I don't appear to have any choice about it so I might as well take those memories, cut them apart, twist the pieces around, repaint them, hammer them out of shape on the anvil of my mind, make something else of them and run them through my keyboard.
The time and effort it takes me to invest my poor memories into the whirlpool of my creative mind is paid off by the repose I would never award myself otherwise. And as I pull apart the veils and uncover the grotesqueries of my vagabond past I tremble. But I also retool and redesign remorse and regret into something that may even resemble the beautiful.
To consider my sins of commission and especially my sins of omission I may feel as if I'm tending a garden of vipers with no exit for them to crawl away. But if so, I collected them. I earned them as my destiny. And now my duty is to translate each of them into something beneficial to me and anyone who wants to listen.
When Eugene O'Neill wrote "Ah, Wilderness!" he said it was the story of his youth the way it should have been. I can write about my youth the way it should have been (wish fulfillment) but only if I face the way it actually was (autobiographical). In short, I can turn that big plastic baggie of trash into art. And that's what we do.
DB - The Vagabond
__________________
May you have a bright and happy day.
*******************************
Lawrence Durrell
*****************
Welcome back.
----------------------
I can think of a lot of things about my past that please me, fun memories and good friends. But why is it so much easier to remember the hurts, the pains, the failures. I am glad to have learned the lessons from all of them. Now why can't I bind up the whole mess in a big plastic baggie, throw it out in the trash can and forget about it?
There used to be a popular question asked of older people when they were interviewed on radio or TV. If you had it to do all over again what would you change? The answer was "I wouldn't change a thing." I have never understood that remark. I sit here and fervently wish I could start all over again, change almost everything and do it right.
I would say, when asked, that most of the roles I played as an actor were either autobiographical or wish fulfillment, sometimes a combination of both. It was very helpful to call upon events of my past, both positive and negative, to supply me with images and emotions that synergized with the life of the character I was playing. But since I'm not an actor any more why do I need them? And, thus, why do they keep popping up to hurt me like mosquito bites or bee stings?
I don't appear to have any choice about it so I might as well take those memories, cut them apart, twist the pieces around, repaint them, hammer them out of shape on the anvil of my mind, make something else of them and run them through my keyboard.
The time and effort it takes me to invest my poor memories into the whirlpool of my creative mind is paid off by the repose I would never award myself otherwise. And as I pull apart the veils and uncover the grotesqueries of my vagabond past I tremble. But I also retool and redesign remorse and regret into something that may even resemble the beautiful.
To consider my sins of commission and especially my sins of omission I may feel as if I'm tending a garden of vipers with no exit for them to crawl away. But if so, I collected them. I earned them as my destiny. And now my duty is to translate each of them into something beneficial to me and anyone who wants to listen.
When Eugene O'Neill wrote "Ah, Wilderness!" he said it was the story of his youth the way it should have been. I can write about my youth the way it should have been (wish fulfillment) but only if I face the way it actually was (autobiographical). In short, I can turn that big plastic baggie of trash into art. And that's what we do.
DB - The Vagabond
__________________
May you have a bright and happy day.
*******************************
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