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MsKatHouston -> RE: Ya don't say! (11/30/2006 7:21:46 AM)
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quote:
i would love if you accept my invitation to come to egypt,i offer full accomedation,tourist places like pyramids ..etc... if you accept my offer it will be a great honour for me to meet you
I got that one too. I also got the newspaper one. But my all time favorite one is the one that follows. I can't even decipher what he's saying and this was the first and only contact I ever had with him:
quote:
Dear Mistress Kat,
I have always been drawn to psychological extremes; for they have always seemed the only antidote to the prosaic culture in which I find myself. Today I watched a movie that didn't succumb to typical resolution, leaving a residue of ambiguity that irked a number of patrons. I could praise it for that alone. The future I perceive requires a coming to terms with the mystery of being; that life and human nature are liquid and elusive. We impose contructs, but they slip away like fish into murky shadow. Truth is almost always something other than what we have trapped it as being. Our definitions of life and the world are obsolete, yet we cling to them fearfully. Obviously in this age, cultures are too interpenetrated to deny this dawning synthesis; this strange fusion of perception and causality. We are slowly discovering that we are what we perceive, and as we expand to this frightening sun, we see our own ambiguity on the horizon. So far we've run backwards into the arms of false dichotomy, but we're starting to feel its ineffectuality. For me, the paradox of the world is a sphere comprised of spokes of polarities, whose axis or center is the great unknown; and this center is a terrifying mirror of identity.
In Herman Hesse's novel, Goldmund and Narcissus, the former character, who is intuitive and sensual, seeks a cosmic reunion with the mystic feminine, while the latter seeks to reason his way through the maze of life, and to insist on clarity where only ambiguity reigns. Both are lost to their false Gods. In my own psyche, these two characters war against one another, and only find peace in moments of creative vision; wherein intellect submits to intuition, but brings it home and polishes it to a fixed form; a kind of acceptance of birth and death in microcosm. This harmony of tense opposites seems to be the missing element in my life. It eludes me in normal life, and the work that stems from it is dangerous to the sleeper(the status quo) and so, I tell myself, pre-emptively negated. Though perhaps I too sleep in some contexts and seek awakening at the hands of a superior. I don't know, but here is a poem or thought that spilled from my hand recently, after I watched Belle De Jour(not the movie I saw today--though similar in its Zen-like circular ending).
Nothing will ultimately
protect us from
the mystery of being.
Storms shake the windows
and the candle burns brighter;
hours fall in the wind
and smoke curls around the rain.
I smell ash in the footprint;
you've crushed a moth
just as it has found you.
In the ink of its wings,
you find your face
in liquid flame,
bejweling the dust.
With names for everything;
with all the
signs and scribblings,
high walls and false renderings,
mystery still moves in
to make a home
in the drafty hall
of everything we've lost
to sound and sense.
Here's another:
So we'll all just break open
and the liquid mystery
of our souls
will reunite the ocean
with fragments of its reflection;
the moon's oblique succor
has made an enemy of subtlety
and I miss the sea winds,
filling my soul.
I try to venture out
but I'm stopped by a million concerns.
Every turn is a fresh sun
on the same old road;
but do we know the road?
Do we know the loss of hours?
We know at sunset
what we cannot at morn.
I miss the sea winds
dissolving my false contentment,
breaking me open,
so that I spill
into the eternal fount;
to be in a wave
as it breaks on crimson corral,
as it is cut and seeps
into the shadow depths;
as it falls through
the defenses.
So we'll all just break open
and at last love as the sea loves,
with sheets and sheets of rain;
with lightening flares,
further and further from shore;
with shimmering barracuda
in the wild surf;
with the sting
of Portugese men of war;
with the abrasion of sand;
with the love
of the sea winds.
We'll all just break open
and drift in the eternal,
dolphins sounding the shipwreck,
miles beneath the sun struck
trenches of water,
funnels roar and roll
as a restless sieve
combing the world's mane
for a place to sleep.
Do you have a place
for me to sleep?
Oh my darling,
do you have a place
for my restless heart?
So we'll all just break open,
and in this wound
lives the lens
through which we
at last perceive
the vast annihilating beauty
of our patient mother.
What seemed cruel
is made light,
and the light lays to rest
our unknowing.
We cannot know at sunrise
what we know at dusk,
and I miss the sea winds,
caressing, seducing me
to abandon my foolish ambition
and come home.
But Where is home?
Do you have a place?
Do you darling?
I'm weary
and it's late;
dusk infuses dust
to know the hour
when it must sleep and dream,
or wake and live.
I've never seen my soul
so perfectly mirrored
as I see you now.
I wasn't intensely aware
of my loss
until I saw myself,
inverted, walking and living
another life.
Tears too deep
to reach the eyes
pool around the silence
of this unreachable bliss,
and make an ocean
inside me.
The island of your mystery
wavers in the lens,
and draws my soul
across the sea.
I would like to know your desires.
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