eccentric heavens


And I was alive in the blizzard of the blossoming pear,

    Myself I stood in the storm of the bird-cherry tree.

    It was all leaf life and star shower, unerring, self-shattering power,

    And it was all aimed at me.

    What is this dire delight flowering fleeing always earth?

    What is being?

     What is truth?

    Blossoms rupture and rapture the air,

    All hover and hammer,

    Time intensified and time intolerable, sweetness raveling rot.

               It is now.

                      It is not.        

                     Osip Mandelstam            

Dark Night of The Soul



In the infinite expanse of unknown darkness,
there is indeed a light, but it is unfortunately only a residual
candle-end; a little flame fluttering on a charred, lifeless wick which
floats sputtering in a vanishing drop of impure wax. And this you must
solicitously carry about in the darkness, searching for the fatty remains
of other spent candles that might feed your dying flame. Yes, there is a
light, but it is barely discernible even though it be in your grasp. Oh,
it is so dim and precarious, it hardly sheds enough light for the duties
you must ceaselessly perform, in order to keep lighted the light.

by Jack Haas


Once upon a time,

Chuang Tzu dreamed that he was a butterfly,

flying about enjoying itself.

It did not know that it was Chuang Chou. Suddenly he awoke,

and veritably was Chuang Chou again.

He did not know whether it was Chuang Chou dreaming that he was a butterfly,

or whether it was the butterfly dreaming that it was Chuang Chou.

Between Chuang Chou and the butterfly there must be some distinction.

This is a case of what is called the transformation of  material things.

Chuang Tzu