Wednesday, December 31, 2003
Year in Review
A long haul. That's just about it.
A long haul. That's just about it.
An Imperial Message
The Emperor, so a parable runs, has sent a message to you, the humble subject, the insignificant shadow cowering in the remotest distance before the imperial sun; the Emperor from his deathbed has sent a message to you alone. He has commanded the messenger to kneel down by the bed, and has whispered the message to him; so much store did he lay on it that he ordered the messenger to whisper it back into his ear again. Then by a nod of the head he has confirmed that it is right. Yes, before the assembled spectators of his death--all the obstructing walls have been broken down, and on the spacious and loftily mounting open staircases stand in a ring the great princes of the Empire--before all these he has delivered his message. The messenger immediately sets out on his journey; a powerful, an indefatigable man; now pushing with his right arm, now with his left, he cleaves a way for himself through the throng; if he encounters resistance he points to his breast, where the symbol of the sun glitters; the way is made easier for him than it would be for any other man. But the multitudes are so vast; their numbers have no end. If he could reach the open fields how fast he would fly, and soon doubtless you would hear the welcome hammering of his fists on your door. But instead how vainly does he wear out his strength; still he is only making his way through the chambers of the innermost palace; never will he get to the end of them; and if he succeeded in that nothing would be gained; he must next fight his way down the stair; and if he succeeded in that nothing would be gained; the courts would still have to be crossed; and after the courts the second outer palace; and once more stairs and courts; and once more another palace; and so on for thousands of years; and if at last he should burst through the outermost gate--but never, never can that happen--the imperial capital would lie before him, the center of the world, crammed to bursting with its own sediment. Nobody could fight his way through here with even a message from a dead man. But you sit at your window when evening falls and dream it to yourself.
Franz Kafka
The Emperor, so a parable runs, has sent a message to you, the humble subject, the insignificant shadow cowering in the remotest distance before the imperial sun; the Emperor from his deathbed has sent a message to you alone. He has commanded the messenger to kneel down by the bed, and has whispered the message to him; so much store did he lay on it that he ordered the messenger to whisper it back into his ear again. Then by a nod of the head he has confirmed that it is right. Yes, before the assembled spectators of his death--all the obstructing walls have been broken down, and on the spacious and loftily mounting open staircases stand in a ring the great princes of the Empire--before all these he has delivered his message. The messenger immediately sets out on his journey; a powerful, an indefatigable man; now pushing with his right arm, now with his left, he cleaves a way for himself through the throng; if he encounters resistance he points to his breast, where the symbol of the sun glitters; the way is made easier for him than it would be for any other man. But the multitudes are so vast; their numbers have no end. If he could reach the open fields how fast he would fly, and soon doubtless you would hear the welcome hammering of his fists on your door. But instead how vainly does he wear out his strength; still he is only making his way through the chambers of the innermost palace; never will he get to the end of them; and if he succeeded in that nothing would be gained; he must next fight his way down the stair; and if he succeeded in that nothing would be gained; the courts would still have to be crossed; and after the courts the second outer palace; and once more stairs and courts; and once more another palace; and so on for thousands of years; and if at last he should burst through the outermost gate--but never, never can that happen--the imperial capital would lie before him, the center of the world, crammed to bursting with its own sediment. Nobody could fight his way through here with even a message from a dead man. But you sit at your window when evening falls and dream it to yourself.
Franz Kafka
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
No Surety
?
~
Not really sure if it is the medication that is doing it. I skip the morning dose. Maintain the evening one to the minimum specified. Feel blessed with an amazing sense of quietude. No guaraantee of it lasting. Keep myself from getting paranoid about it. However.
?
~
Sunday, December 28, 2003
Drive
Smack, crack, bushwhacked.
Tie another one to the racks, baby.
Hey kids, rock and roll.
Nobody tells you where to go, baby.
What if I ride ? What if you walk ?
What if you rock around the clock ?
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
What if you did? What if you walk ?
What if you tried to get off, baby ?
Hey, kids, where are you ?
Nobody tells you what to do, baby.
Hey kids, shake a leg.
Maybe you're crazy in the head, baby.
Maybe you did. Maybe you walked.
Maybe you rocked around the clock.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Maybe I ride. Maybe you walk.
Maybe I drive to get off, baby.
Hey kids, shake a leg.
Maybe you're crazy in the head, baby.
Ollie, ollie.
Ollie ollie ollie.
Ollie ollie in come free, baby.
Hey, kids, where are you ?
Nobody tells you what to do, baby.
Smack, crack. Shack-a-lack.
Tie another one to your back, baby.
Hey kids, rock and roll.
Nobody tells you where to go, baby.
Maybe you did. Maybe you walk.
Maybe you rock around the clock
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Maybe I ride. Maybe you walk.
Maybe I drive to get off, baby.
Hey kids, where are you ?
Nobody tells you what to do, baby.
Hey kids, rock and roll.
Nobody tells you where to go, baby, baby, baby
REM
Smack, crack, bushwhacked.
Tie another one to the racks, baby.
Hey kids, rock and roll.
Nobody tells you where to go, baby.
What if I ride ? What if you walk ?
What if you rock around the clock ?
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
What if you did? What if you walk ?
What if you tried to get off, baby ?
Hey, kids, where are you ?
Nobody tells you what to do, baby.
Hey kids, shake a leg.
Maybe you're crazy in the head, baby.
Maybe you did. Maybe you walked.
Maybe you rocked around the clock.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Maybe I ride. Maybe you walk.
Maybe I drive to get off, baby.
Hey kids, shake a leg.
Maybe you're crazy in the head, baby.
Ollie, ollie.
Ollie ollie ollie.
Ollie ollie in come free, baby.
Hey, kids, where are you ?
Nobody tells you what to do, baby.
Smack, crack. Shack-a-lack.
Tie another one to your back, baby.
Hey kids, rock and roll.
Nobody tells you where to go, baby.
Maybe you did. Maybe you walk.
Maybe you rock around the clock
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Maybe I ride. Maybe you walk.
Maybe I drive to get off, baby.
Hey kids, where are you ?
Nobody tells you what to do, baby.
Hey kids, rock and roll.
Nobody tells you where to go, baby, baby, baby
REM
Before the Law
BEFORE THE LAW stands a doorkeeper. To this doorkeeper there comes a man from the country and prays for admittance to the Law. But the doorkeeper says that he cannot grant admittance at the moment. The man thinks it over and then asks if he will be allowed in later. "It is possible," says the doorkeeper, " but not at the moment." Since the gate stands open, as ususal, and the doorkeeper steps to one side, the man stoops to peer though the gateway into the interior. Observing that, the doorkeeper laughs and says : "If you are so drawn to it, just try to go in despite my veto. But take note : I am powerful. And I am the least of the doorkeepers. From hall to hall there is one doorkeeper after another, each more powerful than the last. The third doorkeeper is already so terrible that I cannot bear to look at him." These are difficulties the man from the country has not expected; the Law, he thinks, should surely be accessible at all times and to everyone, but as he now takes a closer look at the doorkeeper in his fur coat, with his big sharp nose and long, thin, black Tartar beard, he diecides it is better to wait until he gets permission to enter. The doorkeeper gives him a stool and lets him sit down at one side of the door. There he sits for days and years. He makes many attempts to be admitted, and wearies the doorkeepr with his importunity. The doorkeeper frequently has little interviews with him, asking him questions about his home and many other things, but the questions are put indifferently, as great lords put them, and always finish with the statement that he cannot be let in yet. The man, who has furnished himself with many things for his journey, sacrifices all he has, however valuable, to bribe the doorkeeper. The doorkeeper accepts everything, but always with the remark : "I am only taking to it to keep you from thinking that you have omitted anything." Durning these great many years, the man fixes his attention almost continuously on the doorkeeper. He forgets the other doorkeepers, and this first one seems to him the sole obstacle preventing access to the Law. He curses his bad luck, in his early years boldly and loudly; later as he grows older, he only grumbles to himself. he becomes childish, and since in his yearlong contemplation, he has come to know even the fleas in his fur collar, he begs the fleas as well to help him and change the doorkeeper's mind. At length his eyesight begins to fail, and he does not know whether the world is really darker or whether his eyes are only deceiving him. Yet in his darkness he is now aware of a radiance that streams inextinguishably from the gateway of the Law. Now he has not very long to live. Before he dies, all his experiences in these long years gather themselves in his head to one point, a question he has not yet asked the doorkeeper. He waves him nearer, since he can no longer raise his stiffening body. The doorkeeper has to bend low towards him, for the difference in height has altered much to the man's disadvantage. "What do you want to know now?" asks the doorkeeper; "You are insatiable." " Everyone strives to reach the Law," says the man, "so how does it happen that for all these many years no one but myself has ever begged for admittance?" The doorkeeper recognises that the man has reached his end, and, to let his failing senses catch the words, roars in his ears : "No one else could ever be admitted here, since this gate was only made for you. I am now going to shut it."
Franz Kafka
BEFORE THE LAW stands a doorkeeper. To this doorkeeper there comes a man from the country and prays for admittance to the Law. But the doorkeeper says that he cannot grant admittance at the moment. The man thinks it over and then asks if he will be allowed in later. "It is possible," says the doorkeeper, " but not at the moment." Since the gate stands open, as ususal, and the doorkeeper steps to one side, the man stoops to peer though the gateway into the interior. Observing that, the doorkeeper laughs and says : "If you are so drawn to it, just try to go in despite my veto. But take note : I am powerful. And I am the least of the doorkeepers. From hall to hall there is one doorkeeper after another, each more powerful than the last. The third doorkeeper is already so terrible that I cannot bear to look at him." These are difficulties the man from the country has not expected; the Law, he thinks, should surely be accessible at all times and to everyone, but as he now takes a closer look at the doorkeeper in his fur coat, with his big sharp nose and long, thin, black Tartar beard, he diecides it is better to wait until he gets permission to enter. The doorkeeper gives him a stool and lets him sit down at one side of the door. There he sits for days and years. He makes many attempts to be admitted, and wearies the doorkeepr with his importunity. The doorkeeper frequently has little interviews with him, asking him questions about his home and many other things, but the questions are put indifferently, as great lords put them, and always finish with the statement that he cannot be let in yet. The man, who has furnished himself with many things for his journey, sacrifices all he has, however valuable, to bribe the doorkeeper. The doorkeeper accepts everything, but always with the remark : "I am only taking to it to keep you from thinking that you have omitted anything." Durning these great many years, the man fixes his attention almost continuously on the doorkeeper. He forgets the other doorkeepers, and this first one seems to him the sole obstacle preventing access to the Law. He curses his bad luck, in his early years boldly and loudly; later as he grows older, he only grumbles to himself. he becomes childish, and since in his yearlong contemplation, he has come to know even the fleas in his fur collar, he begs the fleas as well to help him and change the doorkeeper's mind. At length his eyesight begins to fail, and he does not know whether the world is really darker or whether his eyes are only deceiving him. Yet in his darkness he is now aware of a radiance that streams inextinguishably from the gateway of the Law. Now he has not very long to live. Before he dies, all his experiences in these long years gather themselves in his head to one point, a question he has not yet asked the doorkeeper. He waves him nearer, since he can no longer raise his stiffening body. The doorkeeper has to bend low towards him, for the difference in height has altered much to the man's disadvantage. "What do you want to know now?" asks the doorkeeper; "You are insatiable." " Everyone strives to reach the Law," says the man, "so how does it happen that for all these many years no one but myself has ever begged for admittance?" The doorkeeper recognises that the man has reached his end, and, to let his failing senses catch the words, roars in his ears : "No one else could ever be admitted here, since this gate was only made for you. I am now going to shut it."
Franz Kafka
I'll work on another.
Sketch.
Sketch.
Hypothesis
Smoke rings? Of thought and sensation.
How could one exert any will o'er the wisps?
Grace is the only possibility.
Let it flow. Stay afloat.
It seems something like AIDS. As I understand it to be. As I imagine it could be. Everything and Anything seems to seep through. No preventive and/or protective barriers. No security. Only Fear. All possibilities come alive. Its a wild party at times. A quiet soothing silence at others. Mostly a riot. There is no immunity. No defence. Nothing to hold on to. Everything flows though.
Smoke rings? Of thought and sensation.
How could one exert any will o'er the wisps?
Grace is the only possibility.
Let it flow. Stay afloat.
Friday, December 26, 2003
Accomplishment?
I did finish that sketch after all.
Heheh!!!
?
Gyroscopic
I did finish that sketch after all.
Heheh!!!
Rarely feel a sense of achievement these days. Rarely feel any regret either. Reasonably assured that I could not have done it better than I did. Not resting with what I did either.
In the middle and holding steady.
In the middle and holding steady.
?
Gyroscopic
Thursday, December 25, 2003
Flat_Lining
For a moment I felt myself go again. I suspect the word for it is catatonic. I could be wrong. It is as if the world invades me and displaces the self. Some would call it - takes over the soul. There is just an edge that is compelled to watch it happen. No emotion. Death come to life.
The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul
Did not sleep. Sat and talked to someone I know. It is dificult, in these hours, to drink coffee. Alone.
?
?
Did not sleep. Sat and talked to someone I know. It is dificult, in these hours, to drink coffee. Alone.
?
Lunch
Hmmmm.....nnnhhhnnnn.
Did not work on that sketch. Went over to get some reservations done. Stood in a queue. Was not very painful.
Will be reading these off and on.........
Nutz'so
Hmmmm.....nnnhhhnnnn.
Did not work on that sketch. Went over to get some reservations done. Stood in a queue. Was not very painful.
Will be reading these off and on.........
Nutz'so
What Next?
Will work on a sketch now.
Will work on a sketch now.
Mid-Day
Have worked on the bike.
Have worked on the bike.
Sitting and running over a description of familiar territory now. People talk of similarity and difference. Put them in unfamiliar contexts. They are lost. Not too many will find a way out by themselves. It is communalism again that comes to the rescue. Sameness of the moment cuts away at difference. Unfortunately, it is rarely accomplished with surgical precision. The edges are always frayed on the other side. It may not be done deliberately. In fact, its mostly unwitting. However, it invariably happens. And that is how you kill slowly while helping to survive.
Early Morning
I suppose I'll work on the bike today.
It is disturbing to note that the degree to which you are considered normal is the degree to which you are a communalist. It could be communalism of a moment, not necessarily that of a caste or creed. Strength of the individual is not respectable. Only numbers matter. Doubt recedes when you kick up the volume of the communalist voice. People cannot live with questions - unanswered. That is where they rationalise amongst themselves. Being rational is a pipe-dream.
I suppose I'll work on the bike today.
Tuesday, December 23, 2003
A Beginning
Underground*
Fyodor Dostoevsky : Notes from Underground
Underground*
I am a sick man...I am a wicked man. An unatrractive man. I think my liver hurts. However, I don't know a fig about my sickness, and am not sure what it is that hurts me. I am not being treated and never have been, though I respect medicine and doctors. What's more, I am also superstitious in the extreme; well, at least enough to respect medicine. ( I'm sufficiently educated not to be superstitious, but I am ). No, sir, I refuse to be treated out of wickedness. Now, you will certainly not be so good as to understand this. Well, sir, but I understand it. I will not, of course, be able to explain to you precisely who is going to suffer in this case from my wickedness; I know perfecly well that I will in no way "muck things up" for the doctors by not taking their treatment; I know better than anyone that by all this I am harming only myself and no one else. But still, if I don't get treated, it is out of wickedness. My liver hurts; well, then let it hurt even worse!
Fyodor Dostoevsky : Notes from Underground
The Irony
I have to help others help me.........help them.
?
:)
I have to help others help me.........help them.
?
:)
The Disease
It has taken me some time to accept it for what it is and could be.
Part of me refuses to acknowledge the need for help.
I am taking help. In the hope that it does more good to others than to me.
It has taken me some time to accept it for what it is and could be.
Part of me refuses to acknowledge the need for help.
I am taking help. In the hope that it does more good to others than to me.
The Game
You say you are not playing one. Yet you do. And always win.
I say that I do not want to play. I find myself playing to lose.
You say you are not playing one. Yet you do. And always win.
I say that I do not want to play. I find myself playing to lose.
