.MUNIMUNI NG IBANG TAO, ATBP.

those who can play with words are meant to be read and reread.

"Human child," said the Lion, "Where is the boy?"
"He fell over the cliff," said Jill, and added, "Sir." She didn't know what else to call him, and it sounded cheek to call him nothing.
"How did he come to do that, Human Child?"
"He was trying to stop me from falling, Sir."
"Why were you so near the edge, Human Child?"
"I was showing off, Sir."
"That is a very good answer, Human Child. Do so no more."
C.S. Lewis, The Silver Chair (558)

Thursday, June 30, 2005

The Writing Salon

Not your usual source of insights, but regardless of its objective, this piece has a lot of moments that tug at the heart. The Writing Salon in Boracay Press Release (Feature Article Style) shown in its entirety:

* * *


Cell phones, wireless laptops, Blackberrys, email, internet: Never have there been more ways to communicate, yet, with so many messages whizzing around and with information available at the touch of a button, why do so many people still feel so isolated?

"People yearn for deep, personal contact. They want to see what is said by the eyes, they want to sense the heart of an uttered phrase, they want to touch emotions, they want to smell the dishes of their childhood cooking on Grandma's stove, they want to taste the air that surrounds a treasured conversation," said renowned American poet James Navé, who is holding a writing retreat in Boracay in October.

In an age where voices are so easily drowned by the screeching pace of development, many people have turned to writing. One need only walk through bookshops or browse Amazon to see that the world is crying out to be heard. There are books on every subject imaginable, from the "Kitchen Soups" for my soul, childhood memoirs, alcoholics, shopaholics, workaholics, to the politics of money, how to become a millionaire and even the so-called fruitful lives of young celebrities famous at age 21. At no time in history has there been so much said, in so many volumes, and we aren't even counting the numbers of novels, short stories and poetry that never get printed for the public eye.

"Writing has become many things to many people - a creative outlet, a refuge, a channel of anger or sorrow, a means to express our wildest dreams, ideas or darkest mysteries," Navé said. But one thing is constant, that writing remains for the most part a solitary activity and the potential masterpieces, rough drafts, joys, frustrations and epiphanies are often left unshared.

That is, until now.

The Writing Salon, a collaboration between Navé and screenwriter and journalist Allegra Huston, of the illustrious Hollywood Huston clan, is making its way to our humble shores. The first Salon was held in Taos, New Mexico three years ago and in that time it has evolved into a cross-disciplinary writing adventure designed to energize, deepen, and extend one's practice. Navé describes the salon as a place "where people take the time to talk, to listen, to understand, to reflect, to write, to imagine, to eat, to sleep, to discover and to get to know each other."

Through years of dedication to the power of his pen and his inner voice, Navé has created a place that belongs to no one and everyone, where stories rise organically from a community of fellow writers interacting on multiple levels, all driven by the desire to engage and make form of stories.

Who comes to such an event? "Anybody who has a story to tell, which, of course, includes everybody," said Navé. "The Writing Salon is an old idea recycled for the 21st century, where `slow and easy' claim their place - a place of poetry, a place where what seems to be real is real, a place where people show up, a place where people write."

For four days, writers will meet twice a day for two-hour sessions. Various aspects of the writing process are explored, such as telling your own story, characterization, poetry writing, screenwriting and using your critical mind to shape and strengthen your work. The "Word Safari", Navé's signature brainstorming workshop, is a constant favorite. Navé begins his workshop with the following statement, "By the time you're finished today many of you will be so impressed with your rough drafts that you will want to read them in front of the class. Moreover, years later some of you will claim that today was the day you realized you could become a writer."

The success of the salon lies in the participants who attend them. As Allegra likes to point out at the beginning of each Salon, "We are not here to teach you, but to guide you… Writing is a continuous process, one that evolves and never ceases to surprise". The Salon held in Thailand earlier this year attracted professional writers as well as artists, a scientist, a filmmaker, ad executives and even a private banker.

When asked what she feels is The Writing Salon's biggest contribution to writers, Allegra said, "To give people that sense of power, that sense of possibility of connecting to their own creativity, which may be repressed or dormant, or simply unacknowledged because of fear or lack of confidence. To provide a time and place that gives people permission to write with no goal beyond just that."

The choice of Boracay as the venue for the first Philippine Salon is a natural one. According to Navé, a peaceful, inspiring setting is instrumental in "discovering voices in your writing that you've never heard before". Workshops will be held from October 6 to 9, at the boutique resort, Seawind. Guest faculty will include Carlos Celdran, beloved local Philippine artist famous for his offbeat and irreverent walking tours around Manila's historical sites.

The Salon fee is PHP28,000 inclusive of tuition, all lunches and a welcome dinner. Participants who sign up before 21st August, Ninoy Aquino day, qualify for the discounted rate of PHP24,000. For more information on The Writing Salon in Boracay, visit www.thewritingsalon.net or email info@thewritingsalon.net.

* * *

BIOS (Excerpts)
JAMES NAVE', Director

James Navé is one of the pioneers of the performance poetry movement in America...In 1995, Navé began working with the author Julia Cameron to develop creativity workshops based on her bestselling book The Artist's Way, which he subsequently taught across the U.S. He also teaches ideation to business people, working for companies including Pepsi, Frito-Lay, Adidas, and the pharmaceutical giant Baxter Industries. The Writing Salon, which Navé developed from decades of experience, is now in its third year.

The magic of poetry is alive in Navé's words. "It starts with the imaginative utterances in the poet's mind and continues, much as a musical score continues, long after the final draft. Poetry is meant to be read, memorized, published, put to music, and spoken out loud. Poetry is oxygen for the soul. Whenever a poets lifts a pen, the world is better off."

With over 600 poems memorized, Navé likes to tell the story of American poet Maxime Kumin, who says she memorizes poems so she'll have something to do in case she's taken prisoner by an invading army. "While it's unlikely Ms. Kumin will land in jail," he says, "it's fair to say that she, like the rest of us, will find her memorized pieces useful in times of solitude." When asked what writing means to him, Navé says, "Writing is where I find my center. The place where I tell my story. When I think of writing I think of a warm room in soul. It is the place where I stop and become anyone I want. I can drive a car through a waterfall or fill a grocery cart Almond Joys. Emotionally, it allows me the time to be silent and wait for my interior to connect flow."


ALLEGRA HUSTON, Director

Allegra Huston is a screenwriter, journalist, and book editor. After gaining a First Class degree in English Language and Literature from Oxford University she entered publishing, where she worked with authors including Iris Murdoch, Edna O'Brien, Robert Conquest, and Jane Goodall. From 1990-94 she was Editorial Director of the well-known literary house Weidenfeld & Nicolson, London.

Ask Allegra what positive feelings and emotions she associates with writing and she'll tell you, "A feeling of surprise, that's my favorite. When I write something and wonder where it came from. (There is) a sense of power entirely separate from ego."

And what does she most look forward to in her writing? "Time. Empty time."

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

drama in the ordinary

In his book "Make Me an Instrument of Your Peace," Kent Nerbum writes about his experience driving a cab for a living. He remembers one night in particular when he received a call at 2:30AM to go to a small brick fourplex. Thinking he was going to pick up some late night party goers or someone who had just had a fight with his or her spouse, he was surprised when a small woman in her eighties answered the door.

She wore a print dress and an old fashioned pillbox hat. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment was empty, except for a few pieces of furniture covered with sheets and a cardboard box filledwith photos and glassware. The driver picked up her bag and helped her to the cab. She gave him the address and then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"

"It's not the shortest way," he answered, "Oh, I don't mind," she said, "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice. I don't have any family left. The doctor says I don't have very long."

The driver reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you like me to go?"

For the next two hours, they drove through the city. She pointed out the building where she worked as an elevator operator, the house where she and her late husband lived as newlyweds, the furniture store that was once a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd ask to slow down in front of a particular building or corner, where she would just sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing. As dawn broke over the horizon, she said, "I'm tired. Let's go now."

They drove to the small house that served as the hospice. Two attendants came and helped her out of the cab and took her bag. She asked the driver how much she owed for the fare. "Nothing," he said "But you have to make a living," she insisted. "There are other passengers," he replied.

Almost without thinking, he bent over and gave her a hug. She held him lightly. "You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said."Thank you."

Then, in the dim morning light, he watched as she walked into the hospice.

Kent Nerbum remembers: "We are so conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware. When that woman hugged me and said that I brought her a moment of joy,it was possible to believe that I had been placed on earth for the sole purpose of providing her with that last ride. I do not think that I have done anything in my life more important."

The most
ordinary and mundane aspects of our lives, our day-to-day struggles to make a living and to make sense out of those struggles can become moments when the works of God are made visible through us.

Thursday, June 16, 2005

rilke on patience

To let each impression and each embryo of a feeling come to completion, entirely in itself, in the dark, in the unsayable, the unconscious, beyond the reach of one's own understanding, and with deep humility and patience to wait for the hour when a new clarity is born: this alone is what it means to live as an artist: in understanding as in creating.

Being an artist means: not numbering and counting, but ripening like a tree, which doesn't force its sap, and stands confidently in the storms of spring, not afraid that afterward summer may not come. It does come. But it comes only to those who are patient, who are there as if eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly silent and vast.

Letters to a Young Poet, 24

Sunday, June 12, 2005

ENGLISH IS TOUGH STUFF

Dearest creature in Creation
Study English pronunciation,
I will teach you in my verse;
Sounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse.
I will keep you Susy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy;
Tear in eye, your dress will tear,
So shall I! Oh, hear my prayer
Just compare heart, beard, and heard
Dies and diet, lord and word,
Sword and sward, retain and Britain,
(Mind the latter, how it’s written).

Now I surely will plague you
With such words as vague and ague,
But be careful how you speak,
Say break, steak, but bleak and streak.
Billet does not sound like ballet,
Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet,
Font, front, wont; want, grant, and grand.
Query does not rhyme with very,
Nor does fury sound like bury;
Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth
Job, jab, bosom, oath;

Though the difference seems little
We say actual but victual;
Refer doesn’t rhyme with “deafer”,
Foeffer does, and zephyr, heifer.
Compare alien with Italian,
Dandelion and battalion;
Sally with ally, yea, ye,
Eye, I, ay, whey, key, quay!
Say aver, but ever, fever,
Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver;
Heron, granary, canary,
Blood and flood are not like food,
Nor is mould like should and would.

And your pronunciation’s o.k.
When you correctly say croquet
Rounded, wounded; grieve and sleeve,
Friend and fiend; alive and live.
We say hallowed but allowed,
People, leopard; towed but vowed.
Mark the difference moreover,
Between mover, plover, Dover;
Leeches, breeches; wise, precise,
Chalice but police and lice.
Soul but foul, and gaunt but aunt,
Crevice and device and eyrie;
Face but preface, but efface.
Ear but earn and wear and tear,
Do not rhyme with “here” but “ere”

Seven is right but so is even,
Hyphen, roughen, nephew, Stephen;
Monkey, donkey, clerk and jerk,
Asp, grasp, wasp; and cork and work;
Pronunciation—think of psyche!
Is a paling stout and spikey?
Won’t it make you lose your wits,
Islington, and Isle of Wight,
Housewife, verdict and indict!
Finally, which rhymes with “enough”
Though, through, plough, cough, or tough?
Hiccough has the sound of “cup,”
My advice is—give it up!

Julia Cameron, "The Artist's Way"

What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters, compared to what lies within us.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
  • Creativity is the natural order of life. Life is energy: pure creative energy.
  • There is an underlying, in-dwelling creative force infusing all of life—including ourselves.
  • We are, ourselves, creations. And we, in turn, are meant to continue creativity by being creative ourselves.

New sense of self: increased autonomy, resilience, expectancy, excitement, POSSIBILITY!!
It is an encounter with your private villains, champions, triumphs, wishes, fears, dreams, hopes

YOUR TOOLS:
  • journal
    -longhand writing, strictly stream-of-consciousness
    -nothing is too petty, too silly
    -NO REREADING (for 8 weeks)
    -YES: worry, whine
    -just let yourself write
  • artist date
    -strictly ALONE time
    -once a week, do something you love

What is Love?

"When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You know that your name is safe in their mouth." - Billy -age 4

"Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other." Karl - age 5

"Love is what's in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening presents and listen." Bobby - age 5

"Love is when you tell a guy you like his shirt, then he wears it everyday." Noelle - age 7

"I know my older sister loves me because she gives me all her old clothes and has to go out and buy new ones." Lauren - age 4

"When you love somebody, your eyelashes go up and down and little stars come out of you." Karen - age 7

Joni Mitchell - some lyrics

A CASE OF YOU
Just before our love got lost you said,
"I am as constant as a northern star."
And I said, "Constantly in the darkness
Where's that at?
If you want me I'll be in the bar."
On the back of a cartoon coaster
In the blue TV screen light
I drew a map of Canada
Oh Canada
With your face sketched on it twice
Oh, you're in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you, darling
And I would still be on my feet
Oh I would still be on my feet

Oh I am a lonely painter
I live in a box of paints
I'm frightened by the devil
And I'm drawn to those ones that ain't afraid
I remember that time you told me, you said,
"Love is touching souls"
Surely you touched mine
'Cause part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time
Oh, you're in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you, darling
Still, I'd be on my feet
I would still be on my feet

I met a woman
She had a mouth like yours
She knew your life
She knew your devils and your deeds
And she said,
"Go to him, stay with him if you can
But be prepared to bleed"
Oh but you are in my blood
You're my holy wine
You're so bitter, bitter and so sweet
Oh, I could drink a case of you, darling
Still I'd be on my feet
I would still be on my feet


ALL I WANT
I am on a lonely road and I am traveling
Traveling, traveling, traveling
Looking for something, what can it be
Oh I hate you some, I hate you some
I love you some
Oh I love you when I forget about me
I want to be strong I want to laugh along
I want to belong to the living
Alive, alive, I want to get up and jive
I want to wreck my stockings in some juke box dive
Do you want - do you want - do you want
To dance with me baby
Do you want to take a chance
On maybe finding some sweet romance with me baby
Well, come on

All I really really want our love to do
Is to bring out the best in me and in you too
All I really really want our love to do
Is to bring out the best in me and in you
I want to talk to you, I want to shampoo you
I want to renew you again and again
Applause, applause - life is our cause
When I think of your kisses
My mind see-saws
Do you see - do you see - do you see
How you hurt me baby
So I hurt you too
Then we both get so blue

I am on a lonely road and I am traveling
Looking for the key to set me free
Oh the jealousy, the greed is the unraveling
It's the unraveling
And it undoes all the joy that could be
I want to have fun, I want to shine like the sun
I want to be the one that you want to see
I want to knit you a sweater
Want to write you a love letter
I want to make you feel better
I want to make you feel free
Hmm, Hmm, Hmm, Hmm,
Want to make you feel free
I want to make you feel free


BIG YELLOW TAXI

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
With a pink hotel, a boutique
And a swinging hot spot
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

They took all the trees
Put 'em in a tree museum
And they charged the people
A dollar and a half just to see 'em
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Hey farmer farmer
Put away that D.D.T. now
Give me spots on my apples
But leave me the birds and the bees
Please!
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Late last night
I heard the screen door slam
And a big yellow taxi
Took away my old man
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot



BLUE
Blue, songs are like tattoos
You know I've been to sea before
Crown and anchor me
Or let me sail away
Hey Blue, here is a song for you
Ink on a pin
Underneath the skin
An empty space to fill in
Well there're so many sinking now
You've got to keep thinking
You can make it thru these waves
Acid, booze, and ass
Needles, guns, and grass
Lots of laughs, lots of laughs
Everybody's saying that hell's the hippest way to go
Well I don't think so
But I'm gonna take a look around it though
Blue, I love you

Blue, here is a shell for you
Inside you'll hear a sigh
A foggy lullaby
There is your song from me


BOTH SIDES, NOW
Rows and floes of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons ev'rywhere
I've looked at clouds that way

But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on ev'ryone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all

Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As ev'ry fairy tale comes real
I've looked at love that way

But now it's just another show
You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away

I've looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall
I really don't know love at all

Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say "I love you" right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I've looked at life that way

But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained
In living ev'ry day

I've looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all
I've looked at life from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all

CALIFORNIA
Sitting in a park in Paris, France
Reading the news and it sure looks bad
They won't give peace a chance
That was just a dream some of us had
Still a lot of lands to see
But I wouldn't want to stay here
It's too old and cold and settled in its ways here
Oh, but California
California I'm coming home
I'm going to see the folks I dig
I'll even kiss a Sunset pig
California I'm coming home

I met a redneck on a Grecian isle
Who did the goat dance very well
He gave me back my smile
But he kept my camera to sell
Oh the rogue, the red red rogue
He cooked good omelettes and stews
And I might have stayed on with him there
But my heart cried out for you, California
Oh California I'm coming home
Oh make me feel good rock'n roll band
I'm your biggest fan
California, I'm coming home

CHORUS:

Oh it gets so lonely
When you're walking
And the streets are full of strangers
All the news of home you read
Just gives you the blues
Just gives you the blues

So I bought me a ticket
I caught a plane to Spain
Went to a party down a red dirt road
There were lots of pretty people there
Reading Rolling Stone, reading Vogue
They said, "How long can you hang around?"
I said "a week, maybe two,
Just until my skin turns brown
Then I'm going home to California"
California I'm coming home
Oh will you take me as I am
Strung out on another man
California I'm coming home

CHORUS:

Oh it gets so lonely
When you're walking
And the streets are full of strangers
All the news of home you read
More about the war
And the bloody changes
Oh will you take me as l am?
Will you take me as l am?
Will you?


CAREY
The wind is in from Africa
Last night I couldn't sleep
Oh, you know it sure is hard to leave here Carey
But it's really not my home
My fingernails are filthy, I got beach tar on my feet
And I miss my clean white linen and my fancy French cologne

Oh Carey get out your cane
And I'll put on some silver
Oh you're a mean old Daddy, but I like you fine

Come on down to the Mermaid Cafe and I will buy you a bottle of wine
And we'll laugh and toast to nothing and smash our empty glasses down
Let's have a round for these freaks and these soldiers
A round for these friends of mine
Let's have another round for the bright red devil
Who keeps me in this tourist town

Come on, Carey, get out your cane
I'll put on some silver
Oh you're a mean old Daddy, but I like you

Maybe I'll go to Amsterdam
Or maybe I'll go to Rome
And rent me a grand piano and put some flowers 'round my room
But let's not talk about fare-thee-welIs now
The night is a starry dome.
And they're playin' that scratchy rock and roll
Beneath the Matalla Moon

Come on, Carey, get out your cane
And I'll put on some silver
You're a mean old Daddy, but I like you

The wind is in from Africa
Last night I couldn't sleep
Oh, you know it sure is hard to leave here
But, it's really not my home
Maybe it's been too long a time
Since I was scramblin' down in the street
Now they got me used to that clean white linen
And that fancy French cologne

Oh Carey, get out your cane
I'll put on my finest silver
We'll go to the Mermaid Cafe
Have fun tonight
I said, Oh, you're a mean old Daddy, but you're out of sight



CHELSEA MORNING
Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning, and the first thing that I heard
Was a song outside my window, and the traffic wrote the words
It came a-reeling up like Christmas bells, and rapping up like pipes and drums

Oh, won't you stay
We'll put on the day
And we'll wear it 'till the night comes

Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning, and the first thing that I saw
Was the sun through yellow curtains, and a rainbow on the wall
Blue, red, green and gold to welcome you, crimson crystal beads to beckon

Oh, won't you stay
We'll put on the day
There's a sun show every second

Now the curtain opens on a portrait of today
And the streets are paved with passersby
And pigeons fly
And papers lie
Waiting to blow away

Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning, and the first thing that I knew
There was milk and toast and honey and a bowl of oranges, too
And the sun poured in like butterscotch and stuck to all my senses
Oh, won't you stay
We'll put on the day
And we'll talk in present tenses

When the curtain closes and the rainbow runs away
I will bring you incense owls by night
By candlelight
By jewel-light
If only you will stay
Pretty baby, won't you
Wake up, it's a Chelsea morning


COURT AND SPARK
Love came to my door
With a sleeping roll
And a madman's soul
He thought for sure I'd seen him
Dancing up a river in the dark
Looking for a woman
To court and spark

He was playing on the sidewalk
For passing change
When something strange happened
Glory train passed through him
So he buried the coins he made
In People's Park
And went looking for a woman
To court and spark

It seemed like he read my mind
He saw me mistrusting him
And still acting kind
He saw how I worried sometimes
I worry sometimes

"All the guilty people," he said
They've all seen the stain-
On their daily bread
On their christian names
I cleared myself
I sacrificed my blues
And you could complete me
I'd complete you

His eyes were the color of the sand
And the sea
And the more he talked to me
The more he reached me
But I couldn't let go of L.A.
City of the fallen angels


COYOTE
No regrets Coyote
We just come from such different sets of circumstance
I'm up all night in the studios
And you're up early on your ranch
You'll be brushing out a brood mare's tail
While the sun is ascending
And I'll just be getting home with my reel to reel...
There's no comprehending
Just how close to the bone and the skin and the eyes
And the lips you can get
And still feel so alone
And still feel related
Like stations in some relay
You're not a hit and run driver, no, no
Racing away
You just picked up a hitcher
A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway

We saw a farmhouse burning down
In the middle of nowhere
In the middle of the night
And we rolled right past that tragedy
Till we turned into some road house lights
Where a local band was playing
Locals were up kicking and shaking on the floor
And the next thing I know
That Coyote's at my door
He pins me in a corner and he won't take "No!"
He drags me out on the dance floor
And we're dancing close and slow
Now he's got a woman at home
He's got another woman down the hall
He seems to want me anyway
Why'd you have to get so drunk
And lead me on that way
You just picked up a hitcher
A prisoner of the white lines of the freeway

I looked a Coyote right in the face
On the road to Baljennie near my old home town
He went running thru the whisker wheat
Chasing some prize down
And a hawk was playing with him
Coyote was jumping straight up and making passes
He had those same eyes - just like yours
Under your dark glasses
Privately probing the public rooms
And peeking thru keyholes in numbered doors
Where the players lick their wounds
And take their temporary lovers
And their pills and powders to get them thru this passion play

No regrets, Coyote
I just get off up aways
You just picked up a hitcher
A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway

Coyote's in the coffee shop
He's staring a hole in his scrambled eggs
He picks up my scent on his fingers
While he's watching the waitresses' legs
He's too fat from the Bay of Fundy
From Appaloosas and Eagles and tides
And the air conditioned cubicles
And the carbon ribbon rides
Are spelling it out so clear
Either he's going to have to stand and fight
Or take off out of here
I tried to run away myself
To run away and wrestle with my ego
And with this flame
You put here in this Eskimo
In this hitcher
In this prisoner
Of the fine white lines
Of the white lines on the free, free way



FREE MAN IN PARIS
"The way I see it," he said
"You just can't win it...
Everybody's in it for their own gain
You can't please 'em all
There's always somebody calling you down
I do my best
And I do good business
There's a lot of people asking for my time
They're trying to get ahead
They're trying to be a good friend of mine

I was a free man in Paris
I felt unfettered and alive
There was nobody calling me up for favors
And no one's future to decide
You know I'd go back there tomorrow
But for the work I've taken on
Stoking the star maker machinery
Behind the popular song

I deal in dreamers
And telephone screamers
Lately I wonder what I do it for
If l had my way
I'd just walk through those doors
And wander
Down the Champs Elysees
Going cafe to cabaret
Thinking how I'll feel when I find
That very good friend of mine

I was a free man in Paris
I felt unfettered and alive
Nobody was calling me up for favors
No one's future to decide
You know I'd go back there tomorrow
But for the work I've taken on
Stoking the star maker machinery
Behind the popular song."


HELP ME
Help me
I think I'm falling
In love again
When I get that crazy feeling, I know
I'm in trouble again
I'm in trouble
'Cause you're a rambler and a gambler
And a sweet-taIking-ladies man
And you love your lovin'
But not like you love your freedom

Help me
I think I'm falling
In love too fast
It's got me hoping for the future
And worrying about the past
'Cause I've seen some hot hot blazes
Come down to smoke and ash
We love our lovin'
But not like we love our freedom

Didn't it feel good
We were sitting there talking
Or lying there not talking
Didn't it feel good
You dance with the lady
With the hole in her stocking
Didn't it feel good
Didn't it feel good

Help me
I think I'm falling
In love with you
Are you going to let me go there by myself
That's such a lonely thing to do
Both of us flirting around
Flirting and flirting
Hurting too
We love our lovin'
But not like we love our freedom


MY OLD MAN
My old man
He's a singer in the park
He's a walker in the rain
He's a dancer in the dark
We don't need no piece of paper
From the city hall
Keeping us tied and true
My old man
Keeping away my blues

He's my sunshine in the morning
He's my fireworks at the end of the day
He's the warmest chord I ever heard
Play that warm chord, play and stay baby
We don't need no piece of paper
From the city hall
Keeping us tied and true
My old man
Keeping away my blues

But when he's gone
Me and them lonesome blues collide
The bed's too big
The frying pan's too wide

Then he comes home
And he takes me in his loving arms
And he tells me all his troubles
And he tells me all my charms
We don't need no piece of paper
From the city hall
Keeping us tied and true
No, my old man
Keeping away my blues

But when he's gone
Me and them lonesome blues collide
The bed's too big
The frying pan's too wide

My old man
He's a singer in the park
He's a walker in the rain
He's a dancer in the dark
We don't need no piece of paper
From the city hall
Keeping us tied and true
No, my old man
Keeping away my lonesome blues



RIVER
It's coming on Christmas
They're cutting down trees
They're putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
But it don't snow here
It stays pretty green
I'm going to make a lot of money
Then I'm going to quit this crazy scene
I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I made my baby cry

He tried hard to help me
You know, he put me at ease
And he loved me so naughty
Made me weak in the knees
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I'm so hard to handle
I'm selfish and I'm sad
Now I've gone and lost the best baby
That I ever had
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
Oh I wish I had a river
I made my baby say goodbye

It's coming on Christmas
They're cutting down trees
They're putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
I wish I had a river
I could skate away on


TWISTED
My analyst told me
That I was right out of my head
The way he described it
He said I'd be better dead than live
I didn't listen to his jive
I knew all along
That he was all wrong
And I knew that he thought
I was crazy but I'm not
Oh no

My analyst told me
That I was right out of my head
He said I'd need treatment
But I'm not that easily led
He said I was the type
That was most inclined
When out of his sight
To be out of my mind
And he thought I was nuts
No more ifs or ands or buts

They say as a child
I appeared a little bit wild
With all my crazy ideas
But I knew what was happening
I knew I was a genius...
What's so strange when you know
That you're a wizard at three
I knew that this was meant to be

Now I heard little children
Were supposed to sleep tight
That's why I got into the vodka one night
My parents got frantic
Didn't know what to do
But I saw some crazy scenes
Before I came to
Now do you think I was crazy
I may have been only three
But I was swinging

They all laugh at angry young men
They all laugh at Edison
And also at Einstein
So why should I feel sorry
If they just couldn't understand
The idiomatic logic
That went on in my head
I had a brain
It was insane
Oh they used to laugh at me
When I refused to ride
On all those double decker buses
All because there was no driver on the top

My analyst told me
That I was right out of my head
But I said dear doctor
I think that it's you instead
Because I have got a thing
That's unique and new
To prove it I'll have
The last laugh on you
'Cause instead of one head
I got two
And you know two heads are better than one.


WOODSTOCK
I came upon a child of God
He was walking along the road
And I asked him, where are you going
And this he told me
I'm going on down to Yasgur's farm
I'm going to join in a rock 'n' roll band
I'm going to camp out on the land
I'm going to try an' get my soul free
We are stardust
We are golden
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden

Then can I walk beside you
I have come here to lose the smog
And I feel to be a cog in something turning
Well maybe it is just the time of year
Or maybe it's the time of man
I don't know who l am
But you know life is for learning
We are stardust
We are golden
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden

By the time we got to Woodstock
We were half a million strong
And everywhere there was song and celebration
And I dreamed I saw the bombers
Riding shotgun in the sky
And they were turning into butterflies
Above our nation
We are stardust
Billion year old carbon
We are golden
Caught in the devil's bargain
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden


YOU TURN ME ON, I'M A RADIO
If you're driving into town
With a dark cloud above you
Dial in the number
Who's bound to love you
Oh honey you turn me on
I'm a radio
I'm a country station
I'm a little bit corny
I'm a wildwood flower
Waving for you
Broadcasting tower
Waving for you
And I'm sending you out
This signal here
I hope you can pick it up
Loud and clear
I know you don't like weak women
You get bored so quick
And you don't like strong women
'Cause they're hip to your tricks
It's been dirty for dirty
Down the line
But you know
I come when you whistle
When you're loving and kind
But if you've got too many doubts
If there's no good reception for me
Then tune me out, 'cause honey
Who needs the static
It hurts the head
And you wind up cracking
And the day goes dismal
From "Breakfast Barney"
To the sign-off prayer
What a sorry face you get to wear
I'm going to tell you again now
If you're still listening there
If you're driving into town
With a dark cloud above you
Dial in the number
Who's bound to love you
If you're lying on the beach
With the transistor going
Kick off the sandflies honey
The love's still flowing
If your head says forget it
But your heart's still smoking
Call me at the station
The lines are open


THE CIRCLE GAME
Yesterday a child came out to wonder
Caught a dragonfly inside a jar
Fearful when the sky was full of thunder
And tearful at the falling of a star
And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look behind
From where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game

Then the child moved ten times round the seasons
Skated over ten clear frozen streams
Words like, when you're older, must appease him
And promises of someday make his dreams
And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look behind
From where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game

Sixteen springs and sixteen summers gone now
Cartwheels turn to car wheels thru the town
And they tell him,
Take your time, it won't be long now
Till you drag your feet to slow the circles down
And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look behind
From where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game

So the years spin by and now the boy is twenty
Though his dreams have lost some grandeur coming true
There'll be new dreams, maybe better dreams and plenty
Before the last revolving year is through
And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return, we can only look behind
From where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game


ONE TIN SOLDIER

Listen children,
to a story that was written long ago
About a kingdom,
on a mountain,
and the valley folk below.
On the mountain,
was a treasure,
buried deep beneath a stone
and the valley people swore
they'd have it for their very own.

Go ahead and hate your neighbor,
go ahead and cheat a friend,
do it in the name of Heaven,
you can justify it in the end.
There wont be any trumpets blowing,
come the judgment day.
On the bloody morning after,
One Tin Soldier rides away.

So the people of the valley,
sent a message up the hill,
asking for the buried treasure,
tons of gold for which they'd kill.
Came an answer,
from the kingdom,
with our brothers,
we will share,
all the secrets,
of our mountain,
all the riches buried there.
Now the valley,
cried with anger,
mount your horses,
draw your swords,
and they killed the mountain people.

So they won their just rewards.
Now they stand, beside the treasure,
on the mountain, dark and red.
Turned the stone,
and looked beneath it,
Peace on earth was all it said.

Go ahead and hate your neighbor,
go ahead and cheat a friend,
do it in the name of Heaven,
you can justify it in the end.
There wont be any trumpets blowing,
come the judgment day.
On the bloody morning after,
One Tin Soldier rides away.

pablo neruda - il postino OST

1. Morning (Love Sonnet XXVII) by Sting

Naked, you are simple as one of your hands,
smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round:
you have moon-lines, apple-pathways:
naked, you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.

Naked, you are blue as a night in Cuba;
you have vines and stars in your hair;
naked, you are spacious and yellow
as summer in a golden church.

Naked, you are tiny as one of your nails-
curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born
and you withdraw to the underground world,

as if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores:
your clear light dims, gets dressed - drops its leaves-
and becomes a naked hand again.



2. Poetry by Miranda Richardson

And it was at that age...
Poetry arrived in search of me.
I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.


I did not know what to say,
my mouth had no way with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
ever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance,
pure nonsense, pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw the heavens unfastened
and open, planets, palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated, riddled with arrows,
fire and flowers, the winding night,
the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void, likeness, image of mystery,
I felt myself a pure part of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.


3. Leaning into the Afternoons by Wesley Snipes

Leaning into the afternoons I cast my sad nets
towards your oceanic eyes.

There in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames,
its arms turning like a drowning man's.

I send out red signals across your absent eyes
that move like the sea near a lighthouse.

You keep only darkness, my distant female,
from your regard sometimes the coast of dread emerges.

Leaning into the afternoons I fling my sad nets
to that sea that beats on your marine eyes.

The birds of night peck at the first stars
that flash like my soul when I love you.

The night gallops on its shadowy mare
shedding blue tassels over the land.




4. Poor Fellows by Julia Roberts

What it takes on this planet,
to make love to each other in peace.
Everyone pries under your sheets,
everyone interferes with your loving.
They say terrible things about a man and a woman,
who after much milling about,
all sorts of compunctions,
do something unique,
they both lie with each other in one bed.
I ask myself whether frogs are so furtive,
or sneeze as they please.
Whether they whisper to each other in swamps about illegitimate frogs,
or the joys of amphibious living.
I ask myself if birds single out enemy birds,
or bulls gossip with bullocks before they go out in public with cows.
Even the roads have eyes and the parks their police.
Hotels spy on their guests,
windows name names,
canons and squadrons debark on missions to liquidate love.
All those ears and those jaws working incessantly,
till a man and his girl
have to raise their climax,
full tilt,
on a bicycle.



5. Ode to the Sea by Ralph Fiennes

Here
Surrounding the island
There's sea.
But what sea?
It's always overflowing.
Says yes,
Then no,
Then no again,
And no,
Says yes
In blue
In sea spray
Raging,
Says no
And no again.
It can't be still.
It stammers
My name is sea.

It slaps the rocks
And when they aren't convinced,
Strokes them
And soaks them
And smothers them with kisses.
With seven green tongues
Of seven green dogs
Or seven green tigers
Or seven green seas,
Beating its chest,
Stammering its name,

Oh Sea,
This is your name.
Oh comrade ocean,
Don't waste time
Or water
Getting so upset
Help us instead.
We are meager fishermen,
Men from the shore
Who are hungry and cold
And you're our foe.
Don't beat so hard,
Don't shout so loud,
Open your green coffers,
Place gifts of silver in our hands.
Give us this day
our daily fish.



6. Fable of the Mermaid and the Drunks by Ethan Hawke

All these fellows were there inside when she entered
Utterly naked.
They'd been drinking and began to spit at her,
Recently come from the river, she understood nothing.
She was a mermaid who had lost her way,
The taunts flowed over her glistening flesh
Obscenities drenched her golden breasts.

A stranger to tears, she did not weep,
A stranger to clothes, she did not dress.
They pocked her with cigarette ends and with burnt corks
And rolled on the tavern floor in raucous laughter
She did not speak, since speech was unknown to her
Her eyes were the color of far away love
Her arms were matching topazes
Her lips moved soundlessly in coral light
And ultimately she left by that door
Hardly had she entered the river than she was cleansed
Gleaming once more like a white stone in the rain
And without a backward look, she swam once more
Swam towards nothingness, swam to her dawn.



7. Ode to a Beautiful Nude by Rufus Sewell

With a chaste heart - with pure eyes - I celebrate your beauty.
Holding the leash of blood so that it might leap out
And trace your outline while you lie down in my Ode
As in a land of forests or in surf,
In aromatic loam or in sea music

Beautiful nude -
Equally beautiful your feet
Arched by primeval tap of wind and sound.
Your ears, small shells of the splendid American sea.

Your breasts, a level plenitude fulfilled by living light.
Your flying eyelids of wheat, revealing or enclosing
The two deep countries of your eyes.

The line your shoulders have divided into pale regions
Loses itself and blends into the compact halves of an apple,
Continues, separating your beauty down into two columns
Of burnished gold ..fine alabaster
To sink into the two grapes of your feet
Where your twin symmetrical tree burns again and rises ..
Flowering fire .. open chandelier
A swelling fruit over the pact of sea and earth.

From what materials? agate? quartz? wheat? Did your body come together?
Swelling like baking bread to signal silvered hills.
The cleavage of one petal, sweet fruits of a deep velvet
Until alone remained, astonished
The fine and firm feminine form.

It is not only light that falls over the world,
Spreading inside your body it's suffocated snow ..
So much as clarity ..taking it's leave of you
As if you were on fire from within.
The moon lives in the lining of your skin.



8. I Like for You to Be Still by Glenn Close

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you.
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth.

As all things are filled with my soul
you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.
You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,
and you are like the word Melancholy.

I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.
It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.
And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:
Let me come to be still in your silence.

And let me talk to you with your silence
that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.
Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.
One word then, one smile, is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it's not true.



9. Walking Around (Poetry) by Samuel L. Jackson

(different translation)
It so happens I'm tired of just being a man.
I go to a movie, drop in at the tailor's -- it so happens --
feeling wizened and numbed, like a big, wooly swan,
awash on an ocean of clinkers and causes.

A whiff from a barbershop does it: I yell bloody murder.
All I ask is a little vacation from things: from boulders and woolens,
from gardens, institutional projects, merchandise,
eyeglasses, elevators--I'd rather not look at them.

It so happens I'm fed--with my feet and my fingernails
and my hair and my shadow.
Being a man leaves me cold: that's how it is.

Still--it would be lovely
to wave a cut lily and panic a notary,
or finish a nun with a jab to the ear.
It would be nice
just to walk down the street with a green switchblade handy,
whooping it up till I die of the shivers.

I won't live like this--like a root in a shadow,
wide-open and wondering, teeth chattering sleepily,
going down to the dripping entrails of the universe
absorbing things, taking things in, eating three squares a day.

I've had all I'll take from catastrophe.
I won't have it this way, muddling through like a root or a grave,
all alone underground, in a morgue of cadavers,
cold as a stiff, dying of misery.

That's why Monday flares up like an oil-slick,
when it sees me up close, with the face of a jailbird,
or squeaks like a broken-down wheel as it goes,
stepping hot-blooded into the night.

Something shoves me toward certain damp houses,
into certain dark corners,
into hospitals, with bones flying out of the windows;
into shoe stores smelling of vinegar,
streets frightful as fissures laid open.

There, trussed to the doors of the houses I loathe
are the sulphurous birds, in a horror of tripes,
dental plates lost in a coffeepot,
mirrors
that must surely have wept with the nightmare and shame of it all;
and everywhere, poisons, umbrellas, and belly buttons.

I stroll and keep cool, in my eyes and my shoes
and my rage and oblivion.
I go on, crossing offices, retail orthopedics,
courtyards with laundry hung out on a wire:
the blouses and towels and the drawers newly washed,
slowly dribbling a slovenly tear.



10. Tonight I Can Write by Andy García

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, "The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance."

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voice. Her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.



11. Adonic Angela by Willem Dafoe

today I stretched out next to a pure young woman
as if at the shore of a white ocean,
as if at the center of a burning star
of slow space.

from her lengthily green gaze
the light fell like dry water,
in transparant and deep circles
of fresh force.

her bosom like a two flamed fire
burned raised in two regions,
and in a double river reached
her large, clear feet.

a climate of gold scarcely ripened
the diurnal length of her body
filling it with extended fruits
and hidden fire.



12. If You Forget Me by Madonna

I want you to know one thing
You know how this is

If I look at the crystal moon
At the red branch of the slow autumn at my window
If I touch near the fire the impalpable ash Or the wrinkled body of the log
Everything carries me to you
As if everything that exists - aromas, light, metals
Were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me

Well, now
If little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you
Little by little
If suddenly you forget me
Do not look for me
For I shall already have forgotten you

If you think it long and mad the wind of banners that passes through my life
And you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots
Remember
That on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms
And my roots will set off to seek another land

But, if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me
With implacable sweetness
If each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me
Ahh my love, ahh my own, in me all that fire is repeated
In me nothing is extinguished or forgotten
My love feeds on your love, beloved
And as long as you live, it will be in your arms without leaving mine



13. Integrations by Vincent Perez

After everything,
I will love you
As if it were always before
As if, after so much waiting,
Not seeing you
And you not coming,
You were breathing close to me forever.

Close to me with your habits,
With your colour and your guitar
Just as countries unite
In school room lectures,
And two regions become blurred
And there is a river near a river
And two volcanoes grow together.

Close to you is close to me
And your absence is far from everything
And the moon is the colour of clay
In the night of quaking earth
When, in terror of the earth,
All the roots join together
And silence is heard ringing
With the music of fright

Fear is also a street
And among its trembling stones
Tenderness somehow is able
To march with four feet
And four lips

Since without leaving the present
That is a fragile thing
We touch the sand of yesterday
And in the sea
Love reveals a repeated fury

14. And Now You're Mine (Love Sonnet LXXXI) by Andy García

And now you're mine. Rest with your dream in my dream.
Love and pain and work should all sleep now.
The night turns on its invisible wheels,
and you are pure beside me as a sleeping amber.

No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams. You will go,
we will go together, over the waters of time.
No one else will travel through the shadows with me,
only you, evergreen, ever sun, ever moon.

Your hands have already opened their delicate fists
and let their soft drifting signs drop away,
your eyes closed like two gray wings, and I move

after, following the folding water you carry, that carries me away.
The night, the world, the wind spin out their destiny.
Without you, I am your dream, only that, and that is all.

burnout

According to psychologist Sandi Mann people who are forced into chronic insincerity can suffer from poor self-esteem, depression and cynicism as well as physical conditions such as headaches, sexual dysfunction and drug dependency. 'Burnout' is another consequence. Its hallmarks are emotional exhaustion, depersonalisation (where the sufferer starts to see others as objects rather than people) and a loss of satisfaction in personal achievements." (The Observer, January 19, 1997)

Campbell said:

"You may have a success in life, but then just think of it - what kind of life was it? What good was it - you've never done the thing you wanted to do in all your life. I always tell my students, go where your body and soul want to go. When you have the feeling, then stay with it, and don't let anyone throw you off." (The Power of Myth, Doubleday, 1988, p.118)

"My general formula for my students is 'Follow your bliss.' Find where it is, and don't be afraid to follow it... In doing that you save the world. The influence of a vital person vitalises, there's no doubt about it. The world without spirit is a wasteland. People have the notion of saving the world by shifting things around, changing the rules, and who's on top, and so forth. No, no! Any world is a valid world if it's alive. The thing to do is to bring life to it, and the only way to do that is to find in your own case where the life is and become alive yourself." (Ibid, p.149)

Friday, June 03, 2005

THE ELOQUENT SOUNDS OF SILENCE

by Pico Iyer

Every one of us knows the sensation of going up, on retreat, to a high place and feeling ourselves so lifted up that we can hardly imagine the circumstances of our usual lives, or all the things that make us fret. In such a place, in such a state, we start to recite the standard litany: that silence is sunshine, where company is clouds; that silence is rapture, where company is doubt; that silence is golden, where company is brass.

But silence is not so easily won. And before we race off to go prospecting in those hills, we might usefully recall that fool’s gold is much more common and that gold has to be panned for, dug out from other substances. “All profound things and emotions of things are preceded and attended by Silence,” wrote Herman Melville, one of the loftiest and most eloquent of souls. Working himself up to an ever more thunderous cry of affirmation, he went on, “Silence is the general consecration of the universe. Silence is the invisible laying on of the Divine Pontiff’s hands upon the world. Silence is the only Voice of our God.” For Melville, though, silence finally meant darkness and hopelessness and self-annihilation. Devastated by the silence that greeted his heartfelt novels, he retired into a public silence from which he did not emerge for more than 30 years. Then, just before his death, he came forth with his final utterance – the luminous tale of Billy Budd – and showed that silence is only as worthy as what we can bring back from it.

We have to earn silence, then, to work for it: to make it not an absence but a presence; not emptiness but repletion. Silence is something more than just a pause; it is that enchanted place where space is cleared and time is stayed and the horizon itself expands. In silence, we often say, we can hear ourselves think; but what is truer to say is that in silence we can hear ourselves not think, and so sink below ourselves into a place far deeper than mere thought allows. In silence, we might better say, we can hear someone else think.

Or simply breathe. For silence is responsiveness, and in silence we can listen to something behind the clamor of the world. “A man who loves God, necessarily loves silence,” wrote Thomas Merton, who was, as a Trappist, a connoisseur, a caretaker of silences. It is no coincidence that places of worship are places of silence: if idleness is the devil’s playground, silence may be the angels’. It is no surprise that silence is an anagram of license. And it is only right that Quakers all but worship silence, for it is the place where everyone finds his God, however he may express it. Silence is an ecumenical state, beyond the doctrines and divisions created by the mind. If everyone has a spiritual story to tell of his life, everyone has a spiritual silence to preserve.

So it is that we might almost say that silence is the tribute we pay to holiness; we slip off words when we enter a sacred space, just as we slip off shoes. A “moment of silence” is the highest honor we can pay someone; it is the point at which the mind stops and something else takes over (words run out when feelings rush in). A “vow of silence” is for holy men the highest devotional act. We hold our breath, we hold our words; we suspend our chattering selves and let ourselves “fall silent,” and fall into the highest place of all.

It often seems that the world is getting noisier these days: in Japan, which may be a model of our future, cars and buses have voices, doors and elevators speak. The answering machine talks to us, and for us, somewhere above the din of the TV; the Walkman preserves a public silence but ensures that we need never - in the bathtub, on a mountain top, even at our desks - be without the clangor of the world. White noise becomes the aural equivalent of the clash of images, the nonstop blast of fragments that increasingly agitates our minds. As Ben Okri, the young Nigerian novelist, puts it, “When chaos is the god of an era, clamorous music is the deity’s chief instrument.”

There is, of course, a place for noise, as there is for daily lives. There is a place for roaring, for the shouting exultation of a baseball game, for hymns and spoken prayers, for orchestras and cries of pleasure. Silence, like all the best things, is best appreciated in its absence: if noise is the signature tune of the world, silence is the music of the other world, the closest thing we know to the harmony of the spheres. But the greatest charm of noise is when it ceases. In silence, suddenly, it seems as if all the windows of the world are thrown open and everything is as clear as on a morning after rain. Silence, ideally, hums. It charges the air. In Tibet, where the silence has a tragic cause, it is still quickened by the fluttering of prayer flags, the tolling of temple bells, the roar of wind across the plains, the memory of chant.

Silence, then, could be said to be the ultimate province of trust: it is the place where we trust ourselves to be alone; where we trust others to understand the things we do not say; where we trust a higher harmony to assert itself. We all know how treacherous are words, and how often we use them to paper over embarrassment, or emptiness, or fear of the larger spaces that silence brings. “Words, words, words” commit us to positions we do not really hold, the imperatives of chatter; words are what we use for lies, false promises and gossip. We babble with strangers; with intimates we can be silent. We “make conversation” when we are at a loss; we unmake it when we are alone, or with those so close to us that we can afford to be alone with them.

In love, we are speechless; in awe, we say, words fail us.

Disturb us, O Lord

Disturb us, O Lord
when we are too well-pleased with ourselves
when our dreams have come true because we dreamed too little,
because we sailed too close to the shore.

Disturb us, O Lord
when with the abundance of things we possess,
we have lost our thirst for the water of life
when, having fallen in love with time,we have ceased to dream of eternity
and in our efforts to build a new earth,
we have allowed our vision of Heaven to grow dim.

Stir us, O Lord
to dare more boldly,
to venture into wider seas where storms show Thy mastery,
where losing sight of land, we shall find the stars.

In the name of Him who pushed back the horizons of our hopes
and invited the brave to follow. Amen.

LETTER TO A YOUNG ACTIVIST

by Thomas Merton

Do not depend on the hope of results. When you are doing the sort of work you have taken on, essentially an apostolic work, you may have to face the fact that your work will be apparently worthless and achieve no result at all, if not perhaps results opposite to what you expect. As you get used to this idea, you start more and more to concentrate not on the results but on the value, the truth of the work itself. And there, too, a great deal has to be gone through, as gradually as you struggle less and less for an idea, and more and more for specific people. The range tends to narrow down, but it gets much more real. In the end, it is the reality of personal relationships that saves everything.

You are fed up with words, and I don’t blame you. I am nauseated by them sometimes. I am also, to tell you the truth, nauseated by ideals and with causes. This sounds like heresy, but I think you will understand what I mean. It is so easy to get engrossed with ideas and slogans and myths that in the end one is left holding the bag, empty, with no trace of meaning left in it. And then the temptation is to yell louder than ever in order to make the meaning be there again by magic. Going through this kind of reaction helps you to guard against this. Your system is complaining of too much verbalizing, and it is right.

…The big results are not in your hands or mine, but they suddenly happen, and we can share in them, but there is no point in building our lives on this personal satisfaction, which may be denied us and which after all is not that important.

The next step in the process is for you to see that your even thinking about what you are doing is crucially important. You are probably striving to build yourself an identity in your work, out of your work and witness. You are using it, so to speak, to protect yourself against nothingness, annihilation. That is not the right use of your work. All the good that you will do will come, not from you but from the fact that you have allowed yourself, in the obedience of faith, to be used by God’s love. Think of this more and gradually you will be free from the need to prove yourself, and you can be more open to the power that will work through you without your knowing it.

The great thing after all is to live, not to pour out your life in the service of a myth; and we turn the best things into myths. If you can get free from the domination of causes and just serve Christ’s truth, you will be able to do more and will be less crushed by the inevitable disappointments. Because I see nothing whatever in sight but much disappointment, frustration, and confusion. The real hope, then, is not in something we think we can do, but in God who is making something good out of it in some way we cannot see. If we can do His will, we will be helping in this process. But we will not necessarily know all about it beforehand . . .

an excerpt from Kitchen

These women lived their lives happily. They had been taught, probably by caring parents, not to exceed the boundaries of their happiness regardless of what they were doing. But therefore they could never know real joy. Which is better? Who can say? Everyone lives the way she knows best. What I mean by "their happiness" is living a life untouched as much as possible by the knowledge that we are really, all of us, alone. That's not a bad thing. Dressed in their aprons, their smiling faces like flowers, learning to cook, absorbed in their little troubles and perplexities, they fall in love and marry. I think that's great. I wouldn't mind that kind of life. Me, when i'm utterly exhausted by it all, when my skin breaks out, on those lonely evenings when I call my friends again and again and nobody's home, then I despise my own life -- my birth, my upbringing, everything. I feel only regret for the whole thing.

But -- that one summer of bliss. In that kitchen.

I was not afraid of burns or scars; I didn't suffer from sleepless nights. Every day I thrilled with pleasure at the challenges tommorow would bring. Memorizing the recipe , I would make carrot cakes that included a bit of my soul. At the supermarket I would stare at a bright red tomato, loving it for dear life. Having known such joy, there was no going back.

No matter what, I want to continue living with the awareness that I will die. Without that, I am not alive. That is what makes the life I have now possible.

Inching one's way along a steep cliff in the dark: on reaching the highway, one breathes a sigh of relief. Just when one can't take any more, one sees the moonlight. Beauty that seems to infuse itself into the heart: I know about that.

--an excerpt from Kitchen, a novel by Banana Yoshimoto

an excerpt from "Let Me Love You"

"It's much easier for most of us to give love than to receive it. ..When we give love we are in control. We can pick the person to love, we can decide how to love, how much to love, and when to love. But when we receive love, we are no longer in control. We have to let the other person decide to love or not, or how much to love...there is a certain superiority when we love others, and a certain helplessness when others love us. We can choose those we want to love, but we cannot always choose those who love us."

- an excerpt from Fr. Galdon's "Let Me Love You", from the Mustard Seed