The influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of paraheliotropic trees

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anekantavada

I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty,
I woke, and found that life was Duty,

Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?
Toil on, poor heart, unceasingly,
And thou shalt find thy dream to be
A truth and noonday light to thee.

— Ellen Sturgis Hooper, 1816-1841

There comes a point when you realize, you’re going to live in this world, die in this world, and there’s nothing you or anyone can do about it – somewhere, out there, there are presidents and kings, but that’s not you, you didn’t make the world, you didn’t choose it, but it’s here, and sometimes, it’s wonderful, and accept it or not, that’s always your choice, but if you don’t accept it, don’t start living in it, start doing whatever it is you find you need to do, then before you’ll know it, this little spoonful of life that has been measured out for you will be half-drunk up and all the hopes and dreams of younger idealistic days will have been snuffed out, ground up, scattered like the spiderwebs that others have walked through –

But consider the alternative – to live in this world which others have made, to stand on their shoulders, throwing balls in the air through the thick medium of Time, ‘till one day, you look around, and through the tragedy, see, that the world is now yours, and it is the world that you made, that you chose, and destiny us an extrasynchronous word for what is the dynamic time-based process of becoming, and you have and are becoming and though your life is finite, dwindling, it is yours and full and rich and wonderful.

Ultimately, it is a choice. Turn eyes open and face the black hole with its bright stunning radiance – or turn your back on it, and shiver in the shadow of your own self blocking the way.

Young man, sad and lonely, going from room to room, as he spends his day inside.

Swords into ploughshares, guns into electric guitars,
learn war no more, the rageful lack of soft ladyparts,
the beating drum dances, remnants of some ancient tribal rain song,
out in the woods, watching rock and roll heroes sing and clap,
I remember once, drumming in a basement, girls wanting to be caught,
lured and hypnotized by rhythmic beatings —

that, that was a day of poison mushrooms, or maybe the memory is confused,
and I was merely puffing smoke rings
a large friend, drumming, the rest of us, around,

Can music save your mortal soul?

Jimi Hendrix, choking on his worldly rejection
Emily Dickinson sang also, in the quiet upstairs rooms,
Everything we delight in is the leavings of the dead —

Who am I? Prince Adam, not He-Man,
Clark Kent, not Superman,
I am Kal-El, I am the Secret Prince,
the Existential Hero,
Lost in labyrinths

the first cd I ever bought was August and Everything After by the Counting Crows | next week, if all goes well, I go to see them with my lover | she wants to see the Counting Crows, she says, and I want to see her | did I have the Courage of my Convictions, done my One Good Thing, acquitting the boy who may or may not have known what was in the bootbox | one hundred and thirty five grams of cocaine | I, Juror | and now, biggest thing, emigrating to a new country, Manhattan Central, or maybe Brooklyn, joining the great stream |

I was supposed to be a writer, supposed to be an author, an auteur, an artist, an existential hero, the Speaker of Truth, and now I am a jurist, a lawyer-in-training, a slick-tongued obfuscating persuader, hiding pure partisanship behind misplaced appeals to authority — original sin of the originalists —

I do like history, the hard work of dead folks, and law is a particular kind of history, one we endeavor to learn from — perhaps it is sufficient

Elsewhere is hopping, having their biggest artist ever for the exact same days I venture upup to New York City, to get by spot in the Triangle Shirtwaist Sweatshop and McCracken, LLP, sewing wordbriefs —

I will name my son Benjamin, I think — nevermind the allitereration — where do names come from? Mommy and Daddy sitting in a room, inventing my identity? The strangeness of reality — one thousand books will only make you good at spinning stories — spin a thousand stories, but once, long ago, I was a story spun by others and now I spin, and the world goes on, inventing each new day and while there is background, there is also field, and the field dances with the inner secret fire, the true things, the secret names.

The peace-loving rainbow tribe had gathered for thirty years in relative peace, in contravention of Babylon — but as the old died, and young wolves came to take their place, the nights got darker, and bad things were whispered of in the woods —

Until the knights of Babylon swooped in on the tribe, killing and hurting.

Then the secret plan came, and the tribe disappeared from the world, the location of the gatherings only spread by secret word of mouth.

“Long you live and high you fly
And smiles you’ll give and tears you’ll cry
And all you touch and all you see
Is all your life will ever be.”

Re: Henderson and the Rain King, Bellow’s Masterstroke

After Henderson moved the great stone goddess of storms, King Dahfu took him into the debths to meet the dark secret lioness, not Dahfu’s father. As Henderson stood in the room, the symbol was real for him and real for me; this was not a symbolic lion, but a real lion, and the real lion is death, the all destroying world, that pads past you in the room.