Something I wrote "way" back in 2002 - sitting on the edge of a cliff in Newfoundland, early (really) morning:
Finally I reached the ocean, and realized that I could basically walk right along the cliff, almost as far as I wanted or could be able to go. I walked until I found a comfortable area to sit down, to gaze at the ocean and the waves below me. I guess at that point I found what one could term as total plenitude. Watching below, trying to predict when the next big wave would crash, listening to the booming sound of the waves hitting the cliff, seeing a few birds peacefully bobbing up and down the surface of the water had me mesmerized. A few clouds of mists were visible close to where the camp was. The light was also shining at the perfect angle and intensity, so that whenever a wave would come crashing against the rocks, I could actually see the microscopic droplets rising up before me, and barely feel them caress my skin… And I sat there, for how long, who knows, how many times have I said that already? Time had stopped…
***
A feeling that I could somehow explain in music.
...but that is the subject of another post.
-JP
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Sun's Rays
If I were to know a ray of sunlight so beautiful as to give one pause, or compel one to sit for a while and soak in it's warmth. And then if that ray were to be blocked by a changing of the hour, or the season, or the emergence of some opaqueness, I would think none the less of that original ray in that in that original moment. For the sitting there would have been no less fine.
- GD
Friday, September 10, 2010
Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du temps...
Following is the original French version of the Baudelaire poem... written in prose (as opposed to usual verses). A small remark I'd like to make here is that something is lost in translation. "S'enivrer" is translated as "get drunk" which is not entirely correct. A literal translation of "getting drunk" would be "se saoûler". "S'enivrer", by contrast, is to be totally, passionately taken in with something (or someone) - which doesn't translate directly. You can be "ivre" without being drunk. Not too sure how to translate that into English but that's the difficulty of translation!
****
Il faut être toujours ivre, tout est là ; c'est l'unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.
-Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)
***
JPster (the Frenchie)
****
Il faut être toujours ivre, tout est là ; c'est l'unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.
Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu à votre guise, mais enivrez-vous!
Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d'un palais, sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé, vous vous réveillez, l'ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue, demandez au vent, à la vague, à l'étoile, à l'oiseau, à l'horloge; à tout ce qui fuit, à tout ce qui gémit, à tout ce qui roule, à tout ce qui chante, à tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est. Et le vent, la vague, l'étoile, l'oiseau, l'horloge, vous répondront, il est l'heure de s'enivrer ; pour ne pas être les esclaves martyrisés du temps, enivrez-vous, enivrez-vous sans cesse de vin, de poésie, de vertu, à votre guise.
-Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867)
***
JPster (the Frenchie)
Thursday, September 9, 2010
That you may not be the martyred slaves of time
Digging this joint from Charles Baudelaire. Enjoy, as you choose!
One should always be drunk, that’s all that matters.
So as not to feel time’s horrible burden that breaks your shoulders and bows you down you must get drunk without ceasing.
But what with? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose, but get drunk.
And if at some time on the steps of a palace, or in the green grass of a ditch, or in the bleak solitude of your room you are waking up when drunkenness is already abated, ask the wind, a wave, the star, the bird, the clock, all that which flees, all that which rolls, all that which groans, all that which sings, all that which speaks, ask them what time it is.
And the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock will reply “It is time to get drunk! So that you may not be the martyred slaves of time, get drunk, get drunk and never pause for rest. With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose.”
With credit.
One should always be drunk, that’s all that matters.
So as not to feel time’s horrible burden that breaks your shoulders and bows you down you must get drunk without ceasing.
But what with? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose, but get drunk.
And if at some time on the steps of a palace, or in the green grass of a ditch, or in the bleak solitude of your room you are waking up when drunkenness is already abated, ask the wind, a wave, the star, the bird, the clock, all that which flees, all that which rolls, all that which groans, all that which sings, all that which speaks, ask them what time it is.
And the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock will reply “It is time to get drunk! So that you may not be the martyred slaves of time, get drunk, get drunk and never pause for rest. With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose.”
With credit.
Monday, September 6, 2010
Master
Master
When I think of you, and the years fly by.
The how, then where, then when, then why.
A life, so blessed, unfolds and unfolding.
Passion boils hot, salt's from the Earth, water's scalding.
The future's the past, the moments are now.
Time's like an arrow, its deeds that allow.
Everything's in front, yet nothing's behind.
The state's moving forward, its all in your mind.
A mind, made new and open, to ideas profound.
Both final, like a book, and fleeting like a sound.
Yes, it all lies ahead, yet it comes from the past.
And it lives in this moment, no sense how things last.
That's how he'd have it, if he could speak, he'd say.
You can take your power, your money, and hay.
If all she's got is this moment, that's the take.
If its three in the morning, I'm gladly awake.
Yet one never knows when sleep may fall.
Sometimes it just takes you, despite it all.
I cherish his boy dreams, nurture them with my worth.
Wrap my arms around them, in spite of their girth.
I'll pick them up, and carry them along.
Sing the praises, and crank up the song.
Knowing in life, the balance will swing.
Never knowing when, the bell we do ring.
These moments, you see, may be all that we get.
That being the case, let's not regret.
Let's dance funky chickens on score divided annuals.
Let's mix our spirits, and bare out our dreams.
Write our own story, in volume and reams.
-- G. Dyke, 6 Sept 2010
When I think of you, and the years fly by.
The how, then where, then when, then why.
A life, so blessed, unfolds and unfolding.
Passion boils hot, salt's from the Earth, water's scalding.
The future's the past, the moments are now.
Time's like an arrow, its deeds that allow.
Everything's in front, yet nothing's behind.
The state's moving forward, its all in your mind.
A mind, made new and open, to ideas profound.
Both final, like a book, and fleeting like a sound.
Yes, it all lies ahead, yet it comes from the past.
And it lives in this moment, no sense how things last.
That's how he'd have it, if he could speak, he'd say.
You can take your power, your money, and hay.
If all she's got is this moment, that's the take.
If its three in the morning, I'm gladly awake.
Yet one never knows when sleep may fall.
Sometimes it just takes you, despite it all.
I cherish his boy dreams, nurture them with my worth.
Wrap my arms around them, in spite of their girth.
I'll pick them up, and carry them along.
Sing the praises, and crank up the song.
Knowing in life, the balance will swing.
Never knowing when, the bell we do ring.
These moments, you see, may be all that we get.
That being the case, let's not regret.
Let's dance funky chickens on score divided annuals.
Let's mix our spirits, and bare out our dreams.
Write our own story, in volume and reams.
-- G. Dyke, 6 Sept 2010
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