I'm without original thought or opinion today, so I thought I'd just post some beautiful things that inspire me.
William Blake: The Tyger (1794)
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
tiny dancer
Heather Johns
Predictable SUV shows.
Not that there were any on tonight, but I did watch the Mentalist and yes, I do have homework I could be doing. Right now, in fact, but the night is young! I reckon I still have at least 4 hours in me if need be.
William Shakespeare and his wife Anne Hathaway
She must have inspired some of his work, so I'll give her a pinch of credit too.
Scientology
Or maybe just religion in general? But mainly Scientology at the moment. I'm fascinated by it yet so frustrated that it is utterly impossible to find any unbiased material on it. Suppose it's like that for all religions- faith is such a deeply personal thing.
Sylvia Plath: Insomniac
The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole --
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.
Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.
He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue --
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.
His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.
Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.
Metal music
I sound like such a dork saying it like that. I just love the passion metal musicians express.
Japanese
It is such a beautiful language with a beautiful script, and it's a shame I really feel I am no good at it at all.
Maybe I'll just end my mind jargon here.
Oh, one more.
The word "jargon"
:D
Merry Tuesday to you.
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