Thursday, May 31
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"My loyalties will not be bound by national borders, or confined in time by one nation's history, or limited in the spiritual dimension by one language and culture. I pledge my allegiance to the damned human race, and my everlasting love to the green hills of Earth, and my intimations of glory to the singing stars, to the very end of space and time."
 - Edward Abbey
Confessions of a Barbarian



Wednesday, May 30
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"Istigkeit - wasn't that the word Meister Eckhart liked to use? Is-ness. The Being of Platonic philosophy - except that Plato seems to have made the enormous, the grotesque mistake of separating Being from Becoming and identifying it with the mathematical abstraction of the idea. He could never, poor fellow, have seen a bunch of flowers shining with their own inner light and all but quivering under the pressure of the significance with which they were charged; could never have perceived that what rose and iris and carnation so intensely signified was nothing more, and nothing less, than what they were - a transience that was yet eternal life, a perpetual perishing that was at the same time pure Being, a bundle of minute, unique particulars in which, by some unspeakable and yet self-evident paradox, was to be seen the divine source of all existence."
 - Aldous Huxley
The Doors of Perception



Tuesday, May 29
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Phantom Blues
I have the phantom blues.
I'm too tired to be blue.
This is what phantoms do.
They only almost have the blues.

Maybe I'll get some rest
so I can get  depressed.
Yes, that's it. I need to
feel better to feel worse.

Maybe I am a phantom.
I hadn't thought of that.
Just an old weary ghost
with an invisible hat.
 - Hans Ostrom



Monday, May 28
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"Sometimes I muse about how wonderful it would be if I could string all my dreams together into one continuous life, a life consisting of entire days full of imaginary companions and created people, a false life which I could live and suffer and enjoy. Misfortune would sometimes strike me there, and there I would also experience great joys. And nothing about me would be real. But everything would have a sublime logic; it would all pulse to a rhythm of sensual falseness, taking place in a city built out of my soul and extending all the way to the platform next to an idle train, far away in the distance within me. And it would all be vivid and inevitable, as in the outer life, but with an aesthetics of the Dying Sun."
 - Fernando Pessoa
The Book of Disquiet



Sunday, May 27
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"Last night I had the strangest dream. I was in a laboratory with Dr. Boas and he was talking to me and a group of other people about religion, insisting that life must have a meaning, that man couldn't live without that. Then he made a mass of jelly-like stuff of the most beautiful blue I had ever seen - and he seemed to be asking us all what to do with it. I remember thinking it was very beautiful but wondering helplessly what it was for. People came and went making absurd suggestions. Somehow Dr. Boas tried to carry them out - but always the people went away angry, or disappointed - and finally after we'd been up all night they had all disappeared and there were just the two of us. He looked at me and said, appealingly "Touch it." I took some of the astonishingly blue beauty in my hand, and felt with a great thrill that it was living matter. I said "Why it's life - and that's enough" - and he looked so pleased that I had found the answer - and said yes "It's life and that is wonder enough."
 - Virginia Woolf
brain pickings



Saturday, May 26
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"But some of us awake in the night with strange phantasms of enchanted hills and gardens, of fountains that sing in the sun, of golden cliffs overhanging murmuring seas, of plains that stretch down to sleeping cities of bronze and stone, and of shadowy companies of heroes that ride caparisoned white horses along the edges of thick forests; and then we know that we have looked back through the ivory gates into that world of wonder which was ours before we were wise and unhappy."
 - H. P. Lovecraft









  • ". . . as I have said often enough, I write for myself in multiplicate,
    a not unfamiliar phenomenon on the horizon of shimmering deserts."
    - Vladimir Nabokov