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i will be deleting this blog soon--

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Calculate the amount of variation resulting from cause.

What stone remains? Boundaries nowhere, flickering in a lie of uncauses.

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i will be deleting this blog soon--

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there is still a wider chasm between us now, the chasm of Sorrow: but to Humility there is nothing that is impossible, and to Love all things are easy.

Oscar Wilde, De Profundis

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You shouldn't be dismayed if a sadness rises up in front of you, greater than any you have ever seen before; or if a disquiet plays over your hands and over all your doings like light and cloud-shadow. You must think that something is happening with you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand; it will not let you fall. Why should you want to exclude from your life all unsettling, all pain, all depression of spirit, when you don't know what work it is these states are performing within you? Why do you want to persecute yourself with the question of where it all comes from and where it is leading? You well know you are in a period of transition and want nothing more than to be transformed. If there is something ailing in the way you go about things, then remember that sickness is the means by which an organism rids itself of something foreign to it. All one has to do is help it to be ill, to have its whole illness and let it break out, for that is how it mends itself...

Do not watch yourself too closely. Do not draw over-rapid conclusions from what is happening to you. Simply let it happen.

RAINER MARIA RILKE, LETTERS TO A YOUNG POET

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'...The figures mean nothing now. Meaning has gone. The clock ticks. The two hands are convoys marching through a desert. The black bars on the clock face are green oases. The long hand has marched ahead to find water. The other painfully stumbles among hot stones in the desert. It will die in the desert. The kitchen door slams. Wild dogs bark far away. Look, the loop of the figure is beginning to fill with time; it holds the world in it. I begin to draw a figure and the world is looped in it, and I myself am outside the loop; which I now join – so – and seal up, and make entire. The world is entire, and I am outside of it, crying, "Oh save me, from being blown for ever outside the loop of time!"'

– Virginia Woolf, The Waves

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yearly required reading

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On this day (4 July) in 1855, Walt Whitman self-published his first edition of Leaves of Grass, which contained only 12 poems and featured a photograph of Whitman but not his name.

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We live in a time where one legitimizes oneself lengthily to the outside, so as not to have to justify oneself to oneself. In this sense, poetry, in its present mode, preserves for itself the darkness of the "illegitimate"; it presents itself without references, without indications, thus without quotation marks.

– Paul Celan trans. Pierre Joris

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Crackerbell, Mary Ruefle

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Our true vocation is to be ourselves

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Joy Sullivan, from “Culpable”, Instructions for Traveling West