Jonathan Carroll's Blog, page 32

CarrollBlog 7.19

Sometimes while I ride the subway I try to look at each person and imagine what they look like to someone who is totally in love with them. I think everyone has had someone look at them that way, whether it was a lover, or a parent, or a friend, whether they know it or not. It's a wonderful thing, to look at someone to whom I would never be attracted and think about what looking at them feels like to someone who is devouring every part of their image, who has invisible strings that are connected to this person tied to every part of their body. I think this fun pastime is a way of cultivating compassion. It feels good to think about people that way, and to use that part of my mind that I think is traditionally reserved for a tiny portion of people I'll meet in my life to appreciate the general public.

Dean Spade.

CarrollBlog 7.18

This is what I believe: That I am I. That my soul is a dark forest. That my known self will never be more than a little clearing in the forest. That gods, strange gods, come forth from the forest into the clearing of my known self, and then go back. That I must have the courage to let them come and go. That I will never let mankind put anything over me, but that I will try always to recognize and submit to the gods in me and the gods in other men and women. There is my creed.

D.H. Lawrence

CarrollBlog 7.15

Nasreddin and the Beggar (from RZ)

One day, Nasreddin was up on the roof of his house, mending a hole in the tiles. He had nearly finished, and he was pleased with his work. Suddenly, he heard a voice below call "Hello!" When he looked down, Nasreddin saw an old man in dirty clothes standing below.

"What do you want?" asked Nasreddin.

"Come down a...nd I'll tell you," called the man.

Nasreddin was annoyed, but he was a polite man, so he put down his tools. Carefully, he climbed all the way down to the ground.

"What do you want?" he asked, when he reached the ground.

"Could you spare a little money for an old beggar?" asked the old man. Nasreddin thought for a minute.

Then he said, "Come with me." He began climbing the ladder again. The old man followed him all the way to the top. When they were both sitting on the roof, Nasreddin turned to the beggar.

"No," he said.

CarrollBlog 7.14

A Little Bit About the Soul

By WisŁawa Szymborska

Translated by Joanna Trzeciak

A soul is something we have every now and then.

Nobody has one all the time

or forever.

Day after day,

year after year,

can go by without one.

Only sometimes in rapture

or in the fears of childhood

it nests a little longer.

Only sometimes in the wonderment

that we are old.

It rarely assists us

during tiresome tasks,

such as moving furniture,

carrying suitcases,

or traveling on foot in shoes too tight.

When we're filling out questionnaires

or chopping meat

it's usually given time off.

Out of our thousand conversations

it participates in one,

and even that isn't a given,

for it prefers silence.

When the body starts to ache and ache

it quietly steals from its post.

It's choosy:

not happy to see us in crowds,

sickened by our struggle for any old advantage

and the drone of business dealings.

It doesn't see joy and sorrow

as two different feelings.

It is with us

only in their union.

We can count on it

when we're not sure of anything

and curious about everything.

Of all material objects

it likes grandfather clocks

and mirrors, which work diligently

even when no one is looking.

It doesn't state where it comes from

or when it will vanish again,

but clearly it awaits such questions.

Evidently,

just as we need it,

it can also use us

for something.

CarrollBlog 7.11

We all need someone to look at us. We can be divided into four categories according to the kind of look we wish to live under. The first category longs for the look of an infinite number of anonymous eyes, in other words, for the look of the public. The second category is made up of people who have a vital need to be looked at by many known eyes. They are the tireless hosts of cocktail parties and dinners. They are happier than the people in the first category, who, when they lose their public, have the feeling that the lights have gone out in the room of their lives. This happens to nearly all of them sooner or later. People in the second category, on the other hand, can always come up with the eyes they need. Then there is the third category, the category of people who need to be constantly before the eyes of the person they love. Their situation is as dangerous as the situation of people in the first category. One day the eyes of their beloved will close, and the room will go dark. And finally there is the fourth category, the rarest, the category of people who live in the imaginary eyes of those who are not present. They are the dreamers.

Milan Kundera

CarrollBlog 7.8

"You want to know what happiness is? It's waking up in the middle of the night for no reason, shifting under the blankets and feeling the heat of the person next to you. You turn around and see them in their most peaceful, innocent, and vulnerable state. They breathe as though the weight of the world lays on anyone's shoulder but their own. You smile and kiss their face gently before turning back around and somehow, an involuntary grin forms on your face. Just before you drift off to sleep, you feel an arm wrap around your waist and you know it doesn't get any better than this."

source unknown

CarrollBlog 7.6

We are wrapped around each other

in the back of my father's car parked

in the empty lot of the high school

of our failures, sweat on her neck

like oil. The next morning I would leave

for the war and I thought I had something

coming for that, I thought to myself

that I would not die never having

been inside her body. I lifted

her skirt above her waist like an umbrella

blown inside out by the storm. I pulled

her cotton panties up as high

as she could stand. I was on fire. Heaven

was in sight. We were drowning

on our tongues and I tried

to tear my pants off when she stopped

so suddenly we were surrounded

only by my shuddering

and by the school bells

grinding in the empty halls.

She reached to find something,

a silver crucifix on a silver chain,

the tiny savior's head

hanging, and stakes through his hands and his feet.

She put it around my neck and held me

so long my heart's black wings were calmed.

We are not always right

about what we think will save us.

I thought that dragging the angel down that night

would save me, but I carried the crucifix in my pocket

and rubbed it on my face and lips

nights the rockets roared in.

People die sometimes so near you,

you feel them struggling to cross over,

the deep untangling, of one body from another.

Bruce Weigl

CarrollBlog 7.5

THE TWO TIMES I LOVED YOU THE MOST IN A CAR

by Dorothea Grossman

It was your idea

to park and watch the elephants

swaying among the trees

like royalty

at that make-believe safari

near Laguna.

I didn't know anything that big

could be so quiet.

And once, you stopped

on a dark desert road

to show me the stars

climbing over each other

riotously

like insects

like an orchestra

thrashing its way

through time itself

I never saw light that way

again.

CarrollBlog 7.4

"I love things with a wild passion, extravagantly. I cherish tongs, and scissors; I adore cups, hoops, soup turrents, not to mention of course- the hat. I love all things, not only the grand, but also the infinitely small: the thimble, spurs, dishes, vases. Oh, my soul, the planet is radiant, teeming with pipes in hand, conductors of smoke; with keys, saltshakers, and well, things crafted by the human hand, everything- the curve of a shoe, fabric, the new bloodless birth of gold, the eyeglasses, nails, brooms, watches, compasses, coins, the silken plushness of chairs. Oh humans have constructed a multitude of pure things: objects of wood, crystal, cord, wondrous tables, ships, staircases. I love all things, not because they might be warm or fragrant, but rather because- I don't know why, because this ocean is yours, and mine: the buttons, the wheels, the little forgotten treasures, the fans of feathery love spreading orange blossoms, the cups, the knives, the shears, everything rests in the handle, the contour, the traces of fingers, of a remote hand lost in the most forgotten regions of the ordinary obscured. I pass through houses, streets, elevators, touching things; I glimpse objects and secretly desire something because it chimes, and something else because, because it is as yielding as gentle hips, something else I adore for its deepwater hue, something else for its velvety depths. Oh irrevocable river of things. People will not say that I only loved fish or plants of the rain forest or meadow, that I only loved things that leap, rise, sigh, and survive. It is not true: many things gave me completeness. They did not only touch me. My hand did not merely touch them, but rather, they befriended my existence in such a way that with me, they indeed existed, and they were for me so full of life, and they lived with me half-alive, and they will die with me half-dead."

Pablo Neruda

CarrollBlog 7.2

Ode to the Present

by Pablo Neruda

This present moment,

smooth

as a wooden slab,

this

immaculate hour,

this day

pure

as a new cup

from the past--

no spider web

exists--

with our fingers,

we caress

the present;

we cut it

according to our magnitude

we guide

the unfolding of its blossoms.

It is living,

alive--

it contains

nothing

from the unrepairable past,

from the lost past,

it is our

infant,

growing at

this very moment, adorned with

sand, eating from

our hands.

Grab it.

Don't let it slip away.

Don't lose it in dreams

or words.

Clutch it.

Tie it,

and order it

to obey you.

Make it a road,

a bell,

a machine,

a kiss, a book,

a caress.

Take a saw to its delicious

wooden

perfume.

And make a chair;

braid its

back;

test it.

Or then, build

a staircase!

Yes, a

staircase.

Climb

into

the present,

step

by step,

press your feet

onto the resinous wood

of this moment,

going up,

going up,

not very high,

just so

you repair

the leaky roof.

Don't go all the way to heaven.

Reach

for apples,

not the clouds.

Let them

fluff through the sky,

skimming passage,

into the past.

You

are

your present,

your own apple.

Pick it from

your tree.

Raise it

in your hand.

It's gleaming,

rich with stars.

Claim it.

Take a luxurious bite

out of the present,

and whistle along the road

of your destiny.