History Of My Stupidity

[via crashinglybeautiful]

Hypnos, the Greek personification of sleep. Thank you, lunar-danse, sugarmeows & b-sides.

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A Partial History of My Stupidity

Traffic was heavy coming off the bridge

and I took the road to the right, the wrong one,
and got stuck in the car for hours.

Most nights I rushed out into the evening
without paying attention to the trees,
whose names I didn’t know,
or the birds, which flew heedlessly on.

I couldn’t relinquish my desires
or accept them, and so I strolled along
like a tiger that wanted to spring,
but was still afraid of the wildness within.

The iron bars seemed invisible to others,
but I carried a cage around inside me.

I cared too much what other people thought
and made remarks I shouldn’t have made.
I was silent when I should have spoken.

Forgive me, philosophers,
I read the Stoics but never understood them.

I felt that I was living the wrong life,
spiritually speaking,
while halfway around the world
thousands of people were being slaughtered,
some of them by my countrymen.

So I walked on—distracted, lost in thought—
and forgot to attend to those who suffered
far away, nearby.

Forgive me, faith, for never having any.

I did not believe in God,
who eluded me.

—Edward Hirsch

crazysalad: A Partial History of My Stupidity

**

Account

The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.

Some would be devoted to acting against consciousness,
Like the flight of a moth which, had it known,
Would have tended nevertheless toward the candle’s flame.

Others would deal with ways to silence anxiety,
The little whisper which, though it is a warning, is ignored.

I would deal separately with satisfaction and pride,
The time when I was among their adherents
Who strut victoriously, unsuspecting.

But all of them would have one subject, desire,
If only my own — but no, not at all; alas,
I was driven because I wanted to be like others.
I was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me.

The history of my stupidity will not be written.
For one thing, it’s late. And the truth is laborious.

—Czeslaw Milosz

(Trans. Robert Hass and Robert Pinsky)

[via Crazy Salad]

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Mystery Itself

By Flannery O’Connor

It is what is left over when everything explainable has been explained that makes a story worth writing and reading. The writer’s gaze has to extend beyond the surface, beyond mere problems, until it touches that realm of mystery which is the concern of prophets…. If a writer believes that the life of a man is and will remain essentially mysterious, what he sees on the surface, or what he understands, will be of interest to him only as it leads him into the experience of mystery itself.

Colorado Quarterly Spring 1962 via Inward Outward

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An Ongoing Lesson in the Extent of My Own Stupidity

[from Whiskey River]

“A while ago I gave a public lecture at a university. The speaker who preceded me talked for about an hour and a half, running over his allotted time. The break period between our talks was shortened, and I was called to the podium right away. Concerned for the audience, I opened by asking, “Did you all have time to urinate?”
Apparently this was not what the audience had expected to hear. Perhaps they were particularly surprised because the person standing before them, talking about pissing, was a monk. Everyone broke into hearty laughter.
Having started out on this note, I continued to drive home the point, “Pissing is something that no one else can do for you. Only you can piss for yourself.” This really broke them up, and they laughed even harder.
But you must realize that to say, “You have to piss for yourself; nobody else can piss for you” is to make an utterly serious statement.

Long ago in China, there was a monk called Ken. During his training years, he practiced in the monastery of Ta-hui, but despite his prodigious efforts, he had not attained enlightenment. One day Ken’s master ordered him to carry a letter to the far-off land of Ch’ang-sha. This journey, roundtrip, could easily take half a year. The monk, Ken, thought, “I don’t have forever to stay in this hall practicing! Who’s got time to go on an errand like this?” He consulted one of his seniors, the monk Genjoza, about the matter.
Genjoza laughed when he heard Ken’s predicament. “Even while traveling, you can still practice Zen! In fact, I’ll come along with you,” he offered, and before long the two monks set out on their journey.
One day while the two were traveling, the younger monk, Ken, suddenly broke into tears. “I have been practicing for many years, and I still haven’t been able to attain anything. Now, here I am roaming around the country on this trip; there’s no way I am going to attain enlightenment this way,” he lamented.
When he heard this, Genjoza, thrusting all the strength he had into his words, put himself at the junior monk’s disposal: “I will take care of anything that I can take care of for you on this trip,” he said. “But there are just five things that I cannot do in your place, I can’t wear clothes for you. I can’t eat for you. I can’t shit for you. I can’t piss for you. And I can’t carry your body around and live your life for you.”
It is said that upon hearing these words, the monk, Ken, suddenly awakened from his deluded dream and attained a great enlightenment, a great satori.”

- Soko Morinaga
Novice to Master: an ongoing lesson in the extent of my own stupidity