Sunday, September 30, 2007


First time I declared my love it was summertime, I was a child, and had a daisy in my right hand.
For each and everyone reading: I love you.

The aesthetic event is something as evident, as immediate, as indefinable as love, the taste of fruit, of water. We feel poetry as we feel the closeness of a woman, or as we feel a mountain or a bay. If we feel it immediately, why dilute it with other words, which no doubt will be weaker than our feelings?

Jorge Luis Borges, from "Poetry".

Saturday, September 29, 2007

Bioluminescent flower

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas, poem named after the first line.

Friday, September 28, 2007

Horse nettle

How I love wildflowers! If you are or have been in the middle-USA states you have seen one of these, but a real one: This is an artwork of a horse-nettle in the night.

As I wander'd the forest,
The green leaves among,
I heard a wild flower
Singing a song.

I slept in the Earth
In the silent night,
I murmur'd my fears
And I felt delight.

In the morning I went
As rosy as morn,
To seek for new joy;
But O! met with scorn.

William Blake, "The wild flower's song".

Thursday, September 27, 2007


I asked myself today this senseless question: how it might look a weave of time in the shape of a flower... like a representation of a terrible beauty that never ends, a hellish unbearable immortal beauty, ab aeternum, immanent to the very essence of everything, not allowing the mind to proper focus in life, perpetually insomniac, persecuting an aberration of the purity, like an endless hunting of moby dick... burning defects into a hell of uncertainty... but not... not quite like that: just travelling time as with insomniac eyes drown in all the stars of the sky.

A weave of time and lives into eternity making the shape of a flower. How it would look?

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,
They alway must be with us, or we die.


John Keats, (fragment of) "Endymion", book I.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007


Dedicated to M.

I am just a sunflower, pure and always staring at the sun of my love. You are a sun like a Dahlia, symbol of elegance, gorgeousness and dignity.

Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.

For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair;
That fatal glance forbids esteem

.When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd that, too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own.

Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk,
Within those once celestial eyes.

These might the boldest Sylph appall,
When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all;
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?'

Tis said that Berenice's hair,
In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne'er permit thee there,
Who wouldst so far outshine the seven.

For did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:
E'en suns, which systems now control,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.

Lord Byron, "To M-".

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

White dryad

Dedicated to J.
Thanks for the pictures of flowers you sent. I return you a white dryad artwork, and one of my all-time favourite poets.

White sweetness, richest odours round thee cling.
Purely thou breathest of voluptuous Spring!
Thou art so white, because thou dost enclose
All the advancing splendours of the year;
And thou hast burned beyond the reddest rose,
To shine so keenly clear.

Robert Binyon, "The dryad".

Monday, September 24, 2007

Cactus flower

Now that cedars, taper-wise,
Tincture delicately skies-
Smokes of fragrance darkly brood
Over cactus torpitude.

Norman MacLeod, "Cactus bloom".

Sunday, September 23, 2007

Sage flower

I'm in need of pure and simple things at this moment I'm through; appreciating real flowers and creating artwork flowers do the magic.
I thought this one looks like a Clary Sage flower (view from the top). Those represent wisdom.
This is dedicated to my great friend Amber. You are an outstanding human being.

Though leaves are many, the root is one;
Through all the lying days of my youth
I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;
Now I may wither into the truth.

W.B. Yeats, "The Coming Of Wisdom With Time"

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Flora galaxy

OK, today 21st, the spring has started here at the south. From tomorrow on, I will post some flower-like works, some rare flora that you can find in this "flora galaxy", that has a weird evolutionary art's ecosystem. :-) Supposedly _that_ you see there in the image is a vegetal galaxy... no-one said it would be easy, ha?

I am the handmaid of the earth,
I broider fair her glorious gown,
And deck her on her days of mirth
With many a garland of renown.

And while Earth's little ones are fain
And play about the Mother's hem,
I scatter every gift I gain
From sun and wind to gladden them.

William Morris, "Flora".

Friday, September 21, 2007


"A moment's brightness in the sky", wrote MacGill. Tomorrow, in hours, starts the springtime here in the south, and me... here... with this winter-oriented thoughts... springtime is coming; our springtime must come.

A star-shell holds the sky beyond
Shell-shivered Loos, and drops
In million sparkles on a pond
That lies by Hulluch copse.

A moment's brightness in the sky,
To vanish at a breath,
And die away, as soldiers die
Upon the wastes of death.

Patrick MacGill, "the star-shell".

Thursday, September 20, 2007


The future: time's excuse
to frighten us; too vast
a project, too large a morsel
for the heart's mouth.

Future, who won't wait for you?
Everyone is going there.
It suffices you to deepen
the absence that we are.

Rainer Maria Rilke, "The future".

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Red morning

"Music, states of happiness, mythology, faces belabored by time, certain twilights and certain places try to tell us something, or have said something we should not have missed, or are about to say something; this imminence of a revelation which does not occur is, perhaps, the aesthetic phenomenon."

Jorge Luis Borges, from "The Wall and the books".

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Warfare firewall

"...and let's face it, if the mothers ruled the world, there would be no god damn wars in the first place." Sally Field, censored in the U.S. TV, from the Emmy awards 2007, on september 15th.

"...and let's face it, if mobsters ruled the world... maybe they do." David Chase, in the Emmy awards 2007.

In the medieval tactics of war, the firewalls of burned oil were a terrifying strategy (but expensive and almost not used) for limiting the retreat of the enemy. These days there seem to be virtual political firewalls to stop our own countries from retreating, due to political pressure; it is difficult to believe, but real, that the political arrogance weights more than the population discontent (might be it is that arrogance implies disdain). I remind Malvinas/Falklands as the first war like this, in 1982, and I'm still trying to solve what I've seen around when I was a child... and still see.
What a large amount of wasted lives, and people hurt beyond the conceivable.

There was crimson clash of war.
Lands turned black and bare;
Women wept;
Babes ran, wondering.
There came one who understood not these things.
He said, "Why is this?"
Whereupon a million strove to answer him.
There was such intricate clamour of tongues,
That still the reason was not.

Stephen Maria Crane, "There was crimson clash of war".

Monday, September 17, 2007

Rainbow clouds

"Youth is happy because it has the ability to see beauty. Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old."

Franz Kafka.

Sunday, September 16, 2007

One soul in the crowd III

This is the final (yeees! final... lyyy) version of One soul in the crowd. In the end it is only a modification of the palette of One soul in the crowd II. Looks decent in full size, with the first kind of paintbrush emulation. Evolutionary art is so weird in results sometimes.
If this were not a blog, only the final version would have been posted... :sigh: Too much work in progress.

"Love hinders death. Love is life. All, everything that I understand, I understand only because I love. Everything is, everything exists, only because I love. Everything is united by it alone. Love is God, and to die means that I, a particle of love, shall return to the general and eternal source."

Leo Tolstoy, "War and Peace", Bk XIII, Chapter 16.

Saturday, September 15, 2007

Moon halves

Just like the poem by Cummings, so tried to make an image for it.

one's not half two. It's two are halves of one:
which halves reintegrating, shall occur
no death and any quantity; but than
all numerable mosts the actual more

minds ignorant of stern miraculous
this every truth-beware of heartless them
(given the scalpel, they dissect a kiss;
or, sold the reason, they undream a dream)

one is the song which fiends and angels sing:
all murdering lies by mortals told make two.
Let liars wilt, repaying life they're loaned;
we (by a gift called dying born) must grow

deep in dark least ourselves remembering
love only rides his year.
All lose, whole find.

E.E. Cummings, poem named after the first line.

Friday, September 14, 2007

Lava river II

Another version of the "avoided" lava river (using that rare paintbrush emulation). Daaangerous. :-)

"Actions are sometimes performed in a masterly and most cunning way, while the direction of the actions is deranged and dependent on various morbid impressions -it's like a dream."

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment, Chapter 17.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Lava river

Excuse the long post!, this is not for you, then. Leave! :-)
The image is the second out of that new "paintbrush simulation" style, which is starting to dislike me and annoy too.

This has been an art-only related blog. Lately the weight of problems has showed up here, since it affected everything. I never liked that: blogging zones of the personal life in what started as a non-personal blog, seems unnecessary; but words are pushing to show up here, anyway, since they don't find the appropriate forum yet.

Lately I've had many tasks to take care of, mostly by heavy moral obligations. Still, against those obligations, in the last days I had the more unexpected episode, and it was very related to the making of the images for this blog. It happened that I was driving the flow of images (my description of evolutionary art included there), and started to delay some things in my personal schedule while was in the search of a particular image, I denied as much as possible to leave it for later while I was feeling in the right path. "Just some more minutes, then I save". This was new, since my abandoned times at writing; but I didn't saw it. At the next day I delayed my appointments on purpose, "so argentinian". It was just that the flow of images was going the right way, I felt it flowing like a river through me, and "do not want to waste the inspiration saving now". I had a access of guilt regarding my moral obligations after this. But next day I repeated the scene, "now I have it under control, will call a friend to do some of my tasks for me if I can't go", and the flow was going through me, I never was as much productive as that day, with an unethical plan to escape of the things that I should have done, and a desire of doing what I wanted. My friend was not available. I call to cancel and re-schedule the appointment then, but was too late; getting on time was impossible, and making the circumstances to work around my obligations was very hard, but saving the work and leaving felt worst, even knowing the moral scale and principles was on the line. Aside, I was looking for images of a kind; a long series of images resembling flowers, and was blinded by the idea that that was significative somehow: the flow became neurotic. Next day, the set of remorses didn't allowed me to focus, no idea worked out, no image pleased, "I will not move until finishing one today!", and the clock was ticking, "something must be done today to not lose this day working for nothing", and the calls started to enter the mobile phone: "- Will you go to take care of that or not?", "- God, can't _you_ go instead of me?", and my temper was difficult to manage under the pressure of frustration... the flowing was going backwards now; working on this artwork was substracting peace instead of adding it. The day ended with a feeling of achieving nothing, not doing anything truly good or truly bad, just nothing useful: the flow became obsessive then. Next day no moral obligation was strong enough to kept me out of trying to "achieve something today": the weirdest set of justifications and escapist ideas was put on the table to rely on; like Kafka, out of context: "Each thing was given the responsibility for itself". The backflowing of the former peaceful flowing river, became a lava river, burning everything: the peace in me, and the trust of others, only in a matter of five days. So after hours of frustration, a light broken the darkness: "Oh oh, I'm obsessed again!, like when writing, years ago... from now on, this has to take no more than two hours a day, between fixed hours if possible, and be an oasis again". So the experience of other time helped out to not repeat a sad mistake. The writing times, years ago, were much worst managed without the experience: alcohol, finantial troubles due to the high amount of time dedicated to write, and disastrous personal relationships. It is cool not tripping on the same stone again, but not at all the price to pay in time and effort, and less than everything being forced to learn like that; but I accept that is an effective way.

This poem -perfectly illustrates the best part of making images relying in evolutionary art techniques- belongs to the best reputated poet of my town, Paraná, Argentina, and he lived between 1896 and 1978.

I went to the river, and I felt it
near me, before me.
The branches had voices
that didn't reached me.
The stream said
things that I did't understood.
It almost distressed me.
I wanted to understand it,
to feel what the vague and pale sky said on it
with its first extended syllables,
but I couldn't.
It was backflowing
-It was I the one that was backflowing?-
in the vague anguish
of feeling lonely between the last and secret things.
Suddenly I felt the river in me,
it ran in me
with its tremulous borders of signs,
with its reflected depths slighly starred.
The river in me ran with its branches.
I was a river in the dusk,
and the trees sighed over me,
and the footpath and the grass were quenching in me.
Was flowing a river through me, flowing a river through me!

Juan L. Ortiz, "I went to the river" ("Fuí al río", original in spanish here).

Wednesday, September 12, 2007


I have had a nice set of days since saturday 8th, in spite of heavy problems; so wanted to make this work, as a souvenir, for me to have for reminding. I share it, is this one:

To my surprise, and my delight
I saw sunrise, I saw sunlight
I am nothing in the dark
And the clouds burst to show daylight

Ooh and the sun will shine
Yeah on this heart of mine
Ooh and I realise
Who cannot live without
Ooh come apart without
On a hill top, on a sky-rise
Like a first born child
At full tilt, and in full flight
Defeat darkness, breaking daylight

Ooh and the sun will shine
Yeah on this heart of mine
Ooh and I realise
Who cannot live without
Ooh come apart without

Slowly breaking through the daylight
Slowly breaking through the daylight...

Coldplay, "Daylight".

Tuesday, September 11, 2007


This graphic is the first out of the new paintbrush-simulation of the three exercises posted before. The colours are not the appropriate, if I keep working over this "style" the next works will look better. This is "evoart", and I'm not perfectionist in this regards, but casual instead, since I consider this a hobby yet.
I recommend the selected poem very much.

This is one of my all time favourite writers; while this poem names a "strange fruit" the heart of men, I just thought it was perfect combination to this image of supposedly still-life fruits; plus it adds its beauty to a moment of life when this matters in the poem are concerning me deeply.
I really love this writer; aside with Borges, Liz Browning, Lord Byron, Novalis, Will Blake, Tagore, Cummings, Mistral, Swinburne and Coleridge, he is inside my circle of preferred ones.

This year the grain is heavy-ripe;
The apple shows a ruddier stripe;
Never berries so profuse
Blackened with so sweet a juice
On brambly hedges, summer-dyed.
The yellow leaves begin to glide;
But Earth in careless lap-ful treasures
Pledge of over-brimming measures,
As if some rich unwonted zest
Stirred prodigal within her breast.
And now, while plenty's left uncared,
The fruit unplucked, the sickle spared,
Where men go forth to waste and spill,
Toiling to burn, destroy and kill,
Lo, also side by side with these
Beast-hungers, ravening miseries,
The heart of man has brought to birth
Splendours richer than his earth.
Now in the thunder-hour of fate
Each one is kinder to his mate;
The surly smile; the hard forbear;
There's help and hope for all to share;
And sudden visions of goodwill
Transcending all the scope of ill
Like a glory of rare weather
Link us in common light together,
A clearness of the cleansing sun,
Where none's alone and all are one;
And touching each a priceless pain
We find our own true hearts again.
No more the easy masks deceive:
We give, we dare, and we believe.

Robert Lawrence Binyon, "Strange fruit".

Monday, September 10, 2007

Rainbow over grey

Sometimes on sundays like today I feel my handful of spleen. I let it be, because it is a sweet feeling; and lying over the grass on a sunny day makes it sweeter. Like a tiny rainbow light over a blurry grey background.

Sunday: this satisfied procession
Of definite Sunday faces;
Bonnets, silk hats, and conscious graces
In repetition that displaces
Your mental self-possession
By this unwarranted digression.

Evening, lights, and tea!
Children and cats in the alley;
Dejection unable to rally
Against this dull conspiracy.

And Life, a little bald and gray,
Languid, fastidious, and bland,
Waits, hat and gloves in hand,
Punctilious of tie and suit
(Somewhat impatient of delay)
On the doorstep of the Absolute.

T.S. Eliot, "Spleen".

Sunday, September 09, 2007

The Sun

Evolutionary Art. Interactive Genetic Algorithms. Pure math and human selection. But how cool to me when an image comes out representing the best of my day, or more strangely, when it represents one real thing, like the sky, or in this case, the sun.


O SUN of real peace! O hastening light!
O free and extatic! O what I here, preparing, warble for!
O the sun of the world will ascend, dazzling, and take his height—and you too, O my Ideal, will surely ascend!
O so amazing and broad—up there resplendent, darting and burning!
O vision prophetic, stagger’d with weight of light! with pouring glories!
O lips of my soul, already becoming powerless!
O ample and grand Presidentiads! Now the war, the war is over!
New history! new heroes! I project you!
Visions of poets! only you really last! sweep on! sweep on!
O heights too swift and dizzy yet!
O purged and luminous! you threaten me more than I can stand!
(I must not venture—the ground under my feet menaces me—it will not support me:
O future too immense,)—O present, I return, while yet I may, to you.

Walt Whitman, 295, (from Leaves of Grass).

Saturday, September 08, 2007

Style exercises

I've been looking again for a different kind of result, or "paintbrush technique" simulation in Evolutionary Art. These images are three of a kind, out of a new looking style I've never reached before, or seen around. They resemble what would be my second type of hand-made simulation. The valuable part to me, is that I never use textures or filters, and everything is generated from ground zero by mathematical values. These are just the technical results; I'll see what can I do with this. I hope something good, or at least new, might get out of this.




Friday, September 07, 2007


Green poisons! Lethal Grass
of Artificial Paradises!

To everyone defeats the marijuana,
which gives the science of the Ramayana.

Oh! Marijuana, green pneumonic,
cannabis indica et babilonica.

You open the sesame of the joy,
green hemp, kif of Turkey.

Grass of the Old Man of the Mountain,
the Inquisition found you in Spain.

Grass which initiates the fakirs,
flood of enjoyments and Dies Irae.

Green emerald: -praises the persian poet-
your green dressed the prophet!

(Kif -green grass of the Persian- is
the bengalese haschi-chinese bhang.

Charas, which smokes on the divan,
between odalisks, the Great Sultan.)

Ramón del Valle Inclán, "Kif's pipe", poem nº11.

... ... - Suddenly I'm hungry
- ...Hey man, freaky!: I am Snake in The Simpsons?! :

Your Simpsons personality is... Snake

Horoscope: While running the three-card monty, you will be approached by a beautiful girl named Shoshana. She will pick a card and you will totally fall hard. Unfortunately, she will dump you after the VCR you steal for her birthday turns out to be beta.

To find out which Simpsons character matches your personality, go to:

The Official* Simpsons Personality Quiz

- You can't be Snake, man; you don't like working! ...instead:

Your Personality Is Like Marijuana

You're laid back and easy going, so much so that taking a shower is often too much trouble for you!
Nevertheless, you're quite popular, and many people enjoy your company. You're rarely turned down.
You're prone to giggle fits, paranoia, and forgetting where you are exactly.

...mmh, OK, I should have chosen one quote out of a Cheech and Chong movie instead of a Valle Inclán's poem; here you have:

- Now, I'm going to whip you to death.
- You may whip us, but you'll never beat us.

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Field of clovers

This is an old image, from 2004, and I never posted it because I never liked it, too deformed. My crooked eye saw a clover field in the night, and a big caterpillar. But the image survived the time, and survived... Until the last days while reading Dickinson, some of those elements I supposedly saw: the field, the clover, plus the caterpillar in the image like a pain residing; went in contact with the apparent humility of this particular poem; then the humble image found its moment, and I just choose to post it, at least to show a poem that is genial.

It's All I have to bring to-day,
This, and my heart beside,
This, and my heart, and all the fields,
And all the meadows wide.
Be sure you count, should I forget, —
Some one the sum could tell, —
This, and my heart, and all the bees
Which in the clover dwell.

Emily Dickinson, named after the first line.

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

Rather flowrished

A new version of what now is a serie of evolutionary art images.

It is pretty well flowrished right now (I know about the "W"). Before that, it was definitively flowrishing, and before anything it was slighly flowrishing. Yes, it is rather flowrished now; I hope it matters somehow. :-)

I dreamt that she sat by my head, tenderly ruffling my hair with
her fingers, playing the melody of her touch. I looked at her face
and struggled with my tears, till the agony of unspoken words burst
my sleep like a bubble.

I sat up and saw the glow of the Milky Way above my window,
like a world of silence on fire, and I wondered if at this moment
she had a dream that rhymed with mine.

Rabindranath Tagore, "Lover's Gifts XXVIII: I Dreamt".

Tuesday, September 04, 2007


Another twilight to count. One day at a time, one hour at a time, one breathe at a time, to pass a day into which nothing I do gives something to remember. Pathetic.
My memories are sieged by her (by YOU, are you around?).
I'm sorry for not having a brain right now; I'm sorry for others, my friends and the people who suffer my drowning state. Everything and everyone says it will pass... I still remember the years before, years that had passed...
Courage, dignity, even honour: too much to juggle with in a hellish longing state that doesn't allow me to think; what the hell, I only juggle with your memories in my mind; sometimes a little air comes out of that; many times it consumes it all. I am not like this, but right now I am, ha. Freaking angst.

Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn,
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh, heart, again in the gray twilight;
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.
Thy mother Eire is always young,
Dew ever shining and twilight gray,
Though hope fall from thee or love decay
Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.
Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill,
For there the mystical brotherhood
Of hollow wood and the hilly wood
And the changing moon work out their will.
And God stands winding his lonely horn;
And Time and World are ever in flight,
And love is less kind than the gray twilight,
And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.

William Butler Yeats, "Into the twilight".

Monday, September 03, 2007

Whirlwind of days

Time is a joke. While I pass nights feeling sorry for myself, and days trying to forget the nights, and while those days seem to drag slowly in my pain, -on the map vision of this time- days run rapidly instead, in the same way as I exaggerated this image, like a whirlwind in the memory. But days accumulate without leaving a track of significant memories... what really happened yesterday to remember? No intent for variating activities eases the mind, no company is useful. In fact, I can't put my finger on anything good that a previous similar state like this has left to me. Nothing good seems to get out of it. Experience... please; improving friends and family ties... please, again (am not ungrateful at all, but my feeling asks for someone else). Improving myself, more than please!: it was not the point of being in love? It was not the objective of nature to mate, and the one of the spirit to be fulfilled? It is not that the virtues of the beloved becomes the immanent beauty of everything in the world? So the greatest their virtues, the hardest the way to live without its love? Well, that is the case with her and me.

Well, how good would it be to feel like achieving something out of a broken heart. The sad truth is I'm getting old, and tired of the state. I'm nothing in the dark; and I start to not understand the happiness of others, how it seems natural, and so common around. The grief will endure for long, so to keep friends by my side I started to shut up when they ask how I am, they already know me better than myself; I'll keep them by my side trying to not bore them, and apparently will blog to bore a few others; at least I might feel that I said something and have it out of my system. Who knows how many time that may help; if it is like the rest of things I do, very little time. I don't care for the negative sight of me that this might create in others, or in employers. I'm sick of absence, and every minute is long, very long, as the hours seems to drag, no matter what I do, but the days fly when I try to remember something nice; it is just that everything is uninteresting and hurting, inside sorrow. Everything except for the one perfect person she is. This is the greatest tragedy possible, as it has happened before, love without the beloved. And I'm not intelligent enough to live with my feelings about her without her help or presence. How resemblant to death.

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did

Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
e.e. cummings, poem named after the first line.

Saturday, September 01, 2007

Spiral of light and darkness

Oh, I have tried to laugh the pain away,
Let new flames brush my love-springs like a feather.
But the old fever seizes me to-day,
As sickness grips a soul in wretched weather.
I have given up myself to every urge,
With not a care of precious powers spent,
Have bared my body to the strangest scourge,
To soothe and deaden my heart's unhealing rent.
But you have torn a nerve out of my frame,
A gut that no physician can replace,
And reft my life of happiness and aim.
Oh what new purpose shall I now embrace?
What substance hold, what lovely form pursue,
When my thought burns through everything to you?

Claude McKay, "Futility".

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