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Reflections at night when the dark is good and we see further. A short meditation.
Brief Tales on a Whim.
Meditations on the 60th Anniversary of Hiroshima What would the end of the world entail? Do we boast that we can imagine such a thing?
3 short stories. $3
In the apprenticeship period hopes are high.
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THE POET OF MY DREAMS[[on the campus greensward]]
"And what were you going to do? Were you going to make yourself into the perfect reflection of a perfect desire so that all the weak would be envious?" "It's not the man who judges; the man as a judgment is only a dying ego."
This was a bunch of us sitting around on the University grounds even though none of us was a student. I had worked at the university driving through its intricate pathway of little roads picking up and delivering packages. And one or maybe all three of my friends had been enrolled at one time or another. I had assumed they had.
"And were you going to read everything and become everything?"
I told them all the endless hours I spent at the libraries on campus and in the city. An endless flood of good words flowed through me in the off-hours and off-days when I had a chance to go to the wonderous libraries of Berkeley.
"There are teachers of light, teachers of dark. The teachers from the lower self can arrive with a vengenace." "All things conspire to keep the spirit from attaining recognition of itself."
I explained to them the idealism I had in college. The world as a giant commune where people came and went with happy faces because nothing was repressed, including the ability to refuse.
"Idealism is a radical desire in itself to break from the teachers of the dark. All the idealisms propel the eyes of the spirit upward before the long grind brings them back to the surface of things. The next level of disgust is a telling thing.
"Kierkegaard believed that true love wants to make everything equal to itself. I would think before this happened a person would have to resolve remorse and so the emotions would be swift and deep."
"Oh love. Everyone loves. But only individuals can have idealism. An organization or movement that is idealistic putrifies quickly and is seen as another con game where the idealism is the hook."
Yes but then every individual thinks that his idealism is the right one, so a bunch of them hang together and end up fighting each other.
"Neither a person or a society can talk their way out of guilt. Lift the weight of it there and it will appear over here, shifting and slinking as it goes. Who determines the nature of guilt and the nature of guiltlessness usually rules a people."
The pontificator was saying, "We are approaching a global civilization and it is very painful for many people.
"Disorder is converging into an order that should be gently guided. The belief that life is coming more and more conformist is a mistaken one; life concentrates itself at times in order to burst forth in greater variety and freedom."
"Humility should teach this: No man is complete. That when he believes he is complete he is at the edge of an abyss. And that nations and civilizations can never be complete. This is why disillusion and cynicism are hateful qualities because they are the jealosy of presumed completeness. If this happens the soul of a nation will sink down into choas and totalitarianism."
I had been obsessed with doom for a time. Doom. I had to wonder why it was so prominent in me. "It's a syndrome perhaps," I thought to myself. Since childhood it had reared up without warning. "It's a regular virus that comes in and zooms for the gut." The assassinations, right? The threat of total annhiliation at the hands of crazy men, no? All compounded by thousands of lesser events, ideas, and feelings swirling in the air.
And then it was mysteriously gone when I read something written well in a book or watched happy, unconscious people playing volleyball or read a good science book, geology perhaps and tectonic plate theory. It would go away and I would see it lingering in some mist-state before it sunk beneath the garish horizon.
Go to the From the Start: The Poet of My Dreams
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