<= 2001.02.25

2001.02.27 =>

dedalusions of grandeur

I think continually of those who were truly great.
Who, from the womb, remembered the soul's history
Through corridors of light where the hours are suns
Endless and singing. Whose lovely ambition
Was that their lips, still touched with fire,
Should tell of the Spirit clothed from head to foot in song.
And who hoarded from the Spring branches
The desires falling across their bodies like blossoms.

What is precious is never to forget
The essential delight of the blood drawn from ageless springs
Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth.
Never to deny its pleasure in the morning simple light
Nor its grave evening demand for love.
Never to allow gradually the traffic to smother
With noise and fog the flowering of the spirit.

Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest fields
See how these names are fêted by the waving grass
And by the streamers of white cloud
And whispers of wind in the listening sky.
The names of those who in their lives fought for life
Who wore at their hearts the fire's center.
Born of the sun they traveled a short while towards the sun,
And left the vivid air signed with their honor.
            -Stephen Spender

I am not Jesus, though I have the same initials
I am the man who stays home and does the dishes

Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll land among the stars.
            -Les Brown, reprinted in zillions of cheesy motivational tracts

Cleaning up after spaghetti for one. Seems like I eat nothing else these days.

This was supposed to be my recuperative period after finishing the last story. But I find myself unable to stop thinking about writing, ever. Nearly every waking minute gets filtered through that context. This is fine in one sense but in another I'd like to rest.

I let this site pathologize me (it says I'm okay, mostly). One of the questions was "Do you think a lot about achieving great things or being famous?" It's a sickness to think that way? Here's the trick: I don't think lasting achievement is possible without the internal whipper always flogging you on. But Christ, it's a ridiculous standard to hold yourself to, and it carries an unattractive tint of arrogance. And while you're off chasing the pipe dream, the rest of your life languishes.

Links on the truly great: saving Nabokov from French academia and the making of Dr. Strangelove, including an account of the cut War Room pie-fight scene. Both good, longish articles.


<= 2001.02.25

2001.02.27 =>

up (2001.02)