In, but not of, our times.
There follows a mass of unorganized fragments.
---Simone Weil.
Time is not a straight line, it's more a labyrinth
---T. Transtromer.
What's there changes by the hour.
---T. Transtromer.
I can no longer speak of 'I'. I look into the mirror and see someone who is not myself; even worse, more abstractly: who is 'not-I'. Your bewilderment doesn't find any form. That's the heart [of it]. Your face is far too large in reflection, almost South Korean in proportions. And the puritanism of the north isn't too far behind in your thoughts either.
What blank pages the side of your hand rest on! Like a thirsty man at sea you have too many books. Somewhere, in one of them, there is a line that will save you, a clearing in the forest. Terminus: the god of boundaries.
~~~
The crow's intelligence extends to tipping over trash cans, finding remnants of the night by day, its nostrils highly attuned to picking out a scrap of nourishment, the age-old instincts, learning, that ensure survival against the odds. The wide-eyed dice rolling in. Crow carries death within its breast, like an old hat, an ancient memory, lives alone amongst thousands. Maybe there is no distinction between its way of dying and its way of living.
The students, on the other hand, are not interested in being individuals. They are screaming in unison in the courtyard, like Americans at a sports event or crazed Iranians in their black tents denouncing Israel. 'Death to...' Nationalism, tribalism or communism are all variants of the dark time when crows and ravens were one.
~~~
There is no 'I' in islam; but there is a lower case 'i'.
islam is a way. Islam is a statue.
In Egypt the generals are "restoring" democracy by killing women and children. The brothers are defending the faith by burning down the churches and terrorizing their fellow human beings. Who does your heart go out to? My heart does not go out much nowadays, and rarely to those it does not know.
There follows a mass of unorganized fragments.
---Simone Weil.
Time is not a straight line, it's more a labyrinth
---T. Transtromer.
What's there changes by the hour.
---T. Transtromer.
I can no longer speak of 'I'. I look into the mirror and see someone who is not myself; even worse, more abstractly: who is 'not-I'. Your bewilderment doesn't find any form. That's the heart [of it]. Your face is far too large in reflection, almost South Korean in proportions. And the puritanism of the north isn't too far behind in your thoughts either.
What blank pages the side of your hand rest on! Like a thirsty man at sea you have too many books. Somewhere, in one of them, there is a line that will save you, a clearing in the forest. Terminus: the god of boundaries.
~~~
The crow's intelligence extends to tipping over trash cans, finding remnants of the night by day, its nostrils highly attuned to picking out a scrap of nourishment, the age-old instincts, learning, that ensure survival against the odds. The wide-eyed dice rolling in. Crow carries death within its breast, like an old hat, an ancient memory, lives alone amongst thousands. Maybe there is no distinction between its way of dying and its way of living.
The students, on the other hand, are not interested in being individuals. They are screaming in unison in the courtyard, like Americans at a sports event or crazed Iranians in their black tents denouncing Israel. 'Death to...' Nationalism, tribalism or communism are all variants of the dark time when crows and ravens were one.
~~~
There is no 'I' in islam; but there is a lower case 'i'.
islam is a way. Islam is a statue.
In Egypt the generals are "restoring" democracy by killing women and children. The brothers are defending the faith by burning down the churches and terrorizing their fellow human beings. Who does your heart go out to? My heart does not go out much nowadays, and rarely to those it does not know.
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