There's a man
on a rock
in a vaccuum
with hard cock
and naked heart
he has no future
he has no past
he just wants to love
There's a man
in a world
of pure perception
synapses that know you
eyes that devour
he is your mirror
he is your blank slate
he just wants to love
There's a man
consecrating your name
calling you home
fanning your flame
making you free
he has no plan
he seeks your song
he just wants to love
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Sunday, June 9, 2013
rise
Rise above rocket's glare, rise above tribal stare
Rise above mythological bind, rise above archetypal mind
Rise above silver screen, rise above socio-machine
Rise above parent's dream, immerse in your primal stream
Rise above the joneses, dig inside them boneses
Rise above your wall, free the fear in all
Rise above your idea
of another's idea
of another's idea
of another's idea...
Rise above mythological bind, rise above archetypal mind
Rise above silver screen, rise above socio-machine
Rise above parent's dream, immerse in your primal stream
Rise above the joneses, dig inside them boneses
Rise above your wall, free the fear in all
Rise above your idea
of another's idea
of another's idea
of another's idea...
Saturday, June 8, 2013
"The Break-Up"
-directed by Peyton Reed
2006
This Jennifer Aniston/Vince Vaughn dramedy has a nice premise – instead of ending with boy and girl finally together, it dispenses with all that by the end of the opening titles, and proceeds to the falling apart. Bravo! Now, i’m about to knock this film hugely. I wouldn’t do that if i didn’t have a little respect for it - the creators are not idiots, and they genuinely tried to make a non-idiotic film. But future generations might hold this film up as a crystallization of how our society is so painfully, horrifically dysfunctional with sex and romance. The film's fatal flaw is taking the easy way out – instead of rendering the relationship in realistic shades of grey, they turn Vaughn into a cliché. He’s so irredeemably selfish (and to his charming credit, he almost makes it believable), the only possible resolve is a transformation of his inability to open up to her – which isn’t ridiculous in and of itself, but it takes a complicated issue and turns it into cookie-cutter pop psychology. Beyond that, watching these two fall apart has an utter inevitability to it, when perceived with a clear eye on human nature. No two humans could endure these kinds of stresses without love turning into something like hate (in that respect, the film is quite realistic). The two of them live together - in scene after scene, the door shuts with them alone in their gilded cage. Their mutual isolation is almost visceral…and in an environment like that, OF COURSE the things that annoy each other get magnified a million times. OF COURSE they break up – anyone would, and that should be the message of the movie. In a society that had any sense, these two would never be allowed to have almost ALL of their self-worth defined by each other, with almost no escape from the presence of each other. But that’s who we are, that’s what we do. The only other thing worth mentioning is the luminous talent of John Michael Higgins (BEST IN SHOW, A MIGHTY WIND). The original ending was a performance of “The Rainbow Connection”, by his character’s a capella group. Higgins arranged it himself. It’s pure brilliance.
2006
This Jennifer Aniston/Vince Vaughn dramedy has a nice premise – instead of ending with boy and girl finally together, it dispenses with all that by the end of the opening titles, and proceeds to the falling apart. Bravo! Now, i’m about to knock this film hugely. I wouldn’t do that if i didn’t have a little respect for it - the creators are not idiots, and they genuinely tried to make a non-idiotic film. But future generations might hold this film up as a crystallization of how our society is so painfully, horrifically dysfunctional with sex and romance. The film's fatal flaw is taking the easy way out – instead of rendering the relationship in realistic shades of grey, they turn Vaughn into a cliché. He’s so irredeemably selfish (and to his charming credit, he almost makes it believable), the only possible resolve is a transformation of his inability to open up to her – which isn’t ridiculous in and of itself, but it takes a complicated issue and turns it into cookie-cutter pop psychology. Beyond that, watching these two fall apart has an utter inevitability to it, when perceived with a clear eye on human nature. No two humans could endure these kinds of stresses without love turning into something like hate (in that respect, the film is quite realistic). The two of them live together - in scene after scene, the door shuts with them alone in their gilded cage. Their mutual isolation is almost visceral…and in an environment like that, OF COURSE the things that annoy each other get magnified a million times. OF COURSE they break up – anyone would, and that should be the message of the movie. In a society that had any sense, these two would never be allowed to have almost ALL of their self-worth defined by each other, with almost no escape from the presence of each other. But that’s who we are, that’s what we do. The only other thing worth mentioning is the luminous talent of John Michael Higgins (BEST IN SHOW, A MIGHTY WIND). The original ending was a performance of “The Rainbow Connection”, by his character’s a capella group. Higgins arranged it himself. It’s pure brilliance.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
floridyllic...
Sand, mangroves, water, warmth...
I must be on the Gulf of Mexico.
After a decade in the concrete jungle and a spiritual journey that left me too emotionally vulnerable for my own good, i come to Estero Island for healing. Battered, hypersensitive to my own pain and the loneliness, anger, and fear that emanates from all those around us...undertouched, underloved, and in a mild depression...i come to this familiar shore.
Before going to Nuevo York, i lived in these semi-tropical parts for eight years. I took care of my grandmother, became a working actor, and founded a couple edgy theaters.
By beautiful chance, i'm in the very same little apartment in which i last lived. On a canal, 150 feet from the beach. In the home of two dear friends who went north for the summer shortly after i arrived, i now keep company with a brimming host of fauna. On any given day, you might meet lizards, pelicans, ibis, heron, egret, seagulls, crows, and squirrels. Possibly a snake. A crab on the dock. The occasional periplaneta americana. A two-foot iguana. Or Norman, the baby osprey! He and his mother share a nest here...you should see him wiggle his head at me.
I trim trees. I eat the coconuts that thud startlingly to the ground. I spend more of my life naked, than not. The rainy season has arrived, and when the storms whip in, you might find me on top of the third floor roof. Most days, i walk out to the beach to drink in the lithium sunset.
Such beauty. Such peace.
In the interest of full disclosure, i should also mention that this island is, by any reasonable standard, "overdeveloped"...which is probably what anyone in this country not in the "1%" can expect. When's that non-violent revolution coming? Estero Island might also laughingly (and with truth) be named "Booze Beach"...the #1 local diversion is varying levels of self-medicating inebriation.
How is my new home different? In New York, i got called "young man" once or twice a year - here, once or twice a week. In Florida, they don't wear bike helmets or underwear. I embraced one of these changes the very first day, the other i still resist.
Not everything is perfect...the person i most dreamed of when i came here, with whom i imagined finally reaping the fruits of full friendship i'd been carefully sowing for over a decade, is in a spiritual shambles. Turning to alcohol to escape from the misery of hormonal love addiction modified by the jealous possessiveness our society attaches to romance, she's incapable of offering me even the most simple human compassion. That same darkness is keeping her ex, another with whom i'd hoped to share all the comforts of friendship, in anti-social squalor as well.
But i'm breathing. Alive.
On most days, i no longer feel the stress-related stomach unease that has been my companion for many months. In truth, a tiny part of me had wondered whether i were coming here to die. Whether the genie i had let out of the bottle could never be returned.
But even in the midst of crashing disappointment, i've learned something immeasurably important. Living with my zombie-like friend for a week, so close to hope i could touch it, my sleep became markedly restored from the interruption and insomnia of the past year.
Healing is possible...for me anyway.
I know the barrier that stands between anyone and true health, in this broken society. After food and shelter, our most basic needs are love, touch, and laughter. In this society, all you'll find are negotiation, personal space...and laughter.
That laughter will be lacking in quantity, however, and colored by our deprivations.
But desperate laughter is better than none at all.
Bad touch is better than none at all.
And the hope for love is almost as powerful as the real thing.
There is hope. For me, and for all of us.
Norman thinks so, too.
I must be on the Gulf of Mexico.
After a decade in the concrete jungle and a spiritual journey that left me too emotionally vulnerable for my own good, i come to Estero Island for healing. Battered, hypersensitive to my own pain and the loneliness, anger, and fear that emanates from all those around us...undertouched, underloved, and in a mild depression...i come to this familiar shore.
Before going to Nuevo York, i lived in these semi-tropical parts for eight years. I took care of my grandmother, became a working actor, and founded a couple edgy theaters.
By beautiful chance, i'm in the very same little apartment in which i last lived. On a canal, 150 feet from the beach. In the home of two dear friends who went north for the summer shortly after i arrived, i now keep company with a brimming host of fauna. On any given day, you might meet lizards, pelicans, ibis, heron, egret, seagulls, crows, and squirrels. Possibly a snake. A crab on the dock. The occasional periplaneta americana. A two-foot iguana. Or Norman, the baby osprey! He and his mother share a nest here...you should see him wiggle his head at me.
I trim trees. I eat the coconuts that thud startlingly to the ground. I spend more of my life naked, than not. The rainy season has arrived, and when the storms whip in, you might find me on top of the third floor roof. Most days, i walk out to the beach to drink in the lithium sunset.
Such beauty. Such peace.
In the interest of full disclosure, i should also mention that this island is, by any reasonable standard, "overdeveloped"...which is probably what anyone in this country not in the "1%" can expect. When's that non-violent revolution coming? Estero Island might also laughingly (and with truth) be named "Booze Beach"...the #1 local diversion is varying levels of self-medicating inebriation.
How is my new home different? In New York, i got called "young man" once or twice a year - here, once or twice a week. In Florida, they don't wear bike helmets or underwear. I embraced one of these changes the very first day, the other i still resist.
Not everything is perfect...the person i most dreamed of when i came here, with whom i imagined finally reaping the fruits of full friendship i'd been carefully sowing for over a decade, is in a spiritual shambles. Turning to alcohol to escape from the misery of hormonal love addiction modified by the jealous possessiveness our society attaches to romance, she's incapable of offering me even the most simple human compassion. That same darkness is keeping her ex, another with whom i'd hoped to share all the comforts of friendship, in anti-social squalor as well.
But i'm breathing. Alive.
On most days, i no longer feel the stress-related stomach unease that has been my companion for many months. In truth, a tiny part of me had wondered whether i were coming here to die. Whether the genie i had let out of the bottle could never be returned.
But even in the midst of crashing disappointment, i've learned something immeasurably important. Living with my zombie-like friend for a week, so close to hope i could touch it, my sleep became markedly restored from the interruption and insomnia of the past year.
Healing is possible...for me anyway.
I know the barrier that stands between anyone and true health, in this broken society. After food and shelter, our most basic needs are love, touch, and laughter. In this society, all you'll find are negotiation, personal space...and laughter.
That laughter will be lacking in quantity, however, and colored by our deprivations.
But desperate laughter is better than none at all.
Bad touch is better than none at all.
And the hope for love is almost as powerful as the real thing.
There is hope. For me, and for all of us.
Norman thinks so, too.
"Caprica"
2009-2010
This prequel to the 2004 reboot of BSG didn't survive into a second season. And it's understandable why - for a long stretch, the show loses its sharpness. Set fifty years prior, the main characters are daniel graystone (eric stoltz - MASK, PULP FICTION), a caprican scientist whose company invents the cylons, and joseph adama (esai morales - LA BAMBA, NYPD BLUE), a tauron lawyer, and father of william adama. The acting is fine, the visuals delightful. Genre fans will love the appearances by lesser BSG alum, plus teryl rothery (STARGATE SG-1), james marsters (BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER), and christopher heyerdahl (STARGATE: ATLANTIS). The show finally pulls out of its mid-season mush with something approximating a vengeance - watching the first five and last five episodes might leave you irked at yet another bungling network axe job.
This prequel to the 2004 reboot of BSG didn't survive into a second season. And it's understandable why - for a long stretch, the show loses its sharpness. Set fifty years prior, the main characters are daniel graystone (eric stoltz - MASK, PULP FICTION), a caprican scientist whose company invents the cylons, and joseph adama (esai morales - LA BAMBA, NYPD BLUE), a tauron lawyer, and father of william adama. The acting is fine, the visuals delightful. Genre fans will love the appearances by lesser BSG alum, plus teryl rothery (STARGATE SG-1), james marsters (BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER), and christopher heyerdahl (STARGATE: ATLANTIS). The show finally pulls out of its mid-season mush with something approximating a vengeance - watching the first five and last five episodes might leave you irked at yet another bungling network axe job.
Sunday, May 26, 2013
you are men
If she calls to you, go
Never a reason to say no
Love her so well she cries
If she sends you away
turn about without delay
Love her so well she cries
If she proffers an avenue
that can only end bad for you
Love her so well she cries
If she tells you to play ukulele
while she takes it in each hole from los amigos three
Love her so well she cries
She's been wounded, you're a man
Drop your vanity, lose your plan
Love her so well she cries
Never a reason to say no
Love her so well she cries
If she sends you away
turn about without delay
Love her so well she cries
If she proffers an avenue
that can only end bad for you
Love her so well she cries
If she tells you to play ukulele
while she takes it in each hole from los amigos three
Love her so well she cries
She's been wounded, you're a man
Drop your vanity, lose your plan
Love her so well she cries
Thursday, May 23, 2013
two chairs with thoreau
“Be yourself - not your idea of what you think somebody else's idea of yourself should be.”
-henry david thoreau
On March 12th, i was the exact age thoreau was when he died.
Often when i relate this to someone, they'll assume i mean that thoreau was forty-four when he died, so on March 12th i turned forty-four?
No. Stick with me, we have a higher standard here. As i became aware i was nearing the age he died, i calculated how many years, months, weeks, and days old he was his life ended. I then calculated on which date i would be that age. I'd never been to Walden Pond, and realized there could never be a more pilgrimage-perfect moment. This was to be the second such commemoration of my life, the first being at the Dakota for john lennon (in that case, i even timed it down to the minute - http://nakedmeadow.blogspot.com/2008/07/mr-wheat.html). The prospect of a pilgrimage made me think this might become the second in a series - years ahead are jim henson, and decades ahead kurt vonnegut. Perhaps twain? Seuss?
-"If thy neighbor hail thee to inquire how goes the world, feel thyself put to thy trumps to return a true and explicit answer. Plant the feet firmly, and, will he nill he, dole out to him with strict and conscientious impartiality his modicum of a response."
I boarded a bus to Boston. A short commuter train ride further would find me in Concord. The pilgrimage was almost aborted when a metro worker with the best of intentions told me there was no way i could make it back in time for the return bus (this was the second time that day a public servant turned out to have no idea what they were talking about). Fortunately, i said "missed buses be damned".
-"Our charitable institutions are an insult to humanity. A charity which dispenses the crumbs that fall from its overloaded tables, which are left after its feasts!"
I arrived in Concord and set out for the pond on foot, having been told it would take half an hour or less. I soon realized that as a big city biker for the better part of a decade, i'd lost touch with the connectedness one feels when traveling by foot, a lesson that seemed particularly germane to the day's errand.
In the previous months, i'd read more thoreau than ever before (three weeks of attempting his journals were like swimming in congealing gelatin). For what it's worth, he's perhaps one of the few writers of whom you don't need to read any full book to appreciate - highlights and quotes might suffice. But the words of WALDEN swirled in my consciousness...i considered the possibility that i might arrive on the day the pond's ice started to break, creating the unearthly noises he described so compellingly (alas, i didn't).
As i neared the area, i realized that i would probably have as much solitude as i wished - the three or four small parking lots were almost entirely empty. I came to the visitor center/gift shop. Determined to not be a cynical poop (until such should be merited), i went in. I had a genial conversation with the clerk, who assured me he'd never heard of a pilgrimage timed in such a way as mine. I looked through the discount T-shirt rack, mostly because i wanted to leave the conservancy some monetary token. I had a quiet (or perhaps not so quiet) chuckle at the unintentional irony in the vending of a shirt that reads "Beware of any enterprise that requires a change of clothes".
-“There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root.”
I continued on.
The pond was larger than i'd imagined. I surmised i might be pressed to get back to Boston on time if i walked the circumference...but again knew which choice was the right one.
-"All this worldly wisdom was once the unamiable heresy of some wise man."
The ice had thawed enough to leave a two-foot gap around the edge. I dipped my hands in. So beautiful. I'd been nervous about that, knowing that the pond had become quite polluted before a reclamation project in the 90s. I didn't imagine it would ever again be as henry knew it...water more than a hundred feet deep so clear you could see the bottom in almost every part...but it was humbling to know how well the curators had done their work. In the one area of deeper visibility i found, the clarity was unlike any pond i'd ever seen.
-“Take long walks in stormy weather or through deep snows in the fields and woods, if you would keep your spirits up."
There was still a blanket of snow through the woods. As i followed the several-mile trail, i met only seven or so strangers, most at the very end. The cabin area itself was beautifully done, a testament to simplicity. There was no reconstruction, simply concrete blocks outlining the area, plus a commemorative pile of small stones brought by pilgrims.
In an unintentional coincidence, my own new little home is almost exactly the size of the cabin - with exactly the same number of chairs.
-“I had three chairs in my house; one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.”
Lost in serenity and the simplicity of being, it was a day for silence. Henry would have approved. When i finally turned to leave the pond, i passed two women who were merrily singing in some foreign tongue. He would have liked that too, immeasurably more than any conclave of babbling brainiacs. There was no more perfect sound to him than a bird in song.
-"I have just been through the process of killing the cistudo (tortoise) for the sake of science; but i cannot excuse myself for this murder, and see that such actions are inconsistent with the poetic perception, however they may serve science, and will affect the quality of my observations. I pray that I may walk more innocently and serenely through nature. No reasoning whatever reconciles me to this act. It affects my day injuriously. I have lost some self-respect. I have a murderer's experience in a degree."
When i was a youth, thoreau's words touched me deeply. It might be hard to overstate how much his thoughts on living simply and civil disobedience informed the person i was becoming. In revisiting his words, there is no shortage of examples in which my life has been an extension of his. Also obvious is how his own life had been an extension of eastern philosophy. When i finally sat on a very late bus back to New York, it occurred to me that my life might be held up as one of the most thoreauvian you'll ever meet. I even imagined participating in a worldwide most-alike contest. That last thought might be a conceit that wouldn't bear too much scrutiny. There are certainly areas in which henry and i diverge...his journey into transcendentalism little resembles my secular exploration of human barbarity. Yet in terms of manifesting his essential message on how one ought live...the embrace of authenticity, the rejection of materialism...even life details and words of his that i'd never encountered to as a youth, are often an almost ridiculously-accurate mirror of who i am.
Of course, henry himself said that we only learn that which we already half-know.
-"Perhaps I am more than usually jealous of my freedom. I feel that my connections with and obligations to society are at present very slight and transient. Those slight labors which afford me a livelihood, and by which I am serviceable to my contemporaries, are as yet a pleasure to me, and I am not often reminded that they are a necessity. So far I am successful, and only he is successful in his business who makes that pursuit which affords the highest pleasure sustain him. But i foresee that if my wants should become much increased the labor required to supply them would become a drudgery. If I should sell both my forenoons and afternoons to society, neglecting my peculiar calling, there would be nothing left worth living for. I trust that i shall never thus sell my birthright for a mess of pottage."
So today, i've collected for you the fruits of my return to those words that once filled my youthful spirit with longing and purpose. Quotes that either moved me then, or would have. Very occasionally, words trigger some deep, elemental recognition. This ultimately, is the greatest gift a writer can offer.
This ultimately, is the only reason a writer ought write.
-"How many there are who advise you to print! How few who advise you to lead a more interior life! In the one case there is all the world to advise you, in the other there is none to advise you but yourself. Nobody ever advised me not to print but myself. The public persuade the author to print, as the meadow invites the brook to fall into it. Only he can be trusted with gifts who can present a face of bronze to expectation."
Thank you, henry david.
-henry david thoreau
On March 12th, i was the exact age thoreau was when he died.
Often when i relate this to someone, they'll assume i mean that thoreau was forty-four when he died, so on March 12th i turned forty-four?
No. Stick with me, we have a higher standard here. As i became aware i was nearing the age he died, i calculated how many years, months, weeks, and days old he was his life ended. I then calculated on which date i would be that age. I'd never been to Walden Pond, and realized there could never be a more pilgrimage-perfect moment. This was to be the second such commemoration of my life, the first being at the Dakota for john lennon (in that case, i even timed it down to the minute - http://nakedmeadow.blogspot.com/2008/07/mr-wheat.html). The prospect of a pilgrimage made me think this might become the second in a series - years ahead are jim henson, and decades ahead kurt vonnegut. Perhaps twain? Seuss?
-"If thy neighbor hail thee to inquire how goes the world, feel thyself put to thy trumps to return a true and explicit answer. Plant the feet firmly, and, will he nill he, dole out to him with strict and conscientious impartiality his modicum of a response."
I boarded a bus to Boston. A short commuter train ride further would find me in Concord. The pilgrimage was almost aborted when a metro worker with the best of intentions told me there was no way i could make it back in time for the return bus (this was the second time that day a public servant turned out to have no idea what they were talking about). Fortunately, i said "missed buses be damned".
-"Our charitable institutions are an insult to humanity. A charity which dispenses the crumbs that fall from its overloaded tables, which are left after its feasts!"
I arrived in Concord and set out for the pond on foot, having been told it would take half an hour or less. I soon realized that as a big city biker for the better part of a decade, i'd lost touch with the connectedness one feels when traveling by foot, a lesson that seemed particularly germane to the day's errand.
In the previous months, i'd read more thoreau than ever before (three weeks of attempting his journals were like swimming in congealing gelatin). For what it's worth, he's perhaps one of the few writers of whom you don't need to read any full book to appreciate - highlights and quotes might suffice. But the words of WALDEN swirled in my consciousness...i considered the possibility that i might arrive on the day the pond's ice started to break, creating the unearthly noises he described so compellingly (alas, i didn't).
As i neared the area, i realized that i would probably have as much solitude as i wished - the three or four small parking lots were almost entirely empty. I came to the visitor center/gift shop. Determined to not be a cynical poop (until such should be merited), i went in. I had a genial conversation with the clerk, who assured me he'd never heard of a pilgrimage timed in such a way as mine. I looked through the discount T-shirt rack, mostly because i wanted to leave the conservancy some monetary token. I had a quiet (or perhaps not so quiet) chuckle at the unintentional irony in the vending of a shirt that reads "Beware of any enterprise that requires a change of clothes".
-“There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root.”
I continued on.
The pond was larger than i'd imagined. I surmised i might be pressed to get back to Boston on time if i walked the circumference...but again knew which choice was the right one.
-"All this worldly wisdom was once the unamiable heresy of some wise man."
The ice had thawed enough to leave a two-foot gap around the edge. I dipped my hands in. So beautiful. I'd been nervous about that, knowing that the pond had become quite polluted before a reclamation project in the 90s. I didn't imagine it would ever again be as henry knew it...water more than a hundred feet deep so clear you could see the bottom in almost every part...but it was humbling to know how well the curators had done their work. In the one area of deeper visibility i found, the clarity was unlike any pond i'd ever seen.
-“Take long walks in stormy weather or through deep snows in the fields and woods, if you would keep your spirits up."
There was still a blanket of snow through the woods. As i followed the several-mile trail, i met only seven or so strangers, most at the very end. The cabin area itself was beautifully done, a testament to simplicity. There was no reconstruction, simply concrete blocks outlining the area, plus a commemorative pile of small stones brought by pilgrims.
In an unintentional coincidence, my own new little home is almost exactly the size of the cabin - with exactly the same number of chairs.
-“I had three chairs in my house; one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.”
Lost in serenity and the simplicity of being, it was a day for silence. Henry would have approved. When i finally turned to leave the pond, i passed two women who were merrily singing in some foreign tongue. He would have liked that too, immeasurably more than any conclave of babbling brainiacs. There was no more perfect sound to him than a bird in song.
-"I have just been through the process of killing the cistudo (tortoise) for the sake of science; but i cannot excuse myself for this murder, and see that such actions are inconsistent with the poetic perception, however they may serve science, and will affect the quality of my observations. I pray that I may walk more innocently and serenely through nature. No reasoning whatever reconciles me to this act. It affects my day injuriously. I have lost some self-respect. I have a murderer's experience in a degree."
When i was a youth, thoreau's words touched me deeply. It might be hard to overstate how much his thoughts on living simply and civil disobedience informed the person i was becoming. In revisiting his words, there is no shortage of examples in which my life has been an extension of his. Also obvious is how his own life had been an extension of eastern philosophy. When i finally sat on a very late bus back to New York, it occurred to me that my life might be held up as one of the most thoreauvian you'll ever meet. I even imagined participating in a worldwide most-alike contest. That last thought might be a conceit that wouldn't bear too much scrutiny. There are certainly areas in which henry and i diverge...his journey into transcendentalism little resembles my secular exploration of human barbarity. Yet in terms of manifesting his essential message on how one ought live...the embrace of authenticity, the rejection of materialism...even life details and words of his that i'd never encountered to as a youth, are often an almost ridiculously-accurate mirror of who i am.
Of course, henry himself said that we only learn that which we already half-know.
-"Perhaps I am more than usually jealous of my freedom. I feel that my connections with and obligations to society are at present very slight and transient. Those slight labors which afford me a livelihood, and by which I am serviceable to my contemporaries, are as yet a pleasure to me, and I am not often reminded that they are a necessity. So far I am successful, and only he is successful in his business who makes that pursuit which affords the highest pleasure sustain him. But i foresee that if my wants should become much increased the labor required to supply them would become a drudgery. If I should sell both my forenoons and afternoons to society, neglecting my peculiar calling, there would be nothing left worth living for. I trust that i shall never thus sell my birthright for a mess of pottage."
So today, i've collected for you the fruits of my return to those words that once filled my youthful spirit with longing and purpose. Quotes that either moved me then, or would have. Very occasionally, words trigger some deep, elemental recognition. This ultimately, is the greatest gift a writer can offer.
This ultimately, is the only reason a writer ought write.
-"How many there are who advise you to print! How few who advise you to lead a more interior life! In the one case there is all the world to advise you, in the other there is none to advise you but yourself. Nobody ever advised me not to print but myself. The public persuade the author to print, as the meadow invites the brook to fall into it. Only he can be trusted with gifts who can present a face of bronze to expectation."
Thank you, henry david.
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