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When I own someone I claim

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RENATA NOTNI as Juana Valentina; La Venganza de las Juanas - 1.04 (2021-)

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RENATA NOTNI as Juana Valentina; La Venganza de las Juanas - 1.04 (2021-)

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☀ 𝐒𝐇𝐑𝐈 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐍 ☀

“Those persons who always chant “Shri Ram”, “Shri Ram”, without any doubt would get victory as well as salvation and happiness.”~Ram sthava Raja

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“What on earth could be more luxurious than a sofa, a book, and a cup of coffee?”

— Anthony Trollope, (b. 24 April 1815)

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Most of our tensions and frustrations stem from compulsive needs to act the role of someone we are not.

—János (Hans) Selye, M.D., The Stress of Life

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In our yearning to be perfect, we have mistaken perfection for wholeness. We think we cannot love ourselves until we and others meet some external standard. Depression, anxiety—in fact, most neuroses and compulsions—are ultimately a defense against loving ourselves without condition. We are afraid to look at the damp, dark, ugly yet exquisite roots of being that stretch deep into our survival chakra. We are fearful of finding that the spirit is not there, that our Home is empty, even as our outer home is empty. Yet it is in that place of survival, where the dark mother has been abandoned, that spirit longs to be embodied so that the whole body may become light. Ego wants to be the god of our own idealized projection; spirit wants to be incarnated in our humanity where it can grow in wisdom through experience.

― Marion Woodman, “Dancing in the Flames: The Dark Goddess in the Transformation of Consciousness” 

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Lifedance

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Displaced - Bukowski

burning in hell this piece of me fits in nowhere as other people find things to do with their time places to go with one another things to say to each other.

I am burning in hell some place north of Mexico. flowers don’t grow here.

I am not like other people other people are like other people.

they are all alike: joining grouping huddling they are both gleeful and content and i am burning in hell.

my heart is a thousand years old I am not like other people. I’d die on their picnic grounds smothered by their flags slugged by their songs unloved by their soldiers gored by their humor murdered by their concern.

I am not like other people. I am burning in hell.

the hell of myself.

Charles Bukowski

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information upon an empire of coins

the legs are gone and the hopes – the lava of outpouring, and I haven’t shaved in sixteen days but the mailman still makes his rounds and water still comes out of the faucet and I have a photo of myself with glazed and milky eyes full of simple music in golden trunks and 20 oz. gloves when I made the semi-finals only to be taken out by a German brute who should have been locked in a cage for the insane and allowed to drink blood. Now I am insane and stare at the wallpaper as one would stare at a Dali or an early Picasso (he has lost it), and I send out the girls for beer, the old girls who barely bother to wipe their asses and say, well, I guess I won’t comb my hair today; it might bring me luck. well, anyway, they wash the dishes and chop the wood, and the landlady keeps saying let me in, I can’t get in, you’ve got the lock on, and what’s all that singing and cussing in there? but she only wants a piece of ass, she pretends she wants the rent but she’s not gonna get either one of ‘em. meanwhile the skulls of the dead are full of beetles and Shakes- peare rants and old footbal scores like S.C. 16, N.D. 14 on a John Baker field goal. I can see the fleet from my window, the sails and the guns, always the guns poking their eyes in the sky looking for trouble like young L.A. cops who haven’t even shaved yet, and the young sailors out there, sex-hungry trying to act tough, trying to act like men but really closer to their mother’s nipples than to a true evaluation of existence. I said, god damn it, that the legs are gone and the outpourings too. beneath my brain they snip and snap and pour oil to burn and fire out early dreams darling, says one of the girls, you’ve got to snap out of it, we’re running out of MONEY. How do you want your toast? white or dark?

a woman’s a woman, I say, and I put my binolulars between her kneecaps and I can see where empires have fallen

I wish I had a brush, some paint, some paint and a brush, I say.

why? asks one of the  whores.

BECAUSE RATS DON’T LIKE OIL! I scream.

(I can’t go it. I don’t belong here. I listen to radio programs and people’s voices talking and I marvel that they can get excited and interested over nothing) and I flick out the lights, I tear the shades down and I light my last cigar the dreamjump down the Empire State Building into the thickheaded bullbrained mob with the hard-on attitude already forgotton the dead of Normandy, Lincoln’s stringy beard, all the bulls that have died to flashing red capes, all the love that has died in real women and real men while fools have been elevated to the trumpet’s succulent sneer and I have fought red-handed and drunk in slop-pitted alleys the bartenders of this rotten land.

and I laugh, I can still laugh, who can’t laugh when the whole thing is so ridiculous that only the insane, the clowns, the half-wits, the cheaters, the whores, the horseplayers, the bankrobbers, the poets…are interesting?

in the dark I hear the hands reaching for the last of my money like roaches nibbling at paper, automatic, feelers of inbred helpnessless, a false drunken God asleep at the wheel… a quarter rolls across the floor, and I remember all the faces and the football heroes, and everything is meaning, and an editor writes me, you are good but you are too emotional the way to whip life is to quietly frame the agony, study it and put it away to sleep in abstracts.

is there anything less abstract than dying everyday and on the last day?

the door closes and the last of the great whores are gone and they are all great, somehow no matter how they have killed me, they are great, and I smoke quietly thinking of Mexico, the rotten horses, of Havana and Spain and Normandy, of the jabbering insane Japs winning whether they lived or died, of my dead friends, of no more friends ever; and the voice of my Mexican buddy saying, you won’t die  you won’t die in the war, you’re too smart, you’ll take care of yourself.

I keep thinking of the bulls. the rotten bulls, dying everyday. the whores are gone. the shells have stopped for a moment.

fuck everybody.