2D Abstract #116

I commonly never tell that I utterly love every song from this album; so much that I keep it secret and very mine, because it's an intimate pleasure anyway. This time I say it only for once. It's so widely beautiful in its sad and joyful expression altogether; and I'm only pushed to do it now to do company, less to the image, than to the fact that I've been laughing of joy and crying of sadness, both at the same puzzling and beautiful time; and the aesthetics of this song goes with the beauty of that. A few times this had happened before, to let me know that I'm living a remarkable milestone in my life.
Give yourself four minutes and play the song here:

It's up in the morning and on the downs
Little white clouds like gambolling lambs
And I am breathless over you

And the red-breasted robin beats his wings
His throat it trembles when he sings
For he is helpless before you

The happy hooded bluebells bow
And bend their heads all a-down
Heaved by the early morning dew

At the whispering stream, at the bubbling brook
The fishes leap up to take a look
For they are breathless over you

Still your hands
And still your heart
For still your face comes shining through
And all the morning glows anew

Still your mind
Still your soul
For still, the fare of love is true
And I am breathless without you

The wind circles among the trees
And it bangs about the new-made leaves
For it is breathless without you

The fox chases the rabbit round
The rabbit hides beneath the ground
For he is defenseless without you

The sky of daytime dies away
And all the earthly things they stop to play
For we are all breathless without you

I listen to my juddering bones
The blood in my veins and the wind in my lungs
And I am breathless without you

Still your hands
And still your heart
For still your face comes shining through
And all the morning glows anew

Still your soul
Still your mind
Still, the fire of love is true
And I am breathless without you

Nick Cave, "Breathless".

Genetic Algorithms - 3D Abstract #109

The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep,
And round the pebbly beaches far and wide
I heard the first wave of the rising tide
Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep;
A voice out of the silence of the deep,
A sound mysteriously multiplied
As of a cataract from the mountain's side,
Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep.
So comes to us at times, from the unknown
And inaccessible solitudes of being,
The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul;
And inspirations, that we deem our own,
Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing
Of things beyond our reason or control.

H. W. Longfellow, "The sound of the sea".

2D Abstract #115

I know that the day will come
when my sight of this earth shall be lost,
and life will take its leave in silence,
drawing the last curtain over my eyes.

Yet stars will watch at night,
and morning rise as before,
and hours heave like sea waves casting up pleasures and pains.

When I think of this end of my moments,
the barrier of the moments breaks
and I see by the light of death
thy world with its careless treasures.
Rare is its lowliest seat,
rare is its meanest of lives.

Things that I longed for in vain
and things that I got
——let them pass.
Let me but truly possess
the things that I ever spurned
and overlooked.

Rabindranath Tagore, "Last curtain".

Mandala #20 (A great day for Freedom)

To the sweet memory I have of the day when the wall in Berlin came down. Twenty years from today. What a day.
Play the song and rejoice in the memory, before thinking we have some other ones to take care of, as in Israel and the mexican border.

On the day the wall came down
They threw the locks onto the ground
And with glasses high we raised a cry for freedom had arrived
On the day the wall came down
The Ship of Fools had finally ran aground
Promises lit up the night like paper doves in flight

I dreamed you had left my side
No warmth, not even pride remained
And even though you needed me
It was clear that I could not do a thing for you

Now life devalues day by day
As friends and neighbors turn away
And there's a change that, even with regret, cannot be undone
Now frontiers shift like desert sands
While nations wash their bloodied hands
Of loyalty, of history, in shades of grey

I woke to the sound of drums
The music played, the morning sun streamed in
I turned and I looked at you
And all but the bitter residues slipped away... slipped away

Pink Floyd, "A great day for Freedom".

Genetic Algorithms - 3D Abstract #108

To Will Duffy.
This is the best I could do working with cubes, and had to tamper with the lights, reflections and background to be able to like it. This is a representation of the shape of my brain when I don't want to understand, see? Thinking "inside the box". Square. :-)

You take a piece of stone
chisel it with blood,
grind it with Homer’s eye,
burnish it with beams
until the cube comes out perfect.

Next you endlessly kiss the cube
with your mouth, with others’ mouths,
and, most important, with infanta’s mouth.
Then you take a hammer
and suddenly knock a corner off.

All, indeed absolutely all will say
what a perfect cube this would have been
if not for the broken corner

Nichita Stanescu, "A lecture on the cube".

Mandala #19

To the memory of the moment when I had a poem dedicated to me, by Russ Loar. Below.




for Cristian

1. Love Is Easy

Unlike philosophy,
Love is easy,
Actual.
You wake up each morning
And joy fills your heart
Because someone you love will say,
“I love you,”
Before the day is through,
And you will hold each other close
In a moment of eternity.


2. Love Is Hard

Unlike philosophy,
Love is hard,
Actual.
You wake up each morning
And pain fills your heart
Because someone you love has said,
“I don’t love you,”
And all day long
You will feel wounded and empty,
Hoping it won’t last forever.


3. Love Is Mysterious

Unlike philosophy,
Love is mysterious,
Ethereal.
You wake up each morning
And both joy and pain fill your heart
Because you ache to say,
“I love you,”
If only you could find someone
Before the end of another lonely day
And see the dream awaken.

Russ Loar, "Love is not philosophy".

Species of the dark #13

A return to a reading of my teenage years, when I was deeply concerned about the hurting of wars; like now, but, well...

[...]
Oh blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds!
These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem,
Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds:
And so they are; yet thus is Glory's dream
Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds
At present such things, since they are her theme,
So be they her inspirers! Call them Mars,
Bellona, what you will--they mean but wars.

All was prepared--the fire, the sword, the men
To wield them in their terrible array.
The army, like a lion from his den,
March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay,--
A human Hydra, issuing from its fen
To breathe destruction on its winding way,
Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain
Immediately in others grew again.

History can only take things in the gross;
But could we know them in detail, perchance
In balancing the profit and the loss,
War's merit it by no means might enhance,
To waste so much gold for a little dross,
As hath been done, mere conquest to advance.
The drying up a single tear has more
Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore.
[...]

Lord Byron, "Don Juan" (VIII)