Sadness

There's a type of sadness that is fashionable, trendy..that delights in wallowing in its own misery and that is really, at heart, nothing but another form of egotism, another prison. Perhaps one has to suffer such instances in a candyfloss americanized world of perfect smiles and fake happiness-as if it were the only gravitas that were possible in an unbearably light, floating world. Be gentle, b. Faced with so much shallowness perhaps this is not such a bad mask to wear after all...and let us raise a glass to those who know how to contrive a certain amount of superficiality without having to explain...



Of course, there is another form of lightness, what Nietzsche called a lightness out of profundity but this type of boundless grace is reserved for a few or for a few precious moments, for those who know how "to bless". And there is also a profound sadness which is not just a 'pessimism of the intellect' and which is somehow still mysteriously open to the gaze of the beloved.



C directed me here:



Memory of the sun seeps from the heart
Grass grows yellower.
Faintly if at all the early snowflakes
Hover, hover.



Water becoming ice is slowing in
The narrow channels.
Nothing at all will happen here again,
Will ever happen.

Memory of sun seeps from the heart.
What is it?-Dark?
Perhaps! Winter will have occupied us
In the night.

----

Why is that at this page
Alone the corner is turned down

-----


O my heart, how you yearn
For your dying hour.

----


No, I am only looking at the wall's
Reflections of the dying heavenly flames.


----

Do you forgive me these November days?
In canals around the Neva fires fragment.
Scant is tragic autumn's finery.

-----

Now mirrors learn not to expect smiles


-----

Westward the sun is dropping,
and the roofs of towns are shining in its light.
Already death is chalking doors with crosses
And calling the ravens and the ravens are in flight.


----Anna Akhmatova

~~~~

The storm came and passed. Nothing changed. Just rearranged. But across the bridge the wind howled, as if it was possessed. Notes flew about-the word weightless at last-and bags started flapping, like so many sails on the wide blue seas. Hit the accelerator. Perhaps to take flight...(no, that's not what you think, dear reader(s)).

We peer into dark mirrors, and see other worlds, other lives, carrying on, silently. Like this screen before me. Or Satie. Or people inside,

framed in the window, they see blackness framed
hear breathing and draughts of air and the moon the moon..
the window is a mirror and two people are
separate, see thier night selves on the other side
eyes fixed and the frame defined

The hand reaches out into the open. But the word returns to the world...