07.30.07
Posted in 2007 Mosaic at 1:12 am by Miracle ♪♫
It happens. Sometimes we meet a person who we instantly identify as a suitable match for us. Not “love at first sight” if that’s what some are ideating, and the sensation is not analogous to how we feel for that other breathtaking person we pine so much to end up with.
I’m speaking of someone I chanced to be acquainted with, who ingenuously happens to be very much compatible with myself, my spiritual life, my passions, my lifestyle – and to top it off, my family. Antithetical to boyfriend/girlfriend relationships where man and woman intentionally discuss and have to agree on views pertaining married life and raising kids, I candidly discovered that both of us have the same visions even towards such matters. To my abundant surprise, his mother whom I also had the wonderful pleasure of meeting, supports the very same ideas and ideals. Even his mom is the epitome of my envisioned mother-in-law! After being with him I found myself unconsciously writing bold checks on all the items in my subliminal husband-criteria list.
(Yes, even spinsters have that. *bleh*)
He is a faithful man – to God most remarkably,
is way intellectually superior than I,
is not business-oriented,
is a musician in his own right,
has sound priorities
and values the right things,
he listens,
appreciates wholesome art and literature,
writes better than I,
respectful and humble despite his
praiseworthy accomplishments,
a real gentleman,
he has a certain profound smile…
and he’s handsome…
(those two are not on my list,
but they’re pluses),
a philosophy major
(although that has never been on my list
either, I have to accept my course that
philosophy majors will in perpetuum
affect me).
Yes, it happens, we do meet people like that… and it’s very nice to know. The strange thing is when the magnanimity of your compatibility frightens you so much that you dodge instinctively at every inclination of intimacy.
You do not say you are in love, but then you begin to wonder… will you be rueful if he ends up with someone else?
Permalink
07.21.07
Posted in Uncategorized at 11:58 pm by Miracle ♪♫
To play Rachmaninov - alone…
Con Passione
To be affected with the opening chord that cause regal passions to augment within myself. To be conducted by a sonorous tempest that moves me from one phrase to another. To compromisingly dwell inside the pauses a heartbeat longer than one should. To sense triumph only to discover that I am still at the beginning of a journey.
Adagio Sostenuto
To love. To have my sighs merged with the aching melody. To coalesce my sadness and grief in the theme. To be bathed in a well of moaning broken minor triads. To incorporate all espressivos and pent up injured feelings into a prolonged eruption. To have drops of pain on the keys left by an arpeggio
of tears.
Allegro Scherzando
To ascend a fabled glizzando and descend with regained strength to conquer challenges ahead. To be rewarded an ethereally beautiful but brief dolce.
Agitato
To punish the black and white keys for having done nothing but wait for caresses and beatings, but to be comforted that they still respond to whatever touch I have to offer.
Maestoso
To have all my strength absorbed into a bolus of pleasure and pain. To come out bleeding but victorious.
Risoluto
To revel in the bursting catharsis.
Finale
To seal the last chords with the composer’s monumental syllabic signature in my own calligraphy. To rise up from the piano and shake the hand of the conductor and the concertmaster and acknowledge the audience only to find no one. To look around and be reminded… that once again I was playing Rachmaninov all by myself.
Permalink
07.20.07
Posted in Life Betwixt Book Covers at 10:03 am by Miracle ♪♫
Franz left today… and I was still.
I paused for him, and I paused for myself.
There was a pause… and I remembered this;
how he loves Octavio Paz.
I had to smile,
I smiled for him, and I smiled for myself.
=)
Between going and staying the day wavers,
in love with its own transparency.
The circular afternoon is now a bay
where the world in stillness rocks.
All is visible and all elusive,
all is near and can’t be touched.
Paper, book, pencil, glass,
rest in the shade of their names.
Time throbbing in my temples repeats
the same unchanging syllable of blood.
The light turns the indifferent wall
into a ghostly theater of reflections.
I find myself in the middle of an eye,
watching myself in its blank stare.
The moment scatters. Motionless,
I stay and go: I am a pause.
Permalink
07.18.07
Posted in Uncategorized at 11:58 pm by Miracle ♪♫
I am not me, but eternally thee
.
Not thine, but thee
.
Not mine, but me
.
But I, eternally thee
Permalink
07.16.07
Posted in Life Betwixt Book Covers at 11:58 pm by Miracle ♪♫
Now that I have readily yielded myself over to Orhan Pamuk’s
book, My Name is Red, I simply cannot
sit still… the caravan moves on and I am intently seizing every grain of sand
that touches my senses and taking notes. This philosophical marvel and intellectual challenge is an odyssey
through art, love, power, religion and has as many faces as there are grains in
a handful of desert sand. In my previous
post, I described him as an ancient hero of art and defender of coffee. In this
entry, I will ruminate more on his angle of being a sultan of art.
“Pamuk wanted to
become a painter, and when he was sixteen set himself the task of copying
Persian miniatures. He once said that he wanted to paint Istanbul just as Pissarro and
Utrillo would have done. He now paints through words, working assiduously,
seven days a week. He writes slowly, with a pen, not a computer, and has never
done another job, except be a writer.” Georgia Brown
Long before I read Georgia Brown’s remark, this phrase alone
from chapter five convinced me adequately that this man understands art the way
one should:
…another essential
virtue: To avoid disappointment in art, one must not treat it as a career. Despite whatever great artistic sense and
talent a man might possess, he ought to seek money and power elsewhere to avoid
forsaking his art when he fails to receive proper compensation for his gifts
and efforts.
On the eleventh chapter, Black
converses with the Head Illuminator. The
master says;
Painting is the silence
of thought and the music of sight.
Black: My great
master, my dear sir, what separates the genuine miniaturist from the ordinary?
Head Illuminator: There
is no single measure that can distinguish the great miniaturist from the
unskilled and faithless one. This
changes with time. Yet the skills and morality with which he would face the
evils that threaten art are of significance. Today, in order to determine just how genuine a young painter is, I’d
ask him three questions.
Has he come to
believe, under the sway of recent custom as well as the influence of the
Chinese and the European Franks that he ought to have an individual painting
technique, his own style… as an illustrator, does he want to have a manner, an
aspect distinct from others, and does he attempt to prove this by signing his
name somewhere in his work like the Frankish masters? To determine precisely
these things, I’d first ask him a question about ‘style’ and ‘signature.’
Then I’d want to learn
how this illustrator felt about volumes changing hands, being unbound, and our
pictures being used in other books and in other eras after the shahs and
sultans who’d commissioned them have died. This is a subtle issue demanding a response beyond one’s being simply
upset or pleased by it. Thus, I’d ask
the illustrator a question about ‘time’ – an illustrator’s time…
The third would be
‘blindness’! Blindness is silence. If
you combine what I’ve just now said, the first and second questions,
‘blindness’ will emerge. It’s the
farthest one can go in illustrating; it is seeing what appears out of Allah’s
own blackness.
In the twelfth chapter where my caravan advances in a
snail-like pace in order to absorb much. Butterfly speaks to Black;
“As long as the number
of worthless artists motivated by money and fame instead of the pleasure of
seeing and a belief in their craft increases, we will continue to witness much
more vulgarity and greed akin to this preoccupation with ‘style’ and
‘signature.’” I made this introduction because this was the way it is done, not
because I believed what I said. True ability
and talent couldn’t be corrupted even by the love of gold or fame.
Permalink
07.15.07
Posted in Life Betwixt Book Covers at 11:10 pm by Miracle ♪♫
Like a caravan in careful transit across a desert of
overwhelming mystery in the year 1590, I find myself in the middle of Orhan Pamuk’s cerebral and
phrenic Sahara dubbed My Name is Red. I am halfway through the journey and am already
lost in wonder and amazement.
Nobel Prize winner Orhan Pamuk conquers my shelf as an
ancient hero of art and defender of…umm… coffee. (You must read it to become
amused at how much he mentions coffee from one chapter to another). From dogs
to illustrated trees, he gives each of his characters a fair chance to speak…
I am a Tree
I am a tree and I am
quite lonely. I weep in the rain. Drink
down your coffee so your sleep abandons you and your eyes open wide. Stare at me as you would at jinns and let me
explain to you why I’m so alone.
I. They allege that I’ve been hastily
sketched onto nonsized, rough paper so the picture of a tree might hang behind the master storyteller…but my story is much more complicated.
II. As a tree, I need not be part of a book. As the picture of a tree, however, I’m disturbed that I’m not a page within some manuscript…
III. The essential reason for my loneliness
is that I don’t even know where I belong. I was supposed to be part of a story, but I fell from there like a leaf in autumn. Let me tell you about it: Falling from my story like a leaf falls in fall.
Then goes on the narrative to the Persian Shah Tahmasp, who
was the arch enemy of the Ottomans and world’s greatest patron-king of the art
of painting who quit drinking coffee and naturally, his brain stopped
working. After this great shah lost his
taste for coffee, he also lost his mind.
This was why the divinely inspired bookbinders,
calligraphers, gilders and miniaturists, who created the greatest masterpieces
in the world in Tabriz,
scattered like a covey of partridges to other cities. Shah Tahmasp’s nephew Sultan Ibrahim Mirza
invited the most gifted of them to Mashhad and
settled them in his miniaturists’ workshops to copy out a marvelous illuminated
and illustrated manuscript of all seven fables of Jami – the greatest poet at
that time. Shah Tahmasp was consumed by
jealousy when he heard about this magnificent book and angrily ousted his
nephew, banishing him to Sebzivar. The
calligraphers and illuminators of Mashhad thereupon dispersed to other regions…
Miraculously, however, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s marvelous
volume did not remain unfinished, for in his service he had a devout
librarian. This man would travel on
horseback to where the best master gilders lived…
But at this pace, it was clear that the book would never be
completed, so mounted Tatar couriers were hired… each horseman was given a
letter describing the desired work in question to the artist. Thus messengers carrying manuscript pages
passed over the roads of Persia,
Khorasan, the Uzbek territory and Transoxania. At times, on a snowy night, page 59 and 162, for example would cross
paths in a caravansary wherein the howling of wolves could be heard…
I was meant to be
among the pages of this illustrated manuscript that I sadly heard was completed
today. Unfortunately, the Tatar courier
who was carrying me was ambushed by thieves… As a result, I know nothing about
the page I’ve fallen from. My request is
that you look at me and ask: “Were you perhaps meant to provide shade for
Mejnun disguised as a shepherd as he visited Leyla in her tent?” or “Were you
meant to fade into the night, representing the darkness in the soul of a
wretched and hopeless man?”
How I would’ve wanted
to complement the happiness of two lovers who fled from the whole world, traversing
oceans to find solace…I would’ve wanted to shade Alexander during the final
moments of his life on his campaign to conquer Hindustan… Or was I meant to
symbolize the strength and wisdom of a father offering advice on love and life
to his son? Ah, to which story was I meant to add meaning and grace?
I thank that I have
not been drawn with such intent… and not because I fear that if I’d been thus
depicted, all the dogs in Istanbul would assume I was a real tree and piss on
me: I don’t want to be a tree, I want to be its meaning.
…and these, my good friends were just plucked microscopic portions of
the manuscript Orhan Pamuk authored… imagine what his entire Sahara holds.
Permalink
07.14.07
Posted in Uncategorized at 2:36 am by Miracle ♪♫
Pssst… It summoned provocatively…
It calls in the early afternoon when the body is slowed down by remnants of lunch’s cholesterol.
Pssst… It invited with its sultry, deep,
burnt sienna voice…
It knows when I am most vulnerable.
Pssst… It puffed its intoxicating Arabian breath.
It begins to awaken my saturated senses.
Pssst… It whispered stamina through my nostrils.
I give in to its bidding like an obedient hypnotic.
Pssst… Pssst… It became more insistent.
I hasten to imbibe this rich enigma.
Pssst… Pssst… Pssst…
From the espresso machine oozed the thick essence of it all.
In my demitasse, the condensed centuries of Arabian nights.
Pssssssssssst… it crept lusciously inside me.
I absorb it. I was roused.
Open Sesame. I am awake.
Pssst… It calls you, too.
———————————————————————-
As soon as Coffee falls into the stomach there is a general commotion. Ideas begin to move, things remembered arrive at full gallop… the shafts of wit start up like sharp-shooters, similes arise, the paper is covered with ink. Coffee is your ally and writing ceases to be a struggle. ~ Honoré de Balzac
Coffee: Induces wit. ~ Gustave Flaubert
Coffee is real good when you drink it it gives you time to think. It’s a lot more than just a drink; it’s something happening. Not as in hip, but like an event, a place to be, but not like a location, but like somewhere within yourself. It gives you time, but not actual hours or minutes, but a chance to be, like be yourself, and have a second cup. ~ Gertrude Stein
For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crowned
The berries crackle, and the mill turns round …
At once they gratify their scent and taste
And frequent cups prolong the rich repast…
Coffee which makes the politician wise
And see through all things with his half-shut eyes. ~ Alexander Pope
Coffee makes us severe, and grave, and philosophical. ~ Jonathan Swift
.
Permalink
07.10.07
Posted in Uncategorized at 1:09 am by Miracle ♪♫
"Not a Day Without a Line"
Starting on June 25, 2007 The Daily Pliny
will be an attempt to discipline my writing
habits the Older Pliny way.
As you may have surmised, the title is
a nutty variant of The Daily Planet.
Until I reach another inevitable writing fermata,
I shall do my best to update this post everyday.
———————————————————————-
July 1, 2007
Katipuneros Meet Rizal
Today was an uncommon Sunday for me. Our whole family and Haidee went to Katipunan
with the very kind and accommodating Eguia-Alanos as our guides. Having equipped ourselves with cameras, we
were all ready and psyched up to glimpse significant national treasures that
were quite sequestered in the silent town of Katipunan.
A remote tree-lined dirt road led us to a quaint house
surrounded by mahogany trees. There lived an old woman named Josefina who
worked for Dona Trinidad (Dr. Jose Rizal’s sister) for thirteen years, and she
had inherited a generous number of the Rizal’s possessions. The old woman’s home was unbelievably a trove
of valuable museum objects and relics! She even displayed more items compared to the museum in Dapitan City’s
Rizal Park! From Jose Rizal’s prison clothes which Misha had the liberty of trying
on, robe, toothbrush case, a tea set from O Sei San – his Japanese girlfriend, Josephine
Bracken’s skirt, three sets of family silverware, Dona Trinidad’s bed, and a
very long list of precious belongings. The most amazing privilege the old lady gave us was the permission to
touch and take photographs of these treasures!
We are very grateful to the lady Josefina and the
Eguia-Alano family for giving us this exceptional experience. Although I have never been much of a Rizal
fan, I have to admit that today’s events left me in awe.
For photos, please Click Here.
———————————————————————-
July 2, 2007
A Weak Week
My tonsils seem to have worsened! I can barely utter a word properly and being
in bed the whole day makes me feel handicapped. I feel so lazy and sick… but I worry about graver things than
myself. My thoughts are often with
Gretchen who is still in the hospital for Dengue fever. Her platelet count is alarmingly low and how
I wish I could visit her.
Since I’ve also had a fluctuating
fever, Papa and Mama
brought me to the hospital to have my platelets checked. With God’s
grace, I was above the 150 border. Although the med tech on duty
advised us to
continue observing my condition, I am quite confident that my fever
could just
be side effects of my tonsillitis.
How frail we humans are…
———————————————————————-
July 3, 2007
Doted Antidotes
KissPirin and Yakapsule - prescribed remedies by Dr.
Franz. Yeah, if only I could easily grab
that over the counter of some pharmacy. Thank God, I have a mom who gives those out for free. =)
———————————————————————-
July 4, 2007
Recuperating
After Gretchen’s emergency last night, I am now relieved to
know that her platelet count has progressed. I continue to pray and hope that her condition will improve until she is
fully recovered. Even with my fever and
tonsillitis I already feel quite helpless, and it always saddens me to think of
someone younger than I to have to suffer a more severe disease.
I am still weak but am blessed with extremely caring and loving
parents. The sponge-bathing mama takes
care of, and I have papa as a masseur. This is making me feel a bit guilty… but on the other hand, I think they
just miss treating me like a baby. =)
———————————————————————-
July 5, 2007
NuttyCracker
Mama says she is positive that I’m already well since she caught me cracking jokes today a couple of times already. =)
I thank God because I’m gradually regaining my voice, and
Gretchen’s condition is much better.
Oh, I can’t wait to go back to my daily schedule!
———————————————————————-
July 6, 2007
Rainmaker
I have my voice back! Weee… I can sing again and that explains the rain and cloudy skies that we’ve been having.
———————————————————————-
July 7, 2007
Auf Wiederzein
Click Here to Read
———————————————————————-
July 8, 2007
The Red Amaryllis Blooms Today
The Red Amaryllis blooms today.
It is as red as my allergies – conceivably offshoots of my
antibiotic intake last week – but enough of the pessimism!
The Red Amaryllis blooms today and I feel fine.
———————————————————————-
July 9, 2007
Not Tzigane
Not Ravel’s Tzigane.
No, not some other grand piece,
nor was it Massenet’s Meditation from Thais.
Just some neglected Baroque violin largos and adagios that I
plucked out from playlist-oversight early this morning.
They are the sublime works that convince me the violin has
wings.
Yes, we are aware that music has wings. Music naturally has wings,
But the violin needs the musician’s aid for it to grow wings.
I am doleful in realizing that I have not yet been able to
bestow my poor, wonderful violin any wings.
I will not cease trying…
———————————————————————-
July 10, 2007
Baby Baby Grand
I assembled a piano today!
Well… sort-of…
Ahia Winston came by this morning with those amazing wooden
puzzles. Ha! I felt as excited as a child clutching a brand new toy.
After about an hour of dedication and exhaustive attention,
there it stood… my imagined baby Bose…
My loving thanks to the Uy family. This surprise was one of the pleasant things that made my
day. =)
———————————————————————-
July 11, 2007
They’re Beckoning
Oh my poor babies! I
cannot believe I’ve neglected them for weeks! When I entered my library today I could almost hear their pages shuffle
to beckon my attention. Now, if I can only
decide who I should be immersed in first…
…oh Gaarder, just one novel left on your list and it will be
the culmination of your works…
…and Fowles! How did I dare set you aside?
Hesse!!!
You don’t deserve to wait …
Tom Robbins, you are the most seductive… b-b-b-but…
I only
have two eyes!
———————————————————————-
July 12, 2007
Franz is Coming
My bestfriend is arriving today!
Ah, the pleasant anticipation of music, tête-à-têtes, laughter, sweet insanity, coffee and food, bottomless photo taking…
Grant me to dupe myself into believing that the purpose of his coming
is not to say goodbye…
———————————————————————-
July 13, 2007
Broken
Dear Pliny,
You’ll have to excuse my scarce lines today.
I am rather broken…
— — —
This plays on my mind…
Where did summer go?
How’d I miss the change of season?
All at once the wind blows rough
It’s cold enough to snow
In the street below
People laugh, they’ve got no reason
Don’t they know?
It’s cold enough to snow
When we were together
And you were staying
Funny but the weather
Still felt like May in mid December
Now the chill wind blows
Sunny skies are only teasing
You won’t show
And it’s cold enough to snow
On the radio
There’s a man says
It ain’t freezing
What’s he know
He didn’t watch you go
Now the sun can’t shine
If it wants to, fine
But it’s cold enough to snow
———————————————————————-
July 14, 2007
Not UberWoman
Broken. I fairly sensed the awkward vibe that this word
emitted out to readers yesterday.
Into my mind tumbled flashbacks of feedback for this
blog. Most of them in approval for the
inspiration and strength they find in it.
Strength. I am
stricken with the realization that somehow, I have unconsciously and
unintentionally made weakness taboo, when this should not be the
case… when after all, I am unfortunately not some kind of UberWoman.
I am also just a little girl… who sometimes gets her soul wounded, too…
———————————————————————-
July 15, 2007
Suddenly
All at once… I miss them even more…
———————————————————————-
July 16, 2007
I am a Tree
To read, please Click Here.
———————————————————————-
July 17, 2007
I am Called Black
To read, please Click Here.
———————————————————————-
July 18, 2007
Coffee Bean Butter
In a number of previous entries, it is evident that I am not
such a fan of commercial ointments and cosmetic salves. Advertisements have not
even helped lotions and other sorts of “beauty” products on my dresser from a
fate of staying untouched for years following tragic expiries and trash bin
dooms. Nevertheless, one certain product
has caught my attention recently. Coffee
Bean Butter. (No, coffee bean butter isn’t among my metaphors. There really is coffee bean butter.)
Since I’m very much behind pertaining these matters, I
might
be making a fool of myself thinking that this product is so new while
in fact
it has been in the market for quite some time. For those who know about
it already, ignore me. For those who don’t, let me burble about
these trivialities. Besides, it is only once in a blue moon when you’ll
notice
me talk about skincare commodities. For a
coffee lover, finding out about a moisturizing product made out of
coffee beans
is something. Hey, I’m not called barista
for nothing.
———————————————————————-
July 19, 2007
I am Not Me, But Eternally Thee
To read, please Click Here.
———————————————————————-
July 20, 2007
I am a Pause
To read, please Click Here.
———————————————————————-
July 21, 2007
Lines
Dear Pliny,
I have quite a multitude of cares today.
I
have many thoughts and so many lines to wish to write, but they are all
jumbled and crisscrossing each other. I need a little quiet.
———————————————————————-
July 22, 2007
Rachmaninov All By Myself
To read, please Click Here.
———————————————————————-
July 23, 2007
Arvo Part
I am loving Arvo Part…
———————————————————————-
July 24, 2007
Fine Tuning
Finally, the piano tuner came today.
Ahh… who doesn’t love a finely-tuned piano?
———————————————————————-
July 25, 2007
=(
I miss Franz… I miss that shmuck whose insanities make me sane.
———————————————————————-
July 26, 2007
Pamuk Once Again
I’m reading a book that begins with the sentence "I read a book one day and my whole life was changed…" Pamuk does fascinate me.
———————————————————————-
July 27, 2007
IMSLP
Thank goodness for IMSLP for in there did I find the complete score of Rachmaninov’s Sonata for Cello and Piano in G minor!
———————————————————————-
July 28, 2007
Saturday
For
me, Saturday means a busy day. It means a day filled with students.
It means feeling the essence of being a teacher. It means exhaustion at
the end of the day, but it also means satisfaction because of the fact
that once again I lived another day as a teacher.
———————————————————————-
July 29, 2007
The Alano
Ahh… yet another Lester-caused impulsive trip. It’s funny how this month began and ended with trips to the Alano farm in Katipunan.
———————————————————————-
July 30, 2007
I Call Him "The Mosaic of My Past"
To read, please Click Here.
———————————————————————-
July 31, 2007
Goodbye, July
How poignant of you to end with the rain…
———————————————————————-
Permalink
07.07.07
Posted in 2007 Mosaic at 12:40 am by Miracle ♪♫
Several years ago when almost everyone in my social
bailiwick began to disperse to universities or other parts of the globe, a
friend complained and asked me, “why does everybody have to go away?”
“They just have to, they just do” was perhaps the most pertinent
response to his question, but saying that out loud felt rather unsympathetic
and it certainly would not have made him feel any better. So I just fell silent
and whispered, “I’m still here.”
Through the years, we watched more friends go their own ways,
and he remained, I remained, too. Some
of the partings wounded me, some perplexed me, and there were occasions when I
somehow felt glad for the departees believing that every goodbye mingles loss and fresh freedom for them. Yet through
all these, because of the reassurance that he remained with me, other people’s
departures seemed less painful… and after a plethoric amount of farewells, he
may have been able to answer his own question considering that he never asked again.
Now the time has come for him to leave…
and I don’t have to
ask why.
I know he just has to…
…and that doesn’t make me feel any better.
Permalink
07.05.07
Posted in 2007 Mosaic at 6:16 pm by Miracle ♪♫
Papa told me that if ever I should marry, it must be to a man who’s undeniably passionate and crazy about me. When he said that, a scene from Meet Joe Black flashed through my mind - that segment where Mr. Parish was in the helicopter with his daughter. Since then, I’ve been looking all over the internet for that specific scene’s text but to no avail… until today when one of Honey’s contacts posted it at Multiply. I’m so pleased that he did.
The “forget your head” part i do not agree with… but let’s get on with it.
With no further ado, a father’s beautiful wish for his daughter…
I want you to be swept away,
I want you to levitate.
Sing with rapture, dance like a dervish.
it’s not what you say
but it’s what you don’t say.
There must be an ounce of excitement
A whisper of a thrill.
To be deliriously happy,
or at least leave yourself open to be .
I know it’s a cornball thing, but
Love is passion, obsession,
something you can’t live without.
If you don’t start with that,
what are you going to end up with?
I say, fall head over heels,
Find someone you can love like crazy,
and who can love you the same way back.
How do you find him?
Forget your head, listen to your heart.
To make a journey and not falling
deeply in love,
you haven’t lived a life.
You have to try because if you haven’t,
You haven’t lived at all…
Stay open.
Who knows?
Lightning could strike!
———————————————————————-
Now for the sub-quotes that braced the rest of the dialogue into making Meet Joe Black one of my best-loved films:
William Parrish: I’ve loved her from the moment she was born, and I love her now and every minute in between. And what I dream of is a man who will discover her, and that she will discover a man who will love her, who is worthy of her, who is of this world of this time. And has the grace and compassion and fortitude to walk beside her as she makes her way through this beautiful thing called life.
———————————————————————-
Allison: Never mind favorites because you’re allowed to have one…the point is, you’ve been mine.
———————————————————————-
Quince: Love. You know each other’s secrets, your deepest darkest secrets and then you’re free. You’re free to love each other completely, totally, no fear. There’s nothing you don’t know about each other and it’s okay.
———————————————————————-
What’s wrong with taking care of a woman? She takes care of you.
———————————————————————-
William Parrish: Do you know about money?
Joe Black: It can’t buy happiness?
———————————————————————-
Joe Black: So that’s what love is according to William Parrish?
William Parrish: Multiply it by infinity, and take it to the depth of forever, and you
will still have barely a glimpse of what I’m talking about.
Joe Black: Those were my words.
William Parrish: They’re mine now.
———————————————————————-
William Parrish: It’s hard to let go, isn’t it?
Joe Black: Yes it is, Bill.
William Parrish: And that’s life… what can I tell you.
Permalink
07.04.07
Posted in Life Betwixt Book Covers at 6:46 pm by Miracle ♪♫
This is an entry dedicated to dispense in bits the wit and peculiar insights of one of my favorite authors,
His Royal Weirdness,
Thomas Eugene Robbins.
–>Our Similarities bring
us to a common ground; Our Differences allow us to be fascinated by each other.
(Mae, Haidee, and Ohna instantly come to mind.)
–>There is no such thing
as a weird human being, it’s just that some people require more understanding
than others.
(You, Mr. Robbins are weird… but it’s alright, I understand
you since I am also one who requires more understanding than others.)
–>There are many things
worth living for, a few things worth dying for, and nothing worth killing for.
(Do you hear that George Bush?!)
–>It is never too late
to have a happy childhood.
(Lester’s philosophy? Ha ha ha)
–>To achieve the
impossible; it is precisely the unthinkable that must be thought.
(This reminds me of one of Jostein Gaarder’s characters who
said, “I want to think a thought so hard I can’t think it.”)
–>The highest function
of love is that it makes the loved one a unique and irreplaceable being. The words “make” and
“stay” become inappropriate. My love for you has no strings attached.
I love you for free.
(Yes, I love you for free… you know who you are.)
–>Hold on to your divine
blush, your innate rosy magic, or end up brown. Once you’re brown, you’ll find
out you’re blue. As blue as indigo. And you know what that means. Indigo.
Indigoing. Indigone.
–>Birth and death were easy. It was life that was hard.
–>We’re
our own dragons as well as our own heroes, and we have to rescue ourselves from
ourselves.
–>Society had a crime
problem. It hired cops to attack crime. Now society has a cop problem.
–>Teachers who offer you
the ultimate answers do not possess the ultimate answers, for if they did, they
would know that the ultimate answers cannot be given, they can only be
received.
–>The sky was the color
of Edgar Allan Poe’s pajamas.
–>The afternoon passed
more slowly than a walnut-sized kidney stone.
–>When they tell you to
grow up, they mean stop growing.
–>Human beings were
invented by water as a device for transporting itself from one place to
another.
–>>Philosophers have
argued for centuries about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, but
materialists have always known it depends on whether they are jitterbugging or
dancing cheek to cheek.
–>If you believe in
peace, act peacefully; if you believe in love, act lovingly; if you believe
every which way, then act every which way, that’s perfectly valid— but don’t go
out trying to sell your beliefs to the system. You end up contradicting what
you profess to believe in, and you set a bum example. If you want to change the
world, change yourself.
ART
–>In the staircase of
life, Art is the only stair that doesn’t creak.
AUTHORITIES
–>In order to be
respected, authority has got to be respectable.
IDEAS
–>Ideas are malleable
and unstable; they not only can be misused, they invite misuse—and the better
the idea the more volatile it is. That’s because only the better ideas turn
into dogma, and it is by this process whereby a fresh, stimulating, humanly
helpful idea is changed into robot dogma that is deadly. The problem starts at
the secondary level, not with the originator or developer of the idea, but with
the people who are attracted to it, until the last nail breaks, and who
invariably lack the overview, flexibility, imagination, and, most importantly,
sense of humor to maintain it in the spirit in which it was hatched. Ideas are
made by masters, dogmas by disciples…
TEQUILA
–>Now tequila may be the
favored beverage of outlaws but that doesn’t mean it gives them preferential
treatment. In fact, tequila probably has betrayed as many outlaws as has the
central nervous system and dissatisfied wives. Tequila, scorpion honey, harsh
dew of the dog lands, essence of Aztec, crema de cacti; tequila, oily and
thermal like the sun in solution; tequila, liquid geometry of passion; Tequila,
the buzzard god who copulates in midair with the ascending souls of dying
virgins; tequila, firebug in the house of good taste; O tequila, savage water
of sorcery, what confusion and mischief your sly, rebellious drops do generate!
EQUALITY
–>Equality is not in
regarding different things similarly; equality is in regarding different things
differently.
EXISTENCE
–>Should one be shallow
enough to view existence as a system of rewards and punishments, one soon
learns that we pay as dearly for our triumphs as we do for our defeats…
LOVE and PERFECTION
–>The bottom line is
that (a) people are never perfect, but love can be, (b) that is the one and
only way that the mediocre and vile can be transformed, and (c) doing that
makes it that. We waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating
the perfect love.
SOUL
–>If you need to
visualize the soul, think of it as a cross between a wolf howl, a photon, and a
dribble of dark molasses. But what it really is, as near as I can tell, is a
packet of information. It’s a program, a piece of hyperspatial software
designed explicitly to interface with the Mystery. Not a mystery, mind you, the
Mystery. The one that can never be solved. Data in our psychic program is often
nonlinear, nonhierarchical, archaic, alive, and teeming with paradox. Simply
booting up is a challenge, if not for no other reason than that most of us find
acknowledging the unknowable and monitoring its intrusions upon the familiar
and mundane more than a little embarrassing. More immediately, by waxing
soulful you will have granted yourself the possibility of ecstatic
participation in what the ancients considered a divinely animated universe. And
on a day to day basis, folks, it doesn’t get any better than that.
Permalink
