Thursday, November 24, 2022

The Portable Jack Kerouac

 I have lots of things to teach you now, 

in case we ever meet, concerning the message 

that was transmitted to me under a pine tree in North Carolina 

on a cold winter moonlit night. 

It said that Nothing Ever Happened, so don't worry. 

It's all like a dream. Everything is ecstasy, inside. 

We just don't know it because of our thinking-minds. 

But in our true blissful essence of mind is known that 

everything is alright forever and forever and forever. 

Close your eyes, let your hands and nerve-ends drop, 

stop breathing for 3 seconds, 

listen to the silence inside the illusion of the world, 

and you will remember the lesson you forgot, which was taught 

in immense milky way soft cloud innumerable worlds long ago and not even at all. 

It is all one vast awakened thing. 

I call it the golden eternity. It is perfect. 

We were never really born, we will never really die. 

It has nothing to do with the imaginary idea of a personal self, 

other selves, many selves everywhere: Self is only an idea, a mortal idea. 

That which passes into everything is one thing. 

It's a dream already ended. 

There's nothing to be afraid of and nothing to be glad about. 

I know this from staring at mountains months on end. 

They never show any expression, they are like empty space. 

Do you think the emptiness of space will ever crumble away? 

Mountains will crumble, but the emptiness of space, 

which is the one universal essence of mind, 

the vast awakenerhood, empty and awake, 

will never crumble away because it was never born.

Jack Kerouac, The Portable Jack Kerouac


tags: awake, born, die, empty, letter, mountain, soul, space


Monday, November 21, 2022

Blindness - Eseu despre orbire


'Say to a blind man, you're free, open the door that was separating him from the world, Go, you are free, we tell him once more, and he does not go, he has remained motionless there in the middle of the road, he and the others, they are terrified, they do not know where to go, the fact is that there is no comparison between living in a rational labyrinth, which is, by definition, a mental asylum and venturing forth, without a guiding hand or a dog-leash, into the demented labyrinth of the city where memory will serve no purpose, for it will merely be able to recall the images of places but not the paths whereby we might get there. Standing in front of the building which is already ablaze from end to end, the blind inmates can feel the living waves of heat from the fire on their faces, they receive them as something which in a way protects them, just as the walls did before, prison and refuge at once. They stay together, pressed up against each other, like a flock, no one there wants to be the lost sheep, for they know that no shepherd will come looking for them.'

José Saramago, Blindness 


Eseu despre orbire e o poveste despre supravieţuirea în haos, când cel mai neîndurător duşman nu e nici frigul, nici foamea, nici mizeria, ci omul de lângă tine.

Printre rândurile aşezate în bloc, unite în fraze lungi, în dialoguri lipsite de semne de punctuaţie – ca într-o oglindă în care se reflectă dezordinea despre care scrie autorul –, transpare ideea că omul e, în esenţă, rău. Şi de aici, toate derivatele care-l fac să îi ţină pe ceilalţi la marginea fiinţei lui: egoist, murdar, invidios, lacom, violent, degenerat, nesătul. Omul-animal.

Într-un oraş necunoscut, izbucneşte dintr-o dată o epidemie care îi face pe toţi locuitorii să orbească. Marea de lapte nu are vreo cauză concretă şi, se pare, nicio rezolvare. Soluţia la care recurg autorităţile este represiunea, iar mai apoi se ajunge la apariţia lagărelor. Singura rămasă neafectată rămâne soţia unui medic oftalmolog (ironie a sorţii?), cea căreia îi va fi imposibil să salveze tot oraşul, dar care va fi îndeajuns de puternică să aducă un grup de oameni înapoi la lumină.

Dar voi nu știți, nu puteți ști ce înseamnă să ai ochi într-o lume de orbi, nu sunt regină, eu sunt pur și simplu aceea care s-a născut să vadă oroarea, voi o simțiți, eu o simt și o văd. 

În afara acesteia, romanul se învârte în jurul a şase personaje, toate fără nume, semn că într-o lume în care dorinţa cea mai aprigă e aceea de a trăi, cu orice preţ, trecutul contează prea puţin. În schimb, ele sunt numite după trăsătura caracteristică lor, astfel: primul orb, medicul oftalmolog, tânăra cu ochelari negri, soţia primului orb, bătrânul cu legătură neagră şi băieţelul strabic. În final, niciunul nu va mai fi acelaşi. Vor trece prin metamorfoze, vor cunoaşte cele mai profunde sentimente umane, de la frică la neputinţă, de la nepăsare la acceptare. Vor învăţa grija, dar şi crima.

Cred că n-am orbit, cred că suntem orbi, Orbi care văd, Orbi care, văzând, nu văd.

Epidemia bruscă de orbire avusese, de fapt, cauze morale. Este convingerea care se poate identifica în spatele revoltei rândurilor, şi este credinţa ultimă a celei care vede. Oamenii fuseseră dintotdeauna mai puţin oameni, iar iubirea lor de sine, interiorizată, se exteriorizase în cruzime inexorabilă şi în egoism sălbatic.

Eseu despre orbire – cum ne închidem ochii deschişi 




Friday, November 18, 2022

The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare


pencils on canson paper

by Daliana Pacuraru


The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare

There's something rotten in the small town of Pickax--at least to the sensitive noses of newspaperman Jim Qwilleran and his Siamese cats Koko and Yum Yum. An accident has claimed the life of the local paper's eccentric publisher, but to Qwilleran and his feline friends it smells like murder. They soon sniff out a shocking secret, but Koko's snooping into an unusual edition of Shakespeare may prove CATastrophic...because somewhere in Pickax a lady loves not wisely but too well, a widow is scandalously merry, and a stranger has a lean and hungry look. The stage is set for Qwilleran, Koko, Yum Yum, and the second act of murder most meow... 


Thursday, November 17, 2022

Tales of Ordinary Madness

 I've never been lonely. 

I've been in a room -- I've felt suicidal. 

I've been depressed. 

I've felt awful -- awful beyond all -- 

but I never felt that one other person 

could enter that room and cure what was bothering me...

or that any number of people could enter that room. 

In other words, 

 loneliness is something I've never been bothered with 

because I've always had this terrible itch for solitude. 

It's being at a party, or at a stadium 

full of people cheering for something, that I might feel loneliness. 

I'll quote Ibsen, 

"The strongest men are the most alone." 

I've never thought,

 "Well, some beautiful blonde will come in here 

and give me a fuck-job, rub my balls, 

and I'll feel good.

" No, that won't help. You know the typical crowd, 

"Wow, it's Friday night, what are you going to do? 

Just sit there?

" Well, yeah. Because there's nothing out there. 

It's stupidity. Stupid people mingling with stupid people. 

Let them stupidify themselves. 

I've never been bothered with the need to rush out into the night. 

I hid in bars, because I didn't want to hide in factories. 

That's all. 

Sorry for all the millions, 

but I've never been lonely. 

I like myself. I'm the best form of entertainment I have. 

Let's drink more wine! 

Charles Bukowski


Tuesday, November 15, 2022

A Wild Swan: And Other Tales

  “Yeah, right, sweetheart, it’s a wing, I’m part angel, but trust me, the rest is pure devil.”

Michael Cunningham, A Wild Swan: And Other Tales

A flock of swans was housed in a bay of the Black Sea, Eforie Sud (Romania ). They quickly found admirers: locals who come to feed them and take pictures with them.

Thursday, November 10, 2022

The Crunch - Love is a Dog From Hell

 The Crunch by Charles Bukowski 

photography: daliana pacuraru 

poetry: charles bukowski 

music: sonora -quincas moreira 

film by daliana pacuraru 

graphis advertising©2021


too much
too little

too fat
too thin
or nobody.

laughter or


strangers with faces like
the backs of
thumb tacks

armies running through
streets of blood
waving winebottles
bayoneting and fucking

an old guy in a cheap room
with a photograph of M. Monroe.

there is a loneliness in this world so great
that you can see it in the slow movement of
the hands of a clock

people so tired
either by love or no love.

people just are not good to each other
one on one.

the rich are not good to the rich
the poor are not good to the poor.

we are afraid.

our educational system tells us
that we can all be
big-ass winners.

it hasn't told us
about the gutters
or the suicides.

or the terror of one person
aching in one place

unspoken to

watering a plant.

people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.
people are not good to each other.

I suppose they never will be.
I don't ask them to be.

but sometimes I think about

the beads will swing
the clouds will cloud
and the killer will behead the child
like taking a bite out of an ice cream cone.

too much
too little

too fat
too thin
or nobody

more haters than lovers.

people are not good to each other.
perhaps if they were
our deaths would not be so sad.

meanwhile I look at young girls
flowers of chance.

there must be a way.

surely there must be a way that we have not yet
though of.

who put this brain inside of me?

it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.

it will not say

This poem was published in "Love is a Dog From Hell". © by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...