#changelessly

[poem-today]

A poem by Randall Jarrell

The Orient Express

One looks from the train Almost as one looked as a child. In the sunlight What I see still seems to me plain, I am safe; but at evening As the lands darken, a questioning Precariousness comes over everything. Once after a day of rain I lay longing to be cold; after a while I was cold again, and hunched shivering Under the quilt's many colors, gray With the dull ending of the winter day, Outside me there were a few shapes Of chairs and tables, things from a primer; Outside the window There were the chairs and tables of the world ... I saw that the world That had seemed to me the plain Gray mask of all that was strange Behind it -- of all that was -- was all. But it is beyond belief. One thinks, "Behind everything An unforced joy, an unwilling Sadness (a willing sadness, a forced joy) Moves changelessly"; one looks from the train And there is something, the same thing Behind everything: all these little villages, A passing woman, a field of grain, The man who says good-bye to his wife -- A path through a wood all full of lives, and the train Passing, after all unchangeable And not now ever to stop, like a heart -- It is like any other work of art, It is and never can be changed. Behind everything there is always The unknown unwanted life.

Randall Jarrell (1914 - 1965)

#randall jarrell #american poetry #the orient express

[wakamotogarou]

The Teacher's Monologue

By Charlotte Brontë

THE room is quiet, thoughts alone People its mute tranquillity; The yoke put on, the long task done,­ I am, as it is bliss to be, Still and untroubled. Now, I see, For the first time, how soft the day O'er waveless water, stirless tree, Silent and sunny, wings its way. Now, as I watch that distant hill, So faint, so blue, so far removed, Sweet dreams of home my heart may fill, That home where I am known and loved: It lies beyond; yon azure brow Parts me from all Earth holds for me; And, morn and eve, my yearnings flow Thitherward tending, changelessly. My happiest hours, aye ! all the time, I love to keep in memory, Lapsed among moors, ere life's first prime Decayed to dark anxiety.

Sometimes, I think a narrow heart Makes me thus mourn those far away, And keeps my love so far apart From friends and friendships of to-day; Sometimes, I think 'tis but a dream I measure up so jealously, All the sweet thoughts I live on seem To vanish into vacancy: And then, this strange, coarse world around Seems all that's palpable and true; And every sight, and every sound, Combines my spirit to subdue To aching grief, so void and lone Is Life and Earth­so worse than vain, The hopes that, in my own heart sown, And cherished by such sun and rain As Joy and transient Sorrow shed, Have ripened to a harvest there: Alas ! methinks I hear it said, "Thy golden sheaves are empty air." All fades away; my very home I think will soon be desolate; I hear, at times, a warning come Of bitter partings at its gate; And, if I should return and see The hearth-fire quenched, the vacant chair; And hear it whispered mournfully, That farewells have been spoken there, What shall I do, and whither turn ? Where look for peace ? When cease to mourn ?

'Tis not the air I wished to play, The strain I wished to sing; My wilful spirit slipped away And struck another string. I neither wanted smile nor tear, Bright joy nor bitter woe, But just a song that sweet and clear, Though haply sad, might flow.

A quiet song, to solace me When sleep refused to come; A strain to chase despondency, When sorrowful for home. In vain I try; I cannot sing; All feels so cold and dead; No wild distress, no gushing spring Of tears in anguish shed;

But all the impatient gloom of one Who waits a distant day, When, some great task of suffering done, Repose shall toil repay. For youth departs, and pleasure flies, And life consumes away, And youth's rejoicing ardour dies Beneath this drear delay;

And Patience, weary with her yoke, Is yielding to despair, And Health's elastic spring is broke Beneath the strain of care. Life will be gone ere I have lived; Where now is Life's first prime ? I've worked and studied, longed and grieved, Through all that rosy time.

To toil, to think, to long, to grieve,­ Is such my future fate ? The morn was dreary, must the eve Be also desolate ? Well, such a life at least makes Death A welcome, wished-for friend; Then, aid me, Reason, Patience, Faith, To suffer to the end !

#poetry #poem #prose #Charlotte Brontë

[kavinsps]

A Complete Guide To NFT Marketplace Development In 2023

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Top 10 Well known NFT Commercial center Improvement Organizations in 2023 In a world loaded with promoting things, from the littlest things to setting up the group to impact the world, computerized… blog.cryptostars.is

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#NFT Marketplace Development Company #NFT Marketplace Development Solutions #NFT Marketplace Development Service

[timebythetail]

The Mill-Water - Edward Thomas Only the sound remains Of the old mill; Gone is the wheel; On the prone roof and walls the nettle reigns. Water that toils no more Dangles white locks And, falling, mocks The music of the mill-wheel's busy roar. Pretty to see, by day Its sound is naught Compared with thought And talk and noise of labour and of play. Night makes the difference. In calm moonlight, Gloom infinite, The sound comes surging in upon the sense. Solitude, company,--- When it is night,--- Grief or delight By it must haunted or concluded be. Often the silentness Has but this one Companion; Wherever one creeps in the other is: Sometimes a thought is drowned By it, sometimes Out of it climbs; All thoughts begin or end upon this sound, Only the idle foam Of water falling Changelessly calling, Where once men had a work-place and a home.

#Thomas #Edward Thomas

[kvetchlandia]

Burt Glinn     Beatnik and Ex-con Poet Ray Bremser on the Fire Escape of Allen Ginsberg’s Apartment, East Village, New York City     1959

I used to sit often composing the manuscript never denouncing and therefore not to be written without preparation for trial.  

I'd sit contemplating unobvious thoughts without poetry, being the poet of adequate life on broken brick steps full of contractions of piles and pimply sores from the stone and syphilis-eyed hypochondria sleep-thinking germs bringing flu and I caught my first cold fifteen histories ago in the maggoty festering garbage-can alley back of my mother's rear room.  

I used to sit dreaming the dreams of accomplishment marching in questionable cadences down to the foot of the Harborside Terminal into the emptying carrying cars of Spry and Colgate Mullers outgoing spaghetti and infinite meatballs!  

counting the black-balled parolees and broken-backed spics, Italian laborers, Polacks and sweaty old terminal boss, whose unknotted tie and left-wide-agape collar was motive enough to imagine the noose.  

When I was ten I discovered the poet and quick circulated great novels of spy and adventure and killer police, whose murderous face I didn't at first grasp until I discovered a cop humping some young indiscernable girl in the park.  

She addressed him with delicate fits from her lips which turned ghostly and blue and the dress tore away and he popped with a joy every cop in New Jersey recalls.  

Since then I have hated what passes as law and the ten-year-old grew but the poet did not and the novels fell off into idiot poems and madness and sight of my city, the city of squares and the city of Pharisees all mobbed into a mass of the lewdest advertisement, tight demin levis - buck shoes for the silent and cardigan jitterbug jackets with saddle stitched pockets of rubber ... I've never been ready for trial.  

But Carole Fugate has! Sweet youngest ever martyr City killer high accomplishment " "in her peaceful, pensive, elemental face the Virgin Mary ended indecision and elected to abide in every sinew's whore-mastered inch of Charlie's sweet and favored yards of flesh.  

How did he do it to you?  Whispering 'mother'? or 'little sister'?  What of your idiot's eyes? Now it is more than Charlie's, sweet " now it is every lecherous penis legality has - every sensuous prick of old righteousness!  Lord, how they're prodding, those moot prosecutors!  

In love with your lips and in love with your belly's white warmth, 0 human - 0 animal "heavenly screwed little girl - in love with your crying's pure succulent salt of the heart - hot heart of the murderess " heart of the victim, whispering 'love' and whispering       "please' - and the minor-thief's heart in my own hunting skin corresponds to your sexual lips of immaculate white -                I would run my cool tongue in your mouth, eat your tears, taste your difficult washmachine beauty!  

My city envisions your breast beneath which is the heart that addresses itself, and the answers? definite crazy - and love!  

No; it wasn't odd that night when I went alone - into the streets and out of my home, so long out of sorts - was I out of my mind, too, with the dread melancholy stuck edgewise into my brain and into my guts, only man-guts, not pig-iron but twisted and flanged and eroded with rust?  

So I had to walk and I walked, way outward onto the unfamiliar street where people are not always people -  

And I. took in my hand in my coat and conjoined a pistol, in case - to decide things                 best for myself!  

But the dreary, unfluctuables pinioned me stiff-columned into my shoes.  The trigger-taut sinewous spindle stood me up clotheslessly still to suffer the bearable whipping of fingers over the mutable flesh -                                                     the motherless sonofabitching flac " the criminal shots, were pinned, like medals of thievery, onto my breast;                        and my waxworkwings found Icarus's pool; and I'm here now,                            changelessly dressed!

It is sometimes the way our necessity balks at a curve, to be tried. To be taken in dubious custody, chained to a chair in the precinct called lst and allowed the due processes up to the neck of the fist and the shattering bludgeoning hard?- rubber hose of an arm's length.  

question and answer and hate for the acne-nervousness paused on the face and the please-leave-me-alone in the watery eyes that were blue turning black from the law's dark insensible glare " whose brute badges of courage and bravery stare, because Hart Crane might have had one of the heads that was cracked by the graces of nightstick and sailor Bayonne!  

How their foolish pomposity walks in the streets! At the Hoboken wharves and the West New York Hills, over Palisade plumage of rock and the Fort Lee nest of the eagle - Washington Bridge Riviera "? doubtful escape on the harlotted Hudson Expressways!  

One thing I found in the handcuffs was this: Great fear of the law!                                          and a dread of my own Jersey Cityite's farce gone beyond the impossible truss of a sentence too large to impress any boy with its complex of God!  

    I will sign the confession of monsterous crime I    will sign I    will sign I    will sign

I    WILL SIGN!  ##

--Ray Bremser, “City Madness” 1965

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

New Fic: Finding the Words

In which Aethelflaed rambles about parks and benches, then asks you to read her new story.

You ever notice how all of Aziraphale and Crowley’s most significant moments happen in a rather limited range of places? In a park, in the Bentley or bookshop, or in a restaurant/bar?

Cuz at first, I didn’t. I totally noticed the “Crowley is always on Aziraphale’s left” thing WAY before I noticed “Wow these guys operate out of like three locations.”

And it’s not just to do with filming practicalities, though that certainly helped.

Like, they didn’t need to have the “I’m saying you could kill him” conversation in a park. It was nice to have them watching Warlock as they discussed it, but the actual dialogue could have worked anywhere, from the Dowling’s mansion to some kind of shopping center. (Now imagining Crowley and Aziraphale stalking Warlock and Mrs. Dowling through a Tesco’s, which is made even more surreal by the fact that none of those four would ever actually set foot in Tesco’s.) They didn’t need to have both the “grabbed by Heaven and Hell” and the “switch back” scene be in parks, never mind two separate parks. The bandstand scene was beautiful, but could have been played out in any location, so long as Crowley was capable of storming off.

Apart from carrying forward the joke about feeding the ducks in St. James’s  Park from the book, I think one reason parks were such a visual theme for these two is just the timeless nature of parks.

Like, St James’s Park was landscaped and established in 1603. Do you have any idea how insane that is to me, as an American? It’s not even the oldest park in London! Sure, it wasn’t a public garden for another fifty years, and according to Wikipedia it had a reputation as a place for “impromptu acts of lechery” which is completely irrelevant but that’s a beautiful piece of subtext and everyone should partake.

(Pictured: Impromptu Lechery)

Anyway. Timeless nature.

Over the last, let’s say 400 years, London has changed a LOT around our angel and demon. Plaster and stickwork homes giving way to brick, then to steel. Swampland has been reclaimed into wealthy neighborhoods, which fell into slums, then were gentrified again. Tastes have changed, acceptable forms of entertainment, fashions, almost nothing has remained consistent. That’s not even touching on the Great Fire of London (which, don’t go blaming Crowley for that, it’s SCIENCE FACT that every great fire in history was caused by the Doctor and he’s so, so sorry).

Parks, though - natural land, wilderness - change at a slower rate, if only because landscaping takes a lot of time. They won’t be IDENTICAL in 2019 to what our immortals saw in 1600, but they would be similar, more familiar. They might see their entire neighborhood restructured over the course of a decade, then return to the park to find the only change a repainted bench and a few more ducks.

We know that stability is something very important to Aziraphale, with the very Victorian-looking bookshop interior and the fact that he hasn’t changed his waistcoat in at least 150 years, so there’s probably some comfort to him in leaving the ever-changing streets of London for the familiar view of the pond in the park. Crowley is more changeable, but the things he truly holds dear, he holds onto - the Bentley, the mementos in his apartment, and of course Aziraphale. There’s something to be said about meeting the most constant being in his life in the sorts of places that don’t shift and alter the way everything else in his life does.

Now, this isn’t to say that they are consciously thinking about change vs stability every time they sit together on a bench. But over time, it becomes an essential part of their long, slow dance of centuries.

(Pictured: Dance of Centuries)

Visually, it helps us to picture them, changelessly meeting on the benches or at the ponds, over and over, while the world moves on around them. Emotionally, it creates a safe place, where they know where they stand (at least until 1862, but they recover from that). Something they come back to without really ever knowing why.

It’s something we all recognize.  Just look at all the wonderful fan art.

(Pictured: Wonderful Fan Art)

So, anyway, when I started writing “Finding the Words,” I wanted to mix things up a little after all the sitting in “Early Days,” so I decided to start them off walking the streets of London, and assumed everything would quickly fall together.  Foolish, foolish me.

The first half of the story was quite difficult to write, and I couldn’t figure out why - partly because I’m not used to writing fluffier fics (what are all these POSITIVE EMOTIONS you thrust at me?!), partly because describing the streets without getting repetitive was harder than I expected, and partly because something just didn’t feel right.

At the midpoint of the story (you’ll see it) Crowley legit glared at me through the fourth wall, grabbed Aziraphale, dragged him to a park bench that just appeared out of nowhere, and finished the scene there. (Ok, that’s not how it goes in the finished draft, but that’s how these things work in my head.) It immediately became so much easier.

One thing that’s important to remember when writing fan fiction is, the stories we are writing from have an established language of symbols, and to remain authentic, we have to speak...not the same language, but a dialect of it.

Were I writing an original story, it would be perfectly acceptable to have such an important conversation walking down the street, or sitting in the library, or on top of the Empire State Building. But Good Omens worked hard to establish the importance of parks and benches and walking to the left as part of Crowley and Aziraphale’s language, and it’s only by being aware of and utilizing these details that we can maintain the sense of our fics being in the same universe.

Anyway, for more on Aziraphale and Crowley attempting to say important things on a park bench, please check out “Finding the Words” on AO3. :)

#good omens prime #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #good omens meta #crowley #aziraphale #fan fiction #writing process #fanfic writing

[wickymicky]

UGH i just learned Sua’s rap in Good Night and it feels so fucking good to do along with the song haha. its not a hard one but just the way it sounds in the song is so evil and ominous, and like combined with what she’s actually saying in the lyrics and damn man thats such a powerful verse.... Sua’s not even the rapper lmao but that part is sooooooooooo fucking good... the utter confidence and dominance she delivers it with.... nan byeonhameopsi kkumeul jihwihagetji... son hana kkeotteok eopsi do chungbunhi... neon ttame heungppok jeojeo kkaeji mothal tende......... ugh thats so sick lol.... 

it helps that i know enough about korean now that even though i dont fully know what each individual word means, i know enough so that its not just gibberish or abstract sounds im making with my mouth lol... like, i know nan and neon, i know kkum, i know son and hana, i know mothada... and like i didnt know “byeonham”, but the line means “i’ll be conducting your dreams without change”, and i know -eopda means like “there isn’t”, and -i seems like an adverb ending, so byeonham must be the part that means change cause then byeonhameopsi would literally just be “changelessly” haha, “without change”. stuff like that makes me feel like ive come a long way, and it makes learning the lines a lot easier, cause its not just random sounds. a line is a lot easier to remember if i at least know what some of the parts mean, haha. like with jihwihagetji... i havent seen that word before, but the only part i really need to memorize there is jihwi, because even though im not far enough in korean to be able to translate the -getji part if i saw it in a sentence, i’ve heard it a million times, so my brain recognizes it as a unit. and the -ha- there of course means that the verb is jihwihada, another thing for my brain to latch onto. it is possible to memorize lyrics without knowing what any of them mean, but it helps to know even the little bit that i do, lol

#my dumb super specialized linguistics brain is over the moon right now lmao this is so fun and rewarding #o

[holy-sciences]

"Robin had been a giddy, fickle child - somber at odd moments, practically hysterical at others - and, in life, this unpredictability had been a great part of his charm. But his younger sisters, who had never in any proper sense known him at all, nonetheless grew up certain of their dead brother's favourite color (red); his favorite book (The Wind in the Willows) and his favorite character in it (Mr Toad); his favorite flavor of ice cream (chocolate) …and a thousand other things which they - being living children and preferring chocolate ice cream one week and peach the next - were not even sure they knew about themselves. Consequently their relationship with their dead brother was of the most intimate sort, his strong, bright, immutable character shining changelessly against the vagueness and vacillation of their own characters, and the characters of people that they knew; and they grew up believing that this was due to some rare, angelic incandescence of nature on Robin's part, and not to the fact that he was dead."

-- the only part worth reading from The Little Friend.

[screechingrebelcloud]

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[boreothegoldfinch]

chapter 6 paragraph i

Over the next year, I was so preoccupied in trying to block New York and my old life out of my mind that I hardly noticed the time pass. Days ran changelessly in the seasonless glare: hungover mornings on the school bus and our backs raw and pink from falling asleep by the pool, the gasoline reek of vodka and Popper’s constant smell of wet dog and chlorine, Boris teaching me to count, ask directions, offer a drink in Russian, just as patiently as he’d taught me to swear. Yes, please, I’d like that. Thank you, you are very kind. Govorite li vy po angliyskiy? Do you speak English? Ya nemnogo govoryu po-russki. I do speak Russian, a little. Winter or summer, the days were dazzling; the desert air burned our nostrils and scraped our throats dry. Everything was funny; everything made us laugh. Sometimes, just before sundown, just as the blue of the sky began darkening to violet, we had these wild, electric-lined, Maxfield Parrish clouds rolling out gold and white into the desert like Divine Revelation leading the Mormons west. Govorite medlenno, I said, speak slowly, and Povtorite, pozhaluysta. Repeat, please. But we were so attuned to each other that we didn’t need to talk at all if we didn’t want to; we knew how to tip each other over in hysterics with an arch of the eyebrow or quirk of the mouth. Nights, we ate crosslegged on the floor, leaving greasy fingerprints on our schoolbooks. Our diet had made us malnourished, with soft brown bruises on our arms and legs—vitamin deficiency, said the nurse at school, who gave us each a painful shot in the ass and a colorful jar of children’s chewables. (“My bottom hurts,” said Boris, rubbing his rear end and cursing the metal seats on the school bus.) I was freckled head to toe from all the swimming we did; my hair (longer then than it’s ever been again) got light streaks from the pool chemicals and basically I felt good, though I still had a heaviness in my chest that never went away and my teeth were rotting out in the back from all the candy we ate. Apart from that, I was fine. And so the time passed happily enough; but then—shortly after my fifteenth birthday—Boris met a girl named Kotku; and everything changed. The name Kotku (Ukrainian variant: Kotyku) makes her sound more interesting than she was; but it wasn’t her real name, only a pet name (“Kitty cat,” in Polish) that Boris had given her. Her last name was Hutchins; her given name was actually something like Kylie or Keiley or Kaylee; and she’d lived in Clark County, Nevada her whole life. Though she went to our school and was only a grade ahead of us, she was a lot older—older than me by three whole years. Boris, apparently, had had his eye on her for a while, but I hadn’t been aware of her until the afternoon he threw himself on the foot of my bed and said: “I’m in love.” “Oh yeah? With who?” “This chick from Civics. That I bought some weed from. I mean, she’s eighteen, too, can you believe it? God, she’s beautiful.” “You have weed?” Playfully, he lunged and caught me by the shoulder; he knew just where I was weakest, the spot under the blade where he could dig his fingers and make me yelp. But I was in no mood and hit him, hard. “Ow! Fuck!” said Boris, rolling away, rubbing his jaw with his fingertips. “Why’d you do that?” “Hope it hurts,” I said. “Where’s that weed?”

We didn’t talk any more about Boris’s love interest, at least not that day, but then a few days later when I came out of math I saw him looming over this girl by the lockers. While Boris wasn’t especially tall for his age, the girl was tiny, despite how much older than us she seemed: flat-chested, scrawnyhipped, with high cheekbones and a shiny forehead and a sharp, shiny, triangle-shaped face. Pierced nose. Black tank top. Chipped black fingernail polish; streaked orange-and-black hair; flat, bright, chlorine-blue eyes, outlined hard, in black pencil. Definitely she was cute—hot, even; but the glance she slid over me was anxiety-provoking, something about her of a bitchy fast-food clerk or maybe a mean babysitter. “So what do you think?” said Boris eagerly when he caught up with me after school. I shrugged. “She’s cute. I guess.” “You guess?” “Well Boris, I mean, she looks like she’s, like, twenty-five.” “I know! It’s great!” he said, looking dazed. “Eighteen years! Legal adult! She can buy booze no problem! Also she’s lived here her whole life, so she knows what places don’t check age.”

#boreo #the goldfinch #the goldfinch donna tart #donna tart #boris pavlikovsky #theodore decker #theo decker #boris x theo #theo x boris #finn wolfhard #ansel elgort #oakes fegley #aneurin barnard #the goldfinch book #book #books #quote #quotes #lgbtq #lgbtqia #lgbtqia+ #lgbt #gay #gay ship #gay ships #otp #mlm #the goldfinch quotes #the goldfinch quote #boreo quotes

[theloobrush]

A complete divine psychology?

I have recently speculated that the monist ultimate reality, the absolute, has either a pre- consciousness  without subjectivity or a 'pure consciousness'. The subjective nature  of the absolute must be contentless and blissful without knowledge, changelessly atemporal and eternal. It is not 'mind' or 'person'. 

The Divine mind, if we accept there is such, must be a second order ‘hypostasis’ of divinity which I will give its Neo-Platonic designation, 'The Nous'. The Nous may be perpetually generated by this ultimate reality which is its ground of being as well as the ground of being of everything else. The Nous represents not a stasis but the 'mental activity' of the absolute, analogous to the waves and currents on the surface of an infinitely deep and wide ocean of being. The logical distinction is here between the essence of the divine and the energies of the divine. The Nous is understood to be thought capable of relational thinking by pure reason and 'mathematical' logic. It is presumed to have no 'empirical' content, assuming there are no distinctions in the nature of ultimate reality prior to space and time.

The Nous is the location of divine personhood analogous to human personhood without our mental limitations and neuroses. The Nous is obvious candidate for the demiurge, the fashioner of the universe. The Nous can perceive us as a fact, the Nous may also perceive our internal thoughts. It may know us both objectively and subjectively. It may know what it is like to be us, as if it is thinking our thoughts and feeling our feelings, though it is not the cause of our minds in a deterministic way. 

If there is a divine will it must manifest a subjective divine desire which cannot have any explanation other than it just is. If the divine has no desire, it has no will and could not be an active creator. We suggested the divine desire is for unending knowledge of the objects of creation and love for these existences. Divine desire must originate in the Nous as the font of divine self awareness.

There seems to be need for a third order of divinity, which connects the Nous with Cosmos. This third order of divinity has to be some power representing the potential from which the Cosmos can be fashioned. The third order of divinity encompases the individual beings which are the product of space and time, so they can be objects of love and knowledge distinct from the divine self. They abide in God, but not as divine essence or divine nous. If created beings abided in the divine essence they would be co-eternal and changeless. If they abided in the divine nous they would be only divine thoughts and our lives would be the divine dream. So they are concretized, made existence in this third order.

The third order of divinity is the 'body' of the divine, not biologically but in the sense of being the vehicle for willed divine action and whatever is analogous to our sensation and perception (the outward and inward movements of the divine power and energy respectively). With Spinoza I agree the divine has the attribute of 'extension'. I suggest that in eternity everything that is, is 'within' the third order divine body, so the cosmos is embedded within the higher dimension or dimensions of the 'All'. The Nous then is the conscious mind of the Cosmos but also of all that is beyond, 'before' and 'after' Cosmos. Indeed there may be many worlds, many cosmoi.

The ancients had a name for this third order of ‘body’ of divinity: the divine 'Spirit'. In the divine Spirit we live and move and have our being. The Spirit connects everything to the divine. Yet Spirit is not a thing or substance though it seems to be the prima materia or aether. Spirit may be what physicists call a ‘field’.  Spirit is the pleroma is the divine power in an eternal process of becoming. And it follows that our cosmos is therefore not a substance but a dynamic becoming. I'm reminded the only substance is the divine essence but we are not that. So according to this argument, our existence is a relatively persistent pattern of divine activity, which confirms our absolute dependence.

So we do have a divine ‘threefoldness’. Divine Essence, the One; Divine Nous, which carries the attribute of  'thought'; and Divine Spirit which carries the attribute of divine 'extension'. In this schema Nous and Spirit are eternally generated from the neutral monist essence, in a manner which has been many times likened by philosophers to 'light rays' from a spiritual sun. All minds have their summit in Nous, all bodies in Spirit. Nous and Spirit may be fully coordinate if we accept a dual aspect theory, such that all mental events have a physical analogue or they are both relational modes of neutral divine essence, to avoid dualism.

Fusing Neoplatonism and Spinoza seems to give us a complete theology if our existence is also understood as process.

[joshuajmadrid]

Non Dual Teacher, David Hoffmeister A Course In Miracles Videos

ABOUT DAVID: Mystic David Hoffmeister is a living demonstration that peace is possible. His gentle demeanor and articulate, non-compromising expression are a gift to all. David is world-renowned for his practical application of “A Course in Miracles”. His clarity about the function of forgiveness in spiritual awakening and his radical use of mindful movie-watching in the release of judgment is unsurpassed. The purity of the message he shares points directly to the Source. Over the past 29 years, David has traveled to 41 countries across 6 continents to extend the message that Truth is available for everyone. His teachings have been translated into 13 languages and taken into the hearts and minds of millions through the intimate style of his books, audios, and videos. Visit Us Non Dual Teacher

Love Is the Experience that Ends All Questions

There is an experience that brings an end to all uncertainty and an end to all questions. The experience of Love is Divinely Inspired and changelessly Eternal. Love does not come and go or arise and fall like the sun, nor does it shine brightly only to fade and disappear for a time. Love is not personal or specific. It is impossible to Love something specific, for Love is Whole and knows no parts. Read more

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[valiavovatera1320]

I Love *Mayakovsky

USUALLY SO Every man is entitled to love, but what with jobs, incomes, and other such things, the heart’s core grows harder from day to day. The heart wears a body, the body—a shirt. But even that’s not enough! Someone— the idiot!— inflicted shirt cuffs and poured starch on the chest. Aging, people suddenly realize it. Women smear on makeup. Men swing their arms like windmills following Müller’s exercise system. But it’s too late. The skin multiplies with wrinkles. Love will flower, and flower – and then wither and shrink. AS A BOY I was gifted with love in good measure. From childhood people are drilled to labor. But I fled to the banks of the Rion and knocked around there, not doing a damn thing. Mama reproached me angrily: “Wretched boy!” Papa threatened to belt me. But I, living it up with a false three-ruble note, played Three-card Monte with soldiers under a fence. Unconstricted by shirt, unburdened by boots, I baked in the sultry heat of Kutaisi. To the sun I turned now my back, now my belly – until it ached below my ribs. The sun was astonished: “I can barely see him! Yet he, too, has a little heart. He does his little best! Where in that in less than a yard is there space— for me, for the river, for a hundred miles of rock?!” AS A YOUTH Youth has a thousand occupations. We dull the dullest young minds with grammar. But I was thrown out of the fifth grade. And thus began my tour of Moscow prisons. In your cushy little bourgeois world, you rear little curly-headed lyricists. What do you find in these poodles? But I learned to love in the cells of Butyrka. What do I care about your Boulogne forest? Or to sigh at the sight of the sea? In the Funeral Parlor Bureau, they call it, I fell in love with the keyhole of cell 103. People don’t even look up when the sun rises or sets. They ask, “What’s this light worth, if I can’t buy it or sell it?” But I would have given all the world for the yellow spot leaping on my wall. MY UNIVERSITY French language you know. You divide. You multiply. You decline beautifully. So go on declining! But tell me one thing— Can you jam with a building? Do you know the language of trams? The human fledgling is barely hatched— and you thrust in its hands exercise notebooks. But I learned the alphabet from street signs, turning pages of iron and tin. They take the world, spin it with fingertips— and teach you. It’s all just a puny globe. But I learned geography with my ribs— lying on the earth on roofless nights. Painful questions torment your dusty historians: “Was Barbarossa’s beard really red?” So what? You call this dusty trash history— but I know every story Moscow can tell! You take Dobroliubov as a lesson to hate evil— but the surname resists and whimpers with pain. From childhood I’ve hated the fat ones, who sell themselves for lunch every day. They learned to sit pretty— to make ladies smile, and thoughts rattle in their heads like coins. But I talked only with buildings. Water towers told me secrets and roofs caught every word I threw in their latticed window ears. And after they babbled about the night and each other night with weathercock tongues. ADULTHOOD Adults are busy. Their pockets are full of rubles. Love? Please! Maybe for a hundred rubles. But I, homeless thrust fists into rags into my pockets and hung around, sharp-eyed. Night. You wear your best dress. You rest your soul with wives, with widows. I gasped in Moscow’s embraces, choked in the ring of endless Sadovaya Road. Into hearts, into wee hours mistresses tick. Ecstatic partners on the bed of love. I caught The wild heartbeat of capitals, lying around like Passion Square. Unbuttoned— my heart nearly outside— I open myself to sun and to puddle. Enter with your passions! Climb in with your loves! From now on I have no power over my heart. I know where the heart lives in others. It is in the breast—as everyone knows! But in me though anatomy went mad. An all-encompassing heart— booms everywhere. Oh, how many of them, how many springtimes, have in twenty years poured into me, inflamed! Their burden unspent is just unbearable. Unbearable not as in verse, but literally. WHAT HAPPENED More than possible, more than necessary— as though looming with poetic delirium in a dream— my clot of a heart has grown into a mass: that mass is love, that mass is hate. Under the burden my legs strode shakily— as you know, I am well built— and yet I trudge on, the appendage of a heart, hunching the oxlike width of my shoulders. I swell with the milk of verses —there’s no pouring it out— anywhere, it seems—it brims anew. I am exhausted by lyric— wet nurse of the world, hyperbole archetype of Maupassant. I CALL I lifted it up, a strongman, and carried it, an acrobat. Like voters summoned for a rally, like villages on fire called by alarm— I called: “And here it is! Look! Take it!” When such a giant was gasping, not looking— full of dust, dirt, a pile of snow— the ladies dashed from me like rockets: “We like things smaller, more like tango, like…” I can’t carry it— and I carry it, my burden. I want to throw it down— and know I never will. The arches of my ribs won’t bear the pressure. The rib cage creaks with strain. YOU You came— businesslike, beyond the roar, behind the height, glancing, you saw but a little boy. You took, you tore away my heart and simply went to play with it— like a girl with a ball. And every woman— as if seeing things— was astounded, now this lady now that young girl. “Love his kind? But he’ll lunge at you! She must be an animal-tamer. She must be from a zoo!” But I am exultant. It’s gone— the yoke! Forgetting myself in joy, I galloped, leaped like a Cherokee wedding: I felt so joyful and so light. IMPOSSIBLE I cannot do it alone— I can’t carry the grand piano (much less— the treasure chest). And if not the chest, if not the piano, how can I carry my retrieved heart. Bankers know: “We’re rich beyond measure. There aren’t enough pockets— we’ll stuff the safe.” My love I’ve hidden in you— like riches encased in steel— and I walk around rejoicing, a Croesus,. And only if I want it very badly, I take out a smile, a half-smile and less, carousing with others in the middle of the night I’ll spend fifteen rubles or so of lyric change. SO IT IS WITH ME Fleets—they too flow into port. A train—also races to station. But I am driven and drawn that much more towards you —for I love! Pushkin’s covetous knight descends to rummage and delight in his cellar. So I return to you, beloved. This is my heart, and I delight in it. Coming home is a joy. People scrape off their dirt, shaving and washing. So I return to you— for if I go to you, am I not going home? The earth takes back her creatures. We return to our destination. So I am drawn towards you relentlessly, as soon as we part or don’t see each other. CONCLUSION Love can’t be washed away with quarrels, or miles. It is thought-through, tested, made sure of. Raising triumphantly my line-mottled verse, I vow— I love changelessly and truly.

[jptamvada]

The True Glory of Bharat

A relentless pursuit of truth has led Bharateeyas to the quintessence of all wisdom, and it consists of a great secret--the secret to immortality. No country on the planet, howsoever great it's scientific or secular achievements are, can match this accomplishment of Bharateeyas. In this, lies the true glory of Bharat.

Western civilization has made great strides in understanding prakriti (nature). Its technological advancements have given access to physical and material comforts. While novel scientific discoveries and innovations kept the western mind constantly occupied, its mass production models led to an accumulation of wealth and newly minted consumption societies. Here, the pursuit of truth translated to getting a perfect grip on nature and natural processes. 

However, while the truth is changeless, prakriti (nature) is ever-changing and constantly evolving. In it, creation, sustenance and destruction appear cyclical with everything subject to appearance and disappearance in the flow of time.

This made Bharateeyas look for the truth elsewhere--in realms that are beyond the grasp of physical senses. In these realms, hidden deep within the human mind, they made great strides in experiencing the truth, and it set them free. Their psycho-analytical excursions brought them face to face with something stunning -- the changeless truth -- within themselves as the indweller (the I). They found that the absolute truth is this indweller who exists same in everyone and everything as illumination and bliss. 

This made them emphatically declare-- “deho devalaya proktoh jeevo devah sanatana” --that every physical body is a temple and the indweller (the I) in it is the ancient one, the creator Himself. In the venerable Naryana Suktam, the ancient rishis exactly locate the physical area near the human heart where this indweller (the I) resides. They found that merging all identities of oneself with this indweller is the secret to immortality, for that indweller changelessly exists forever as illumination and bliss. 

Bharateeyas who have made this phenomenal advancement in experiencing the truth, and the Hindu religion that has this sublime wisdom as its roots, have made an unparalleled contribution to humanity. It is time we acknowledge, appreciate, assimilate, and experience this timeless wisdom. The glory of Bharat is eternally intact as seekers of the truth will be endless on the planet.

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[theexistentialquestions-blog]

Pause & rejoice because He is. ••• My God is changelessly good, unceasingly kind, & constantly working for my good & His glory. That's a promise made by the Faithful & True. ••• My singular aim is not to avoid the difficulties of this life but to allow them to conform me to His image. He is & will be victorious in me.