but we did nothing

absolutely nothing that day, and I ask:
what the hell am I doing drinking in LA, at 26?

and all of a sudden

nobody can think of anything to say. beneath me, this awful city... it screams like an abattoir of retarded children and the night reeks of fornication and bad consciences.

she'd only loved two things

the first was her long dark hair. the second was how easily she could cut it off and feel nothing.

suddenly I turned around

and she was standing there
with silver bracelets on her wrists
and flowers in her hair
she walked up to me so gracefully
and took my crown of thorns
come in, she said
I'll give you
shelter from the storm

likely a white male

in his late twenties or thirties. he likely is not a college graduate but nonetheless feels superior to those with advanced education, and he is likely employed in a bureaucratic entity, possibly civil service or quasi-civil service from which he feels alienated.

he has a problem with authority and a deep-seated resentment of those who he feels have impeded his progress professionally... he has trouble with lasting relationships and is possibly a high-functioning alcoholic.

the hair...

they say the hair is everything, you know... have you ever buried your nose in a mountain of curls... just wanted to go to sleep forever?

and now he began to see

for the first time the unbelievable magnitude of what man, when he gained power to understand and rule the world in terms of dialectic truths, had lost. he had built empires of scientific capability to manipulate the phenomena of nature into enormous manifestations of his own dreams of power and wealth - but for this he had exchanged an empire of understanding of equal magnitude: an understanding of what it is to be a part of the world, and not an enemy of it.

the fisherman and his soul

what men call the shadow of the body is not the shadow of the body, but the body of the soul.

here's step thirteen

everything disappears. love, trees, rocks, steel, plastic, human beings... none of us get out alive. now, you can huddle in a group and face it one day at a time, or you can be grateful that when your body rubs against somebody else's it explodes with enough pleasure to make you forget even for a minute that you're a walking pile of ashes.

now that is the truth. if you're strong enough, it'll make you free.

writing about yourself

in eighty thousand words or thereabouts is like cleaning the garage. you're writing about your life and you go in and you think, god, look at the mess of it, and you start going through it and you realise there's so much junk you don't need anymore. and every now and again you find something that breaks your heart and makes you remember things, and then you find stuff that you wish you never bought ... and there are spiders.

кръгозори надвесени

странно е как дъждът променя всичко
заспивам нощем
и се събуждам сутрин
с еднакво настроение
никога не ми се е случвало

нямам вече собствени мисли
и чужди нямам назаем
само дъжд по прозореца и навън
и навсякъде

to live only for some future goal

is shallow. it's the sides of the mountain which sustain life, not the top. here's where things grow.

we take a handful of sand

from the endless landscape of awareness around us and call that handful of sand the world.

I want to tell you a story

a cargo ship sank one night. it caught fire and went down. and only this one sailor survived. he found a lifeboat, rigged a sail, and, being of a nautical discipline, turned his eyes to the heavens and read the stars. he set a course for his home and, exhausted, fell asleep.

clouds rolled in. and for the next twenty nights, he could no longer see the stars. he thought he was on course, but there was no way to be certain. and as the days rolled on, and the sailor wasted away, he began to have doubts.

had he set his course right? was he still going on towards his home? or was he horribly lost and doomed to a terrible death? the message of the constelations - had he imagined it because of his desperate circumstance?

or had he seen the truth once and now had to hold on to it without further reassurance?

one is the loneliest number

that you'll ever do
two can be as bad as one
it's the loneliest number since the number one

I smelt your scent on the seatbelt

tell me where's your hiding place
I'm worried I'll forget your face
and I've asked everyone
I'm beginning to think I imagined you all along

no man can wear

one face to himself and another to the multitude without finally getting bewildered as to which may be true.

there's more to life

than money, you know... don't you know that? and here you are, and it's a beautiful day.

видя ли пеперудите?

попитала чак тогава предпазливо. не, отвърнал уморено и легнал от своята страна, нищo не видях, сигурно са отлетели.

the world breaks every one

and afterward many are strong at the broken places. but those that will not break it kills. it kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. if you are none of those you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.

I went out the door

and suddenly I felt lonely and empty. I had treated seeing catherine very lightly, I had gotten somewhat drunk and had nearly forgotten to come but when I could not see her there I was feeling lonely and hollow.

I had drunk much wine

and afterward coffee and Strega and I explained, winefully, how we did not do the things we wanted to; we never did such things.

I want to hold your little hand

if I can be so bold
and be your right hand man
till your hands get old
and then when all the feeling's gone
just decide if you want to keep holding on

I want to hold your little hand
if I can be so bold

the earth turns

but we don't feel it move. and one night you look up... one spark, and the sky is on fire. the past is the torch that lights our way, where our fathers have shown us the path.

in no chess problem

since the beginning of the world has black ever won. did it not symbolize the eternal, unvarying triumph of good over evil? the huge face gazed back at him, full of calm power. white always mates.

you can't conceive, my child

nor can I or anyone, the appalling strangeness of the mercy of god.

our deepest fear

is not that we're inadequate. our deepest fear is that we're powerful beyond measure. it is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us the most. we ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? actually, who are you not to be?

you are a child of god. your playing small does not serve the world. there's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. we are all meant to shine, as children do.

that's all it takes

nothing more than a few words and the softest touch, and your life is different, won't ever be the same again. man dies, leaves you the mystery map to the secret island: happens every day. but you get a smile from someone you want: well, that's special.

that's worth the journey.

at the top I'm stopping by

your place of work and acting like
I haven't dreamed of you and I
and marriage in an orange grove

you are the only thing
in any room you're ever in
I'm stubborn, selfish and too old

за покойните се моли така

сякаш твоята душа се намира в ада, сред пламъците, и самият ти се мъчиш. чувствай техните мъки в сърцето си и пламенно, пламенно се моли за упокоението им в място светло, място злачно и място прохладно, където няма никаква болка, скръб и въздишка

don't you just take the past

and put it in a room in the basement, and lock the door and never go in there? that's what I do. and then you meet someone special and all you want to do is toss them the key, and say, open up, step inside...

but you can't because it's dark and there are demons. and if anybody saw how ugly it is...

in going where you have to go

and doing what you have to do
and seeing what you have to see
you blunt and dull the instrument you write with.

but I would rather have it bent and dulled and know I had to put it on the grindstone and hammer it into shape and put whetstone to it, and know I had something to write about, than have it bright and shining and nothing to say, or smooth and well-oiled in the closet, but unused.

this much I know

when the storm breaks, each man acts in accordance with his own nature. some are dumb with terror. some flee. some hide. and some... spread their wings like eagles and soar in the wind.

look out there

there is a whole world waiting for you. innocence is the most precious thing you possess. lose that and you lose your soul.

forget the past

there's nothing there, not even memories, just a road you never travelled, unwinding backwards to a place you never came from where fruit grows on trees you never climbed, in an orchard where you lost your virginity to a boy called timothy who died of horlicks poisoning before you were born. no answers there.

are you desirable?

are you irresistible? maybe if you drank bourbon with me it would help.

if you carefully plant a good seed

you will joyfully gather good fruit

may pretty horses

come to you
as you sleep

there's a hole in my neighbourhood

down which of late I cannot help but fall

no matter how many awards

or column inches are written about you, or how high the elected office is for me, it's still not enough. we still feel like the little man. the loser. they told us we were, a hundred times, the smart asses in college, the high ups. the well-born. the people who's respect we really wanted. really craved. and isn't that why we work so hard now, why we fight for every inch? scrambling our way up in undignified fashion.

if we're honest for a minute, if we reflect privately, just for a moment, if we allow ourselves a glimpse into that shadowy place we call our soul, isn't that why we're here?

I'm not frightened

I'm not frightened of anything. the more I suffer, the more I love. danger will only increase my love. it will sharpen it. it will give it spice. I'll be the only angel you need. you will leave life even more beautiful than you entered it. heaven will take you back and look at you and say: only one thing can make a soul complete

and that thing is love.

it was not her fault

that when he went to her he was already over. how could a woman know that you meant nothing that you said; that you spoke only from habit and to be comfortable? after he no longer meant what he said, his lies were more successful with women than when he had told them the truth.

it was not so much that he lied as that there was no truth to tell.

я животное

ты же видишь, я животное. у меня нет слов, меня не научили словам, я не умею думать, эти гады не дали мне научиться думать. но если ты на самом деле такой... всемогущий, всесильный, всепонимающий... разберись! загляни в мою душу, я знаю, там есть все, что тебе надо. должно быть. душу-то ведь я никогда и никому не продавал! она моя, человеческая! вытяни из меня сам, чего же я хочу, - ведь не может же быть, чтобы я хотел плохого!

this is the essence of discrimination

formulating opinions about others not based on their individual merits, but rather on their membership in a group with assumed characteristics.

I saw myself

sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

and what is good, phaedrus

and what is not good -
need we ask anyone to tell us these things?