Yes. It can be met in very earthly ways. Lol. I often see SLE's state that they will "get duals"/"be successful" by acting like superheroes. The SLE HA is "to be loved", worshiped and adored. So IEI Victims tend to adore the objects of their affection. Sexually, I think IEI's want to be dominated. They are either on their knees or are artfully dodging. But any type can have some shade of that.
I don't think every Victim type is so extremely like IEI's, at least not to the same extent of "adoring" their mates or God or some metaphysical concept. Personally, I want my SO to be healthy (4D Si) and strong (3D Se) and assertive in the real world, but I'm not going to worship or blindly adore them or automatically subjugate my wishes to theirs. My duals tend to lack direction and foresight, and so should not be the only driver of the car.
Your desire "to believe" is also stated to be the HA of ESI's and LSI's. 2D Ni, in other words.
From what I have seen of ESI's and LSI's, their desire "to believe" isn't a desire to believe in a god or a superior power so much as it is a need to be assured of a secure future. That is the "believe" part. I feel that this misinterpretation started as an imperfect translation from the Russian or something, and just hasn't been corrected yet.
If you find yourself doubting that religion can provide you with a secure future, then you should try Money.
Hey, don't you work in a Bank?
Last edited by Adam Strange; 08-02-2019 at 01:45 PM.
“Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.”
Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement.
"The society that separates its scholars from its warriors will have its thinking done by cowards and its fighting by fools." ―Thucydides
You either die the hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain of your own story
Hai Zi, "Wine Cup: A Bouquet of Love Poems"
1. Fire Lips
Twenty thousand wine cups are born of you
The sicknesses of ten thousand things are born of you
Silent living sickle-shaped fire
rolls on the wilderness, a burning skull
Silent living sickle-shaped pasture
cryptic, cold and still.
in Egyptian midnight
— this black wine
this black wine turns into my hands
Hands in the orchard
are no longer lonely
Two hands of my own
pregnant with other hands
5. Fire Lips
That is a flower That is a wine cup made of a skull
Wine cups knock above the grassland
The wine-filled skull is empty
On the fire-blackened mountain
tents are born and die.
Out of the fire rise lamplights that shine on the earth.
Oh my goodness. Saw this on tumblr and added the book to my Amazon cart.
“She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies
And all that’s best of dark and light
Meet in her aspect and her eyes” - Lord Byron from She Walks in Beauty
“The seed of suffering in you might be strong, but don’t wait until you have no more suffering before allowing yourself to be happy” - Thich Nhat Hanh
“A painter doesn’t draw the place where he himself is. But looking at his painting, I know his position in relation to the things he has drawn. On the contrary, if he represents himself in his painting, I know with certainty that the place he shows himself to be isn’t the one where he is.”
Simone Weil, first and last notebooks
A Paleolithic Fertility Fetish by Wisława Szymborska
The Great Mother has no face
Why would the Great Mother need a face.
The face cannot stay faithful to the body,
the face disturbs the body, it is undivine,
it disturbs the body’s solemn unity.
The Great Mother’s visage is her bulging belly
With its blind navel in the middle.
The Great Mother has no feet.
What would the Great Mother do with feet
Where is she going to go.
Why would she go into the world’s details.
She has gone just as far as she wants
and keeps watch in the workshops under her taut skin.
So there's a world out there? Well and good.
It's bountiful? Even better.
The children have somewhere to go, to run around,
something to look up to? Wonderful.
So much that it's still there while they're sleeping,
almost ridiculously whole and real?
It keeps on existing when their backs are turned?
That's just too much--it shouldn't have.
The Great Mother barely has a pair of arms,
two tiny limbs lie lazing on her breasts.
Why would they want to bless life,
give gifts to what has enough and more!
Their only obligation is to endure as long as earth and sky just in case
of some mishap that never comes.
To form a zigzag over essence.
The ornament’s last laugh.
—The Master said, “The man of virtue makes the difficulty to be overcome his first business, and success only a subsequent consideration;—this may be called perfect virtue.”
By Omar Khayyam
Written 1120 A.C.E.
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?"
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand Of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby kindles in the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows,
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Pehlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine!"--the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing.
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.
Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobad the Great, or Kaikhosru?
Let Zal and Rustum bluster as they will,
Or Hatim call to Supper--heed not you
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot--
And Peace to Mahmud on his golden Throne!
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread--and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness--
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."
And those who husbanded the Golden grain,
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes--or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two--is gone.
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter--the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth the Garden wears
Dropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.
And this reviving Herb whose tender Green
Fledges the River-Lip on which we lean--
Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knows
From what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!
Ah, my Belov'ed fill the Cup that clears
To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years.
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom
Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of Earth
Descend--ourselves to make a Couch--for whom?
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!
Alike for those who for To-day prepare,
And those that after some To-morrow stare,
A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so wisely--they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument
About it and about: but evermore
Came out by the same door where in I went.
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd--
"I came like Water, and like Wind I go."
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate;
And many a Knot unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was--and then no more of Thee and Me.
Earth could not answer; nor the Seas that mourn
In flowing Purple, of their Lord forlorn;
Nor rolling Heaven, with all his Signs reveal'd
And hidden by the sleeve of Night and Morn.
Then of the Thee in Me works behind
The Veil, I lifted up my hands to find
A Lamp amid the Darkness; and I heard,
As from Without--"The Me Within Thee Blind!"
Then to the lip of this poor earthen Urn
I lean'd, the Secret of my Life to learn:
And Lip to Lip it murmur'd--"While you live
Drink!--for, once dead, you never shall return."
I think the Vessel, that with fugitive
Articulation answer'd, once did live,
And drink; and Ah! the passive Lip I kiss'd,
How many Kisses might it take--and give!
For I remember stopping by the way
To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmur'd--"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
And has not such a Story from of Old
Down Man's successive generations roll'd
Of such a clod of saturated Earth
Cast by the Maker into Human mould?
And not a drop that from our Cups we throw
For Earth to drink of, but may steal below
To quench the fire of Anguish in some Eye
There hidden--far beneath, and long ago.
As then the Tulip for her morning sup
Of Heav'nly Vintage from the soil looks up,
Do you devoutly do the like, till Heav'n
To Earth invert you--like an empty Cup.
Perplext no more with Human or Divine,
To-morrow's tangle to the winds resign,
And lose your fingers in the tresses of
The Cypress--slender Minister of Wine.
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press
End in what All begins and ends in--Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were--To-morrow You shall not be less.
So when that Angel of the darker Drink
At last shall find you by the river-brink,
And, offering his Cup, invite your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff--you shall not shrink.
Why, if the Soul can fling the Dust aside,
And naked on the Air of Heaven ride,
Were't not a Shame--were't not a Shame for him
In this clay carcase crippled to abide?
'Tis but a Tent where takes his one day's rest
A Sultan to the realm of Death addrest;
The Sultan rises, and the dark Ferrash
Strikes, and prepares it for another Guest.
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, and mine, should know the like no more;
The Eternal Saki from that Bowl has pour'd
Millions of Bubbles like us, and will pour.
When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long, long while the World shall last,
Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.
A Moment's Halt--a momentary taste
Of Being from the Well amid the Waste--
And Lo!--the phantom Caravan has reach'd
The Nothing it set out from--Oh, make haste!
Would you that spangle of Existence spend
About the Secret--Quick about it, Friend!
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True--
And upon what, prithee, may life depend?
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True;
Yes; and a single Alif were the clue--
Could you but find it--to the Treasure-house,
And peradventure to The Master too;
Whose secret Presence, through Creation's veins
Running Quicksilver-like eludes your pains;
Taking all shapes from Mah to Mahi; and
They change and perish all--but He remains;
A moment guess'd--then back behind the Fold
Immerst of Darkness round the Drama roll'd
Which, for the Pastime of Eternity,
He doth Himself contrive, enact, behold.
But if in vain, down on the stubborn floor
Of Earth, and up to Heav'n's unopening Door
You gaze To-day, while You are You--how then
To-morrow, You when shall be You no more?
Waste not your Hour, nor in the vain pursuit
Of This and That endeavour and dispute;
Better be jocund with the fruitful Grape
Than sadden after none, or bitter, Fruit.
You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse
I made a Second Marriage in my house;
Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse.
For "Is" and "Is-not" though with Rule and Line
And "Up" and "Down" by Logic I define,
Of all that one should care to fathom,
Was never deep in anything but--Wine.
Ah, but my Computations, People say,
Reduced the Year to better reckoning?--Nay
'Twas only striking from the Calendar
Unborn To-morrow, and dead Yesterday.
And lately, by the Tavern Door agape,
Came shining through the Dusk an Angel Shape
Bearing a Vessel on his Shoulder; and
He bid me taste of it; and 'twas--the Grape!
The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
The sovereign Alchemist that in a trice
Life's leaden metal into Gold transmute:
The mighty Mahmud, Allah-breathing Lord
That all the misbelieving and black Horde
Of Fears and Sorrows that infest the Soul
Scatters before him with his whirlwind Sword.
Why, be this Juice the growth of God, who dare
Blaspheme the twisted tendril as a Snare?
A Blessing, we should use it, should we not?
And if a Curse--why, then, Who set it there?
I must abjure the Balm of Life, I must,
Scared by some After-reckoning ta'en on trust,
Or lured with Hope of some Diviner Drink,
To fill the Cup--when crumbled into Dust!
Oh, threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise!
One thing at least is certain--This Life flies;
One thing is certain and the rest is Lies;
The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.
Strange, is it not? that of the myriads who
Before us pass'd the door of Darkness through,
Not one returns to tell us of the Road,
Which to discover we must travel too.
The Revelations of Devout and Learn'd
Who rose before us, and as Prophets burn'd,
Are all but Stories, which, awoke from Sleep,
They told their comrades, and to Sleep return'd.
I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul return'd to me,
And answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"
Heav'n but the Vision of fulfill'd Desire,
And Hell the Shadow from a Soul on fire,
Cast on the Darkness into which Ourselves,
So late emerged from, shall so soon expire.
We are no other than a moving row
Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held
In Midnight by the Master of the Show;
But helpless Pieces of the Game He plays
Upon this Chequer-board of Nights and Days;
Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays,
And one by one back in the Closet lays.
The Ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes,
But Here or There as strikes the Player goes;
And He that toss'd you down into the Field,
He knows about it all--He knows--HE knows!
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
Lift not your hands to It for help--for It
As impotently moves as you or I.
With Earth's first Clay They did the Last Man knead,
And there of the Last Harvest sow'd the Seed:
And the first Morning of Creation wrote
What the Last Dawn of Reckoning shall read.
Yesterday This Day's Madness did prepare;
To-morrow's Silence, Triumph, or Despair:
Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:
Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.
I tell you this--When, started from the Goal,
Over the flaming shoulders of the Foal
Of Heav'n Parwin and Mushtari they flung
In my predestined Plot of Dust and Soul.
The Vine had struck a fibre: which about
If clings my being--let the Dervish flout;
Of my Base metal may be filed a Key,
That shall unlock the Door he howls without.
And this I know: whether the one True Light
Kindle to Love, or Wrath-consume me quite,
One Flash of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.
What! out of senseless Nothing to provoke
A conscious Something to resent the yoke
Of unpermitted Pleasure, under pain
Of Everlasting Penalties, if broke!
What! from his helpless Creature be repaid
Pure Gold for what he lent him dross-allay'd--
Sue for a Debt he never did contract,
And cannot answer--Oh, the sorry trade!
Oh, Thou, who didst with pitfall and with gin
Beset the Road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not with Predestined Evil round
Enmesh, and then impute my Fall to Sin!
Oh, Thou who Man of baser Earth didst make,
And ev'n with Paradise devise the Snake:
For all the Sin wherewith the Face of Man
Is blacken'd--Man's forgiveness give--and take!
As under cover of departing Day
Slunk hunger-stricken Ramazan away,
Once more within the Potter's house alone
I stood, surrounded by the Shapes of Clay.
Shapes of all Sorts and Sizes, great and small,
That stood along the floor and by the wall;
And some loquacious Vessels were; and some
Listen'd perhaps, but never talk'd at all.
Said one among them--"Surely not in vain
My substance of the common Earth was ta'en
And to this Figure moulded, to be broke,
Or trampled back to shapeless Earth again."
Then said a Second--"Ne'er a peevish Boy
Would break the Bowl from which he drank in joy,
And He that with his hand the Vessel made
Will surely not in after Wrath destroy."
After a momentary silence spake
Some Vessel of a more ungainly Make;
"They sneer at me for leaning all awry:
What! did the Hand then of the Potter shake?"
Whereat some one of the loquacious Lot--
I think a Sufi pipkin-waxing hot--
"All this of Pot and Potter--Tell me then,
Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?"
"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell
Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell
The luckless Pots he marr'd in making--Pish!
He's a Good Fellow, and 'twill all be well."
"Well," Murmur'd one, "Let whoso make or buy,
My Clay with long Oblivion is gone dry:
But fill me with the old familiar juice,
Methinks I might recover by and by."
So while the Vessels one by one were speaking,
The little Moon look'd in that all were seeking:
And then they jogg'd each other, "Brother! Brother!
Now for the Porter's shoulder-knot a-creaking!"
Ah, with the Grape my fading Life provide,
And wash the Body whence the Life has died,
And lay me, shrouded in the living Leaf,
By some not unfrequented Garden-side.
That ev'n my buried Ashes such a snare
Of Vintage shall fling up into the Air
As not a True-believer passing by
But shall be overtaken unaware.
Indeed the Idols I have loved so long
Have done my credit in this World much wrong:
Have drown'd my Glory in a shallow Cup
And sold my Reputation for a Song.
Indeed, indeed, Repentance of before
I swore--but was I sober when I swore?
And then and then came Spring, and Rose-in-hand
My thread-bare Penitence apieces tore.
And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
And robb'd me of my Robe of Honour--Well,
I wonder often what the Vintners buy
One half so precious as the stuff they sell.
Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the branches sang,
Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!
Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield
One glimpse--if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd,
To which the fainting Traveller might spring,
As springs the trampled herbage of the field!
Would but some wing'ed Angel ere too late
Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate,
And make the stern Recorder otherwise
Enregister, or quite obliterate!
Ah, Love! could you and I with Him conspire
To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits--and then
Re-mould it nearer to the Heart's Desire!
Yon rising Moon that looks for us again--
How oft hereafter will she wax and wane;
How oft hereafter rising look for us
Through this same Garden--and for one in vain!
And when like her, oh, Saki, you shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass,
And in your joyous errand reach the spot
Where I made One--turn down an empty Glass!
When this very demon assails me,
and with heavy hands and with his jaws
full of foam devours me all,
I turn to you with eyes full
of mute assent and I dont tell you stop,
I know what you suffer my lord when
I have twisted hands and muted eyes,
I know you see me quiver from anger,
against thousands of impostures, o true chant,
if you could even as an expert
severe surgeon come in my heart
and take away its torment, then a scream
I’d give of blessed wonder,
of joyfulness, o God beloved and full
like the night, if I turn upside down
I see the stars and obscure firmaments
tremble inside of me, at night, when you’re silent.
“I think the reward for conformity is that everyone likes you except yourself.”
And I'm what you desire, like a siren in the night
Originally Posted by Starfall7w6 2w3 8w9 - The Free Spirit
Nature and art, they seem to shun each other
Goethe trans. John Irons
Nature and art, they seem to shun each other
Yet in a trice can draw back close once more;
The aversion’s gone too that I felt before,
Both equally attract me, I discover.
An honest effort’s all that we require!
Only when we’ve assigned art clear-cut hours,
With full exertion of our mental powers,
Is nature free our hearts once more to inspire.
Such is the case with all forms of refinement:
In vain will spirits lacking due constraint
Seek the perfection of pure elevation.
He who’d do great things must display restraint;
The master shows himself first in confinement,
And law alone can grant us liberation.
I prefer the German version of this much more. Is that a sign this 1800 poem needs another translation? I doubt John Irons is translating all these to begin with. I'll post my translation when I make it so the people who don't speak German can know what classical German poetry is supposed to sound like compared to the common quality of translation.
Did you know Salvador Dalí invented Pokémon? Salvador Dalí definitely invented Pokémon. Here's the entire passage minus pictures from 50 Secrets of Magic Craftsmanship where Dalí invents Pokémon:
Nevertheless, in former times magic has often dealt with concrete recipes. But mine is incomparably superior, thanks to Sigmund Freud and to the advances that have been made in the young morphological sciences, and especially thanks to Dali who, besides being unique, knows things which no one knows today, which were not known in the Middle Ages either, though that was an age when men felt their way in the dark amid dazzling treasures of intuition and superstition. Men have attempted to interpret dreams, and even to guide them, but never yet have men attempted to use sleep to guide and to control artistic creation which is to be executed in a waking state. Rather than discuss my recipes, which are not to be found written in any book in the world, it would be wiser to test them, and this is what I do. For these recipes are not the product of surrealist fantasies.
They are very elementary and simple recipes at the disposal of any apprentice painter. It is easy also to smile at the apparent childishness of my “finds.” But consider Newton's apple or Columbus's egg. As for me, let me tell you that I sleep very soundly on the fact that posterity will some day accord much more importance to my three white, round sea perch eyes than to the egg of Columbus himself. And not only because each one of the former is worth three of the latter. Just consider this: Columbus's egg is a myth, whereas my three little balls are a discovery. He who laughs last laughs best!
The painter is above all one who likes this and who does not like that. His eye lives only by sympathies and antipathies, by continual affinities, relations and choices. This is known as “having taste.” The painter is one who, among all the “paint-able” things which exist in the world, chooses as a subject a piece of bread on the corner of a table, a woman pouring milk into a crock, a certain man holding a red carnation between his fingers, or the betrothal of the virgin. The painter is one who, among the limitlessness of colorations, limits himself to only a few of them with fanatical constancy.
Painter, you will therefore surely be obliged at the very beginning of your work to decide: for on your white canvas it will not be given to you to paint the entire universe. You must choose a small part of it and nevertheless, in this small part, you will have to make felt all the antipathies of the entire universe.
Begin, then, by knowing that according to the Dalinian aesthetic, the tulip is a horrid thing next to celluloid, that sardines, if they go beyond a certain size, become a banality, that the crayfish is the most admirable architecture that exists, and that the form which best goes with it is that of the onion, and that if this form is done in silver and placed next to the crayfish the effect will be excellent, for nothing is more sympathetic than silver and crayfish. Know also that the orange combined with lettuce is a moral monstrosity and that this monstrosity becomes even greater at the approach of a storm. I tell you all this in order to help you to discover for yourself and in order that you may begin to find your own way and to choose amid the cosmic complexity of the world which surrounds you.
But in this connection listen for a moment to J.-B. de Porta, who had great knowledge of these matters:
"Thus there are in animals, in plants and generally in all species having occult properties a same passion which the Greeks call sympathy and antipathy and which we more commonly call attraction and aversion. For certain ones of these join and embrace one another sympathetically, while others on the contrary have an aversion and an antipathy to one another without our being able to assign the true reason for this sympathy or this antipathy.
"And yet this reason exists, for nature has formed no thing without giving it its creator, and there is nothing in the hidden things of nature which does not have a secret and special property. Empedocles, struck by the marvels which he saw before his eyes, affirms that all things were brought into being through struggle and concord, and were dissipated in the same manner. He adds that these two contraries were the seed or the source of all things, that they were to be found in the elements by means of discordant and concordant qualities, as we have expounded above. He continues by saying that the same is true of the bodies of the heavens, alleging as an example that Jupiter and Venus have an attraction to all the other planets, except Mars and Saturn …
"These things may be seen still more clearly in the books of the astrologers, but they appear even yet more indisputably in the animal kingdom. For example, I will mention man and the serpent, who hate each other with an irreconcilable hatred: so that man, having seen the serpent, suddenly takes fright, and this pernicious creature, presenting himself before a pregnant woman, induces in her a miscarriage and causes her to lose the fruit of her womb. The saliva of a young man likewise has great power, for it will kill scorpions. The crocodile of the Nile and the panther are most cruel animals and most dangerous to man, for the former, attracting him by feigned tears, devours him on the spot, and the other causes him a mortal fright. The Indian rat is pernicious to the crocodile, for nature has given it to the latter as its enemy, so that when this violent animal relaxes in the sun it creates a trap for itself by which it dies. For, perceiving that the crocodile sleeps with its mouth open, thus exposing a monstrous chasm, the rat enters it and slips through the wide throat into the beast's belly. It gnaws its entrails and finally emerges through the belly of the dead creature. However, this animal has no fondness for the spider, and often fighting with the aspic, it dies. The glance of the wolf is also very harmful to man. If the wolf sees the man first, the latter loses his voice, so that even if he wishes to cry out he no longer can, for he is suddenly deprived of the power of speech. But if the wolf feels itself to be observed it becomes silent, its cruelty is diminished and it loses much of its strength. If the wolf bites a horse it is a fact that it will become wonderfully light and fit for running. But if by its fall it comes up against the trace of the wolf it will be all terrorstruck and its legs will become all numb, so Pamphilius assures us.
"The wolf has a mortal hatred of the lamb, in which it inspires such fear and terror that if garments are made of the skin or of the spun fleece of a sheep killed by a wolf, they will engender more lice than those of another. But also the flesh of sheep that have felt the teeth of a wolf becomes more tender and tasty. The tail and the head of a wolf hung in a sheepfold will cause the creatures to be consumed with regret and melancholy, so that they will leave off grazing in their pasture and implore aid and succor by their pitiful bleating. The dog is the enemy of the wolf and the friend of man. And the latter is also held in affection by the horse. But the horse has as enemies the griffon and the bear.
"The lion surpasses all animals in generosity, and it frightens all other beasts. But it is frightened by the mere crowing of the cock, especially if it be white, and the rooster's comb also inspires it with terror. The monkey has a horror of the turtle; when it sees one it flees, uttering savage cries. The elephant which is the largest of land animals experiences acute fear upon hearing the grunts of a sow. It is also in continual struggle against the dragon.
"The cock is indifferent to the elephant and is not afraid of it. It despises that great and heavy mass, but it fears the kite. When an elephant is carried away by fury and cruelty, if it should perceive a sheep it immediately becomes gentle and its impetuosity ceases. By this ruse did the Romans put to flight the elephants of Pyrrhus, the king of the Epirotes, and won a dazzling victory over him. The linnet detests the donkey and fights with it in a strange manner. For when the donkey draws near bushes and shrubs to scratch itself, and in rubbing against the branches threatens to destroy the birds’ nests, the linnet, lest it cause the eggs or the young ones to drop, comes to their rescue and with its beak pecks the soft part of the animal's nostrils.
"The sparrow-hawk is the greatest enemy of doves, but these are protected by the kestrel, whose voice and glance frighten the sparrow-hawk. Thus they never stray far from the kestrel, in whom they have full confidence. The rook and the owl are perpetually at war; they spy on each other's nests and eat the little ones which they find in them. The owl operates at night, but the rook works by day and has more strength than its enemy. The weasel is the enemy of the crow, and the kite cannot endure the presence of the crow. The strength of the kite resides above all in its claws, which are very hard.
"The red woodpecker likes neither the heron nor the yellow hammer, the crow hates the buzzard, the wasp is the relentless enemy of the horse and of the donkey. When the donkey sleeps in its stable the wasp enters its nostrils and, when it awakens, prevents it from eating. The heron makes war on the eagle, the lark on the fox. Against the eagle a night-flying hawk named cibidus wages furious warfare; bent upon extermination, they kill one another.
"The aquatic animals also war on one another continually The conger and the lamprey, for example, eat each other's tails Spiny lobsters have a horror of octopi, which envelop them with their powerful tentacles and choke them. There is also in the ocean a small worm, similar to the scorpion, large as a spider, which with its stinger penetrates under the fins of a fish named thinnis and presses them in such a fashion that, overcome with pain and rage, it jumps on board the ships which sail in its vicinity.
"The cabbage and the vine are pernicious to each other, for although the vine, by its curling tendrils, will usually wind itself around all objects, nevertheless it eschews the cabbage and the repugnance which it feels for this vegetable is such that, sensing the cabbage near it, it turns in the other direction, as though someone had warned it that its enemy is in its neighborhood. And this is also worthy of note: while cabbage is cooking, if you put a little wine in the vessel in which it is cooking, the cabbage will not cook properly and will not keep its color. Nor can the vine endure the laurel, because by its order it affects its quality adversely. The hellebore and the hemlock are, as is known, dangerous to man. Yet it is to be noted that quail eat the one and starlings the other.
"The ferula is a most agreeable fodder for the donkey, but it is a cruel poison for other beasts, which it promptly kills. Which is why this animal is dedicated to Bacchus, even as is the ferula. If the scorpion crawls at the base of the aconite it is overcome with terror and promptly becomes numb. There is an herb named cerastis, the virtue of which is such that if you rub its grain between your hands the scorpion will do you no harm, but you may on the contrary crush it at your leisure. Cats will not touch birds which have grains of wild rue under their wings. The weasel which wishes to do battle with a serpent also fortifies itself by arming itself with this plant. The lion if it brushes against the branches or the leaves of the holly oak at once becomes very fearful. If the wolf touches an onion it loses its strength, which is the reason why foxes habitually cover and line their holes with them. The leaves of the plane tree repel bats, hence storks fill their nests with them, in order to preserve themselves from their attacks.
"The birds which are called harpae seek out ivy, rooks verbena, the thrush myrtle, the partridge reed, the heron carline, the lark dog's teeth, which has given rise to these verses:
In the gracious lustre of the dog's teeth herb
The lark builds its home and its repose assures.
"Swans wishing their young to come forth bring vitex, or agnus castus, into their nests.
"But if we have told of things contrary or harmful, how much more marvelous shall we find those which are agreeable and beneficent! If I have said that the serpent is the enemy of man, I shall note on the contrary that the lizard loves and cherishes him and that it rejoices in his sight. And indeed what animal is more friendly to man than the dog, who caresses him even to licking his saliva? And among aquatic animals, what is more friendly than the dolphin: so much so that it has appropriately been named philanthropos, and it is well known, according to Appion, that it is subject to love. As Theophrastus relates, dolphins have been known to fall madly in love, so much so that on seeing pretty little children navigating along the shore in boats they have suddenly become entranced by them. The fox lives on good terms with the serpent. Peacocks are fond of doves. Blackbirds, thrushes and parrots quickly fall enamoured of turtledoves. Ovid speaks of this in the following verses:
And the green bird sighs with love
For the night-black turtledove.
"Rooks are fond of herons and come to one another's aid against the insolence of foxes, their common enemy. There is the same familiarity and the same mutual aid among fish who live in schools. There is for example a real friendship between the whale and a small fish of the size of a gudgeon, which it freely allows to swim before it to serve as its guide, and this little creature it will follow as the one to which it owes the safety of its life. And when the one rests, the other rests, and when the one resumes its course the other does likewise and is entirely subservient to it.
"Thus also, in the vegetable kingdom, vines are fond of elms and poplars, so much so that they grow magnificently in their proximity. For, married in wedlock, as it were, the vines send out their tendrils, climb daintily and embrace the branches of these trees, to the point where they can no longer detach themselves, which is not the case for other trees. Palm trees cherish one another with a vehement love. They languish for one another and are so titillated by amorous desire that they bow their tufted heads toward one another and interlace their fronds in a sweet and loving attachment. And if, being planted next to one another, they are joined by a cord, they will embrace with mutual caresses and revel in the sweet gifts of Venus, and joyously will lift the foliage of their graceful crowns. The planters have a remedy for this amorous madness, which we shall relate further on, a remedy by the aid of which this extravagant love is extinguished, and the tree henceforth is rendered fruitful. Leontius also speaks of the ardent desire which these trees exhibit and bases himself on what the ancients had said on the subject. Carnal desire, he says, is so great and so lively in the palm tree that the female will relinquish her amorous desire only when the beloved male has consoled her. If her love-yearning is not assuaged, she dies—a fact well known to the agricultural expert. Accordingly, having provided himself with the remedy which is required in order that he may know and recognize the one to which she desires to be joined in marriage, he goes and seeks out all the male palms which surround the languishing female palm, and having touched one, he puts his hand to the passionate loving palm, and so he does with one after another. And when he feels that his hands are grazed as by a kiss, he thereby recognizes that the palm announces that her desire is assuaged, and she waves her sweet and gracious crown. Then the prudent husbandman goes and plucks flowers from the trunk of the male and therewith crowns the head of the lady-love who, thus laden with her lover's gift, bears fruit and, rejoicing in this pledge of love, becomes fecund. The fruit will not ripen on the female palm if the husband's pollen is not sprinkled on her.
"The olive tree and the myrtle also have a great affection for each other, as Androcius relates, the branches of the latter interlacing with the olive tree's, and their roots wrapping around one another. Hence no other tree is planted near the olive tree, except the myrtle. It is, in fact, the enemy of the fig tree and even of all other trees. The myrtle also likes to be near the pomegranate tree, for if they are planted next to each other they become more fertile and abundant. If the pomegranate is grafted on the myrtle it bears more heavily. So Didymus assures us. There are also several other trees which become sterile if a post is not driven into the ground near them or if the male tree is not right close to them. The shoot of the wild olive tree counteracts sterility in the domestic olive tree.
"Between roses and lilies there is a secret sympathy, so that in growing side by side they help and benefit one another and produce more delicate and fragrant blooms. Where the squill is planted all other plants do exceptionally well, just as all kinds of vegetable herbs are favored in their growth if rocket is planted close to them. Cucumbers have as great an attraction for water as they have an aversion for oil. The rue is never so handsome as under the shade of the fig tree, or even grafted into the latter's bark.
"The cat rejoices in the presence of verbena, because this plant strengthens its eyes.
"I think that I may well close this chapter here, for I believe we have amused you, friend reader, more than was mete."
Now that you have had a glimpse into certain mysteries of sympathy and of antipathy in the world closest to natural magic, you must begin daily to apply these principles to the sensitive impressions of your own eye. For the eye of the painter is a battle field, and at the same time an idyllic prairie. Certain images, in fact, shock the eye while others caress it, some nourish it and others denutrify it, and so on. Consequently, if you wish to make your eye vibrate happily, remembering that your eye will be ceaselessly engaged in choosing, in struggling for holy unity, which is your holy unity, you must creat it with very special care. Since a singer must take care of his throat, how should you not take care of your eye! And there is this difference, that while the vocal chords are viscera which are blind, deaf and without memory, the eye is the persistence of retinal memory in person!
@sbbds @Grendel @Subteigh @squark
"I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue."
“My typology is . . . not in any sense to stick labels on people at first sight. It is not a physiognomy and not an anthropological system, but a critical psychology dealing with the organization and delimitation of psychic processes that can be shown to be typical.” —C.G. Jung
why not merely the despaired of
is it not better abort than be barren
the hours after you are gone are so leaden
they will always start dragging too soon
the grapples clawing blindly the bed of want
bringing up the bones the old loves
sockets filled once with eyes like yours
all always is it better too soon than never
the black want splashing their faces
saying again nine days never floated the loved
nor nine months
nor nine lives
if you do not teach me I shall not learn
saying again there is a last
even of last times
last times of begging
last times of loving
of knowing not knowing pretending
a last even of last times of saying
if you do not love me I shall not be loved
if I do not love you I shall not love
the churn of stale words in the heart again
love love love thud of the old plunger
pestling the unalterable
whey of words
of not loving
of loving and not you
of being loved and not by you
of knowing not knowing pretending
I and all the others that will love you
if they love you
unless they love you
Anguished grief, immoderate fury,
grievous despair, full of madness,
endless languor and a life of misfortune,
full of tears, anguish and torment,
doleful heart, living in darkness,
wraithlike body on the point of death,
are mine continually without cease;
and thus I can neither be healed nor die.
Harsh disdain, bereft of joy,
sad thoughts, deep sighs,
great anguish locked in a weary heart,
bitter distress endured in secret,
mournful demeanour without gladness,
foreboding which dries up all hope,
are in me and never leave me;
and thus I can neither be healed nor die.
Worry and annoyance everlasting,
bitter waking, troubled sleep,
I labour in vain, with languid expression,
destined to grievous torment,
and all the ill which one could ever
say or think, without hope of relief,
torment me immoderately;
and thus I can neither be healed nor die.
Princes, pray to God that very soon
he may grant me death, if he does not wish by any other means
to remedy the ill in which I painfully languish;
and thus I can neither be healed nor die.
- Christine de Pisan (1364-1430)
You have a superpower and it’s called empathy.
And I'm what you desire, like a siren in the night
Originally Posted by Starfall7w6 2w3 8w9 - The Free Spirit
Pentecostal - D. H. Lawrence - 1885-1930
Shall I tell you, then, how it is?
There came a cloven gleam,
Like a tongue of darkened flame,
To burn in me.
And so I seem
To have you still the same
In one world with me.
In the flicker of a flower,
In a worm that is blind, yet strives,
In the mouse that pauses to listen,
Shadow as well, and deprives
Them none of their glisten.
In each shaken morsel
Our shadow trembles
As if it rippled from out of us hand in hand.
We are part and parcel
In shadow, nothing dissembles
Our darkened universe. You understand?
For I have told you plainly how it is.
"Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower." -- Albert Camus