Tuesday, November 4, 2014
In the ocean of infinite emptiness,
before the birth of time,
a singular being was born
calling itself I Am.
Seeing that it was alone in the emptiness,
a universe of one,
I Am grew lonely,
And in its desire for companionship,
swelled and split in two,
becoming We Are.
Though they now had each other in the emptiness,
We Are were no longer whole,
and the void around them seeped inside,
filling their empty spaces.
Then they were just as lonely as when
We Are was I Am,
and so they swelled and split again,
this time into four,
and sixteen and so on,
each time yearning for satiety,
but with every division each was less whole than before,
and the emptiness continued to fill the cavities left behind.
Soon there was so much of the surrounding void in every I Am
it became impossible to distinguish them from it,
until what few fragments were left of their
I Amness dissolved away,
taking with it time,
before a singular being was born
calling itself I Am.
* * *
Originally published in Star*Line 35.1 (Jan-March 2012; Marge Simon editor)
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Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Here's a gem from Brainpickings. Listen to Virginia Woolf ( in that amazing, long-vanished accent) talking about craft.
Friday, September 19, 2014
Friday, August 29, 2014
You just say, "Well, hell, I don't need depression. I don't need worry. I don't need to push." The ideas will follow me. When they're off-guard, and ready to be born, I'll turn around and grab them.
Ray Bradbury, 1982, from Zen in the Art of Writing
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Friday, January 17, 2014
By Robert Frost
Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.
The woods around it have it - it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.
And lonely as it is, that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less -
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
WIth no expression, nothing to express.
They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars - on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.
By John Keats
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.