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Selected Poems; ‘Vrindaban’ by Octavio Paz tr. Eliot Weinberger

[ID: I am hungry for life]

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Selected Poems; ‘Dawn’ by Octavio Paz tr. Eliot Weinberger

[ID: I am living / at the center / of a wound still fresh]

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Sense and Sensibility, Jane Austen.

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Francesco Hayez, Ballerina Carlotta Chabert as Venus, 1830

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Venus d'Arles

The Venus of Arles, discovered in several pieces in the Roman theatre at Arles.

The statue dates to the end of the 1st century BCE after a Greek original c. 365 BC by famous Praxiteles.

- Louvre Museum, Paris.

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Death of the American Dream

What is the distinction of a dream versus a delusion?  Growing up is exciting when all things are new.  There is beauty in this new found world; in naivety, even in hurt and heartache. There is tragedy in not knowing which fleeting moment is creating a cherished memory, the memories which you relish in and that remain with you infinitely.  Unable to decipher this bittersweetness as nostalgia or longing, we swim in these memories endlessly.  I too, swim.

And adorned are our lives as we nurture these dreams.  Feeding our passions with abundance in an effort to seek freedom.  These are the moments of self-fulfillment; the ones that breed motivation, growing a garden of fruitfulness and great bounty.  This is purpose, this is individuality and the genesis of creation. 

Though lately, the Earth has been feeling as if it has a heartbeat.  A palpable and booming sensation of dread has left the skies feeling motionless and misguided, with no clear vision of an other greener side.  I’ve always believed the grass is greener on the other side and personally found that those who use the expression in an effort to discourage the idea of achievement elsewhere to be, well, annoying. 

And so I confess in all sincerity, I've been questioning if I were foolish to dream. I recall being electric, tending to my dreams and passions in an ambitious youth.  But time is fickle and this last year has been like sinking in stagnant waters.  With the year passed, I’ll reach the first quarter of my life and I can’t help but feel all this time has wasted.  I can’t help but wonder if the dream was merely a delusion, an ideal escape to an other, greener side.  

Yes, I remember the days of youth and frivolity when summers were constant and never-ending.  Swinging under blue skies, we used to laugh together, only separated by white-picket fencing.  Bright aromatics of freshly-mowed lawns, charcoal and chlorine waft the city-suburban air of New York City.  But times have changed and the seasons forgotten how it feels to be cold so often. 

Still we go on like a rocket, booming towards the heavens, propelling through space in vibrant milky way dreams. We are meant to be the most noble of race, the most advanced of species. Yes, crowns shroud our deluded heads, full with prideful minds, lifting off.  We can get man on the moon but not off the streets.

Still somehow we go on, paddling against the ‘ever brutal tides.  Swimming to the salty shores of another dream.  Praying for a lush land of peace and salvation just beyond the river-bend.  A land where prosperity stands a chance and all are prosperous, yes, I can dream but still I wonder:

What is it that defines us?  Our swollen hearts and longing hands to be held?Perhaps it is the pure ambition of man, the writhing recklessness of pursuit.  Now I wonder, is it bold to dream-- even arrogant to want to be exemplary;  to be loved and to love freely.  What a work is man; our lives for the theatre. 

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“I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain’d, I stand and look at them long and long. They do not sweat and whine about their condition, They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things, Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago, Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.”

Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass: The Death Bed Edition

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When I am sad and weary When I think all hope has gone When I walk along High Holborn I think of you with nothing on

Celia, Celia: Adrian Mitchell

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Ex-love letters, scanned from forever ago.

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Michaelangelo’s ‘David’:

‘In every block of marble I see a statue as plain as though it stood before me, shaped and perfect in attitude and action. I have only to hew away the rough walls that imprison the lovely apparition to reveal it to the other eyes as mine see it.’ —Michelangelo