to accept what comes into your brain and moves your hand to pick up a pen as poetry.
"I wanted everything to be the way it was, the way it already used to be."
Hemon on page 2 of ‘The Book of My Lives’ making me so happy to be back inside his language.
Most important song of my life. Listening to it yesterday, I remembered how good it made me feel when I was 16, when I wasn’t really talking to anyone and was having a first wave of paranoia and alienation about not being like other people, not having their priorities or interests. I was so angry and hateful then. I’ve been in a different, adult form of that state in recent times, as people get married and spend their time doing things that have absolutely zero relevance to me. I just go deeper into focusing on my shit and am still able to love them. It’s all good. GROWTH.
"all times are contained in now / now’s the one time anything happens"
john frusciante, “wishing”
(got JF on shuffle in my headphones and noticing/re-noticing the meditative brilliance of his lyrics)
Sri Dharma Mittra answers the question: ‘What do you know for certain?’ (for Origin Magazine)
‘I am absolutely sure that there is nothing I’m really sure of. This answer brought tears to my eyes because as I considered it, I felt in the inmost part of my heart, spiritual sorrow mixed with supreme bliss. I have devoted most of my life to searching for Him and ME, but even after all this time, I’m still not 100% sure about anything.’"
"Today my friend Pablo called me so he could read me this phrase he found in a book by Tim O’Brien: “What sticks to memory, often, are those odd little fragments that have no beginning and no end.” I kept thinking about that and stayed awake all night. It’s true. We remember the sounds of the images. And sometimes, when we write, we wash everything clean, as if by doing so we could advance toward something. We ought to simply describe those sounds, those stains on memory. That arbitrary selection, nothing more. That’s why we lie so much, in the end. That’s why a book is always the opposite of another immense and strange book. An illegible and genuine book that we translate treacherously, that we betray with our habit of passable prose."
Ways of Going Home, Alejandro Zambra