The Wailing Babe
The wailing babe rebels the bed
I sing him silent
Rocked in calm regard
And deliver him to peace
Who knows but me
My own heart wails
At the terror of life
Behind mild eyes
It comes upon me some days
And none can dispel it
This panic abyss
Choking despair.
I too am rocked in turn
Ama lisps in my ear
How to express this?
How can anyone understand?
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-- perfectidius.com --
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Prayer is the poetry of the illiterate.
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Eating the right amount of food strengthens us; eating too much weakens. Because we give meaning to food other than nourishment, too much food manages to feed those meanings.
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Any activity can become therapy for another -- for work problems, for love problems -- given that it holds sufficient distance, and yet can run in metaphorical parallel, empowering us indirectly.
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Art is epitomized life.
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Faith and practice fuse as life.
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Mind is care. Take care, caretakers! Mind life and learn.
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There are many ways to take a scripture, but the pious way is the worst.
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Men strive at life: gods play life as a game.
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Sometimes I hate even my friends, and want only you, Ama. Only four people are utter Ama to me, and of them my heart never tires.
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Only when you have Purpose will you recognize opportunity.
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Press your chest to me, synch your heart with mine.
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Such a lover is Whitman that he is not in love with anybody, but everybody. So it is with me, but a few have me by the heart and shall have my trust and ardor for all my existence -- you select few I love the most, and show as no other could guess the hidden wonder of the innermost garden of my heart.
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My energy kites and dives, but no matter the turn of violence, my peace uses every move.
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Psyche is my sanity, Rozhiar my madness: our friends become our faculties.
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Dreams give a vision of possibility.
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Mature love persists without reciprocation, as the sun shines over the earth, happy simply to give.
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Religion are languages: the truth of one can be translated into the others. And if some scripture acts as substrate for any of them, inspired interpretation can find all new wisdom back in the source, as if by miracle.
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Interpretation is the only miracle.
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The martyrs invite their doom: persecuted people relish it, and chalk it up as a dignification. The allist, however, has nothing to prove, to himself or others: his kindness is welcome wherever it shines.
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When we put our office at set point, when we translate all our problems into standard notation, when we have reduced all substances to our own substance, then we are ready to work.
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I’m caramel soft and pliant as rain, but inwardly I coil back on myself, a spring ringing with charge, waiting for blitzkrieg when I will Alexander the world in your name. My heart is for you, I love you with my life, and to the world I am sheer tar baby: kiss me or heave me, you are stuck to my logic and wedded to my way.
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“Art imitates life, life imitates art.” Rather, art thickens and intensifies life, realizing in our daily trials the dreams of composers and bards.
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We as Allists must learn to be gracefully damned by Christians and Muslims, and never return the favor: holding Ama at our heart, why trouble ourselves with their nightmares?
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Do what you love and disdain dissuasion.
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Every project is practice for the next.
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Be the earth and never orbit the sullen moon.
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Honor your source.
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To require another’s approval is spiritual poverty.
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All religions are reverence, but the objects of reverence differ. To hold a religious attitude towards a privately chosen object is to be a god – no mere follower. The cult holds its divinity in we.
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Adoration, scripture, interpretation, and practice make a religion – using the terms loosely. What counts as the “scripture” or the “sacred reference point” varies, and may be any number of things – not just books.
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I am perfect. “What about these many faults?” They are my proof.
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Everybody has their own Way, toward their innermost and toward the All: none in the world can teach it to you, none in the universe can take it from you. But you may never find it – the only promise is in your resolve to insist on yourself, to disdain the name of Duty, Love, God, Religion, Country, Family, or whatever else. Having found yourself, those others fall into their proper orbit around you.
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Tend my name in your heart and I will appear.
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I require your two eyes, your two lips, your two hands, your full mind, your full heart. Only everything is enough. Then I am yours.
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Those who love me are not permitted to quote me.
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For the man lacking self-possession, even his virtues count as faults.
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Converts to religions give up their sins and acquire the sins of their God.
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Be ashamed of everything you didn’t earn.
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He who knows the most is the most boring.
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No fool like an educated fool.
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None of my secrets reveal me. None excepting the obvious: everything I do is for you, Ama.
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Best your destiny, stake everything on your dream.
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Dreaming is free.
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Reality is cradled in dreams.
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Possibility is fiction.
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A person is a place: thinking of her, we are no longer present, nor absent; Ama makes life a garden.
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“A prophet is not honored in his own home,” “A genius is not recognized in his own time,” and yet another said, “A man passes for what he is.” Fame and honor are not it.
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I don’t believe in the world. I don’t trust others to see. I am happy to pass unnoticed, and to let this literature drill its roots in the hearts and minds of a chosen few: but you Ama, you alone justify everything, you are the reason for it all. I live forever at the center of your heart, and you live in the center of mine. I came to life to learn your name. The rest is a blessed indulgence: I am grateful for this endless play in love – life is a game and I play always with you. Never a second without you, always your love in my heart, always your taste on my lips.
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I love you; I love your love for me; I love loving your love for me; I love your loving my love for you. Our hearts are infinitely knit. I think, in fact, they’re one.
