I've always felt like the way words are constructed is no different than the construction of melodies; like a multi-dimensional musical scale. And each word is a note. And as with music, it is not the note which makes the melody but the relationship of the notes to one another across time as with words. For this reason I have always appreciated those who have been graced with the ability to write.
I am going through possibly the most intense cycle of death and rebirth because this time around it seems like almost everything that has hung around me the last decade is to go away with this dying. Lots of things and many people who do not serve me I have excommunicated, and that is all but 2 folks. It is not a mystical experience or anything special but merely the next chapter of my life. I've been spending a lot of time alone for the past couple of weeks and feeling like I am finally able to take an inventory of my life and ask the greatest existential questions that come in sharpest conflict with the current situation of my inner life.
In this alone time I have rediscovered reading and came across an amazing female writer, long dead of course, but I decided to download her most famous work because I didn't know where to start, and it is only 100 pages.
Since I have excommunicated almost everyone and one of the two I still talk to decided to order it herself to read, I wanted to express myself somewhere and am doing it here.
I am going through possibly the most intense cycle of death and rebirth because this time around it seems like almost everything that has hung around me the last decade is to go away with this dying. Lots of things and many people who do not serve me I have excommunicated, and that is all but 2 folks. It is not a mystical experience or anything special but merely the next chapter of my life. I've been spending a lot of time alone for the past couple of weeks and feeling like I am finally able to take an inventory of my life and ask the greatest existential questions that come in sharpest conflict with the current situation of my inner life.
In this alone time I have rediscovered reading and came across an amazing female writer, long dead of course, but I decided to download her most famous work because I didn't know where to start, and it is only 100 pages.
Since I have excommunicated almost everyone and one of the two I still talk to decided to order it herself to read, I wanted to express myself somewhere and am doing it here.
Children of the Albatross--Anaïs Nin said:
“In the external world she was the woman who had submitted to mysterious outer fatalities beyond her power to alter; and in her interior world she was a woman who had built many tunnels deeper down where no one could reach her, in which she deposited her treasures safe from destruction and in which she built a world exactly the opposite of the one she knew.”
“Happiness was an absence of fever. The garden was feverless and without tension to match her tensions. She could not unite or commune with the plants, the languor, the peace. It was all contrary to her inward pulse. Not one pulsation of the garden corresponded to her inner pulsation which was more like a drum beating feverish time.
Within her the leaves did not wait for autumn, but were torn off prematurely by unexpected sorrows. Within her, leaves did not wait for spring to sprout but bloomed in sudden hothouse exaggerations. Within her there were storms contrary to the lazy moods of the garden, devastations for which nature had no equivalent."
“For at first the personages of the dream, the cities which sprang up, were distinct and bore no resemblance to reality. They were images which filled her head with the vapors of fever, a drug-like panorama of incidents which rendered her insensible to cold, hunger and fatigue.
The day her mother was taken to the hospital to die, the day her brother was injured while playing in the street and developed a gentle insanity, the day at the asylum when she fell under the tyranny of the only man in the place, were days when she noted an intensification of her other world.
She could still weep at these happenings, but as people might lament just before they go under an anesthetic. “It still hurts,” says the voice as the anesthetic begins to take effect and the pain growing duller, the body complaining more out of a mere remembrance of pain, automatically, just before sinking into a void.”
“Happiness was an absence of fever. The garden was feverless and without tension to match her tensions. She could not unite or commune with the plants, the languor, the peace. It was all contrary to her inward pulse. Not one pulsation of the garden corresponded to her inner pulsation which was more like a drum beating feverish time.
Within her the leaves did not wait for autumn, but were torn off prematurely by unexpected sorrows. Within her, leaves did not wait for spring to sprout but bloomed in sudden hothouse exaggerations. Within her there were storms contrary to the lazy moods of the garden, devastations for which nature had no equivalent."
“For at first the personages of the dream, the cities which sprang up, were distinct and bore no resemblance to reality. They were images which filled her head with the vapors of fever, a drug-like panorama of incidents which rendered her insensible to cold, hunger and fatigue.
The day her mother was taken to the hospital to die, the day her brother was injured while playing in the street and developed a gentle insanity, the day at the asylum when she fell under the tyranny of the only man in the place, were days when she noted an intensification of her other world.
She could still weep at these happenings, but as people might lament just before they go under an anesthetic. “It still hurts,” says the voice as the anesthetic begins to take effect and the pain growing duller, the body complaining more out of a mere remembrance of pain, automatically, just before sinking into a void.”
Props:
Thizzlejuice and dalycity650