those who are victorious plan effectively and change decisively. they are like a great river that maintains its course but adjusts its flow. they have form, but are formless. they are skilled in both planning and adapting and need not fear the result of a thousand battles, for they win in advance, defeating those who have already lost.

- sun tzu

"if you hear a voice within you say 'you cannot paint,' then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced."

- vincent van gogh

a wonderful night, full of stars, an almost full moon, and the quiet whispering of the wind through the trees in my back yard. the day was long, and hot, and full of life, but the night is quiet, and peaceful - as if the mother earth herself is resting and singing herself to sleep, and the beauty of this night is so intense that the dark holds no fear.

all things uncomely and broken,
all things worn-out and old,
the cry of a child by the roadway,
the creak of a lumbering cart,

the heavy steps of the ploughman,
splashing the wintry mould,
are wronging your image that blossoms
a rose in the deeps of my heart.

the wrong of unshapely things
is a wrong too great to be told;
i hunger to build them anew
and sit on a green knoll apart,

with the earth and the sky and the water,
remade, like a casket of gold
for my dreams of your image that blossoms
a rose in the deeps of my heart.

- william butler yeats

morrissey. live. need I say more?



there is a light that never goes out

take me out tonight
where there's music and there's people
and they're young and alive
driving in your car
i never never want to go home
because i haven't got one
anymore

take me out tonight
because i want to see people and i
want to see life
driving in your car
oh, please don't drop me home
because it's not my home, it's their
home, and i'm welcome no more

and if a double-decker bus
crashes into us
to die by your side
is such a heavenly way to die
and if a ten-ton truck
kills the both of us
to die by your side
well, the pleasure - the privilege is mine

take me out tonight
take me anywhere, i don't care
i don't care, i don't care
and in the darkened underpass
i thought oh god, my chance has come at last
(but then a strange fear gripped me and i
just couldn't ask)

take me out tonight
oh, take me anywhere, i don't care
i don't care, i don't care
driving in your car
i never never want to go home
because i haven't got one, da ...
oh, i haven't got one

and if a double-decker bus
crashes into us
to die by your side
is such a heavenly way to die
and if a ten-ton truck
kills the both of us
to die by your side
well, the pleasure - the privilege is mine

oh, there is a light and it never goes out
there is a light and it never goes out
there is a light and it never goes out
there is a light and it never goes out
there is a light and it never goes out
there is a light and it never goes out
there is a light and it never goes out
there is a light and it never goes out
there is a light and it never goes out

a man traveling across a field encountered a tiger. he fled, the tiger after him. coming to a precipice, he caught hold of the root of a wild vine and swung himself down over the edge. the tiger sniffed at him from above. trembling, the man looked down to where, far below, another tiger was waiting to eat him. only the vine sustained him.

two mice, one white and one black started to gnaw away at the vine. the man saw a lucious strawberry near him. grasping the vine with one hand, he plucked the strawberry with the other.

ahh, how sweet is tasted!

---

no matter what the circumstance, how "bad" your life seems, what deamons you may be fighting, there is beauty and wonder everywhere. all you have to do is look for it, and once found, enjoy it.

i was talking to my father, in the still-dark hours before dawn, and when he told me that a plane had crashed into the wtc, i thought to myself, "cessna". i wish that it had been the case, but as we were all about to discover, it was much much more than that.

i won't waste time attempting to eulogize the dead or bemoan our loss - my words are insufficient. i can only share the horror i felt, and still feel, when i discovered that men exist who pervert religion and god into creatures of hate and evil, and use those perversions to justify mass-murder.

i remember my tears for the world, for motherless sons, for fatherless daughters, for the loss and the hurt that we all felt.

remember where you were, what you were doing, and how you felt that morning burning in the sky and history. in doing so, we honor the lost, the fallen, the heroes and martyrs of that dreadful day.

and pray for the world.

in my craft or sullen art
exercised in the still night
when only the moon rages
and the lovers lie abed
with all their griefs in their arms,
i labour by singing light
not for ambition or bread
or the strut and trade of charms
on the ivory stages
but for the common wages
of their most secret heart.
not for the proud man apart
from the raging moon i write
on these spindrift pages
nor for the towering dead
with their nightingales and psalms
but for the lovers, their arms
round the griefs of the ages,
who pay no praise or wages
nor heed my craft or art.

dylan thomas

"a warrior, captured and imprisoned, could not sleep, afraid that the morrow would bring interrogation, torture, and death.

words of his master then sounded softly in the vaults of his mind; "tomorrow is not real. it is illusion. the only reality is now."

peace descended, and the warrior faded gently into dreamless sleep."

---

tomorrow will bring what it may. we can only live our lives, one moment at a time, those moments stretching out into eternity.

should tomorrow come and we leave this place, let us leave it better than we found it. let us leave it having truly lived.

lately, the teachings of zen buddhism have become incredibly appealing - they make sense to me. here's an exceptionally good one - what truth do you see in this?

---

matajuro yagyu was the son of a famous swordsman. his father, believing that his son's work was too mediocre to anticipate mastership, disowned him.

so matajuro went to mount futara and there found the famous swordsman banzo. but banzo confirmed the father's judgment. "you wish to learn swordsmanship under my guidance?" asked banzo. "you cannot fulfill the requirements."

"but if i work hard, how many years will it take to become a master?" persisted the youth.

"the rest of your life," replied banzo.

"i cannot wait that long," explained matajuro. "i am willing to pass through any hardship if only you will teach me. if i become your devoted servant, how long might it be?"

"oh, maybe ten years," banzo relented.

"my father is getting old, and soon i must take care of him," continued matajuro. "if i work far more intensively, how long would it take me?"

"oh, maybe thirty years," said banzo.

"why is that?" asked matajuro. "first you say ten and now thirty years. i will undergo any hardship to master this art in the shortest time!"

"well," said banzo, "in that case you will have to remain with me for seventy years. a man in such a hurry as you are to get results seldom learns quickly."

"very well," declared the youth, understanding at last that he was being rebuked for impatience, "i agree."

matajuro was told never to speak of fencing and never to touch a sword. he cooked for his master, washed the dishes, made his bed, cleaned the yard, cared for the garden, all without a word of swordmanship.

three years passed. still matajuro labored on. thinking of his future, he was sad. he had not even begun to learn the art to which he had devoted his life.

but one day banzo crept up behind him and gave him a terrific blow with a wooden sword.

the following day, when matajuro was cooking rice, banzo again sprang upon him unexpectedly.

after that, day and night, matajuro had to defend himself from unexpected thrusts. not a moment passed in any day that he did not have to think of the taste of banzo's sword.

he learned so rapidly he brought smiles to the face of his master. matajuro became the greatest swordsman in the land.

---

what do i see? that oftimes your greatest reward can come in the most unexpected way. only perserverance and patience will illumine the path, and when enlightenment comes, whatever form it takes, accept it.

believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
  which i gaze on so fondly today,
were to change by tomorrow, and fleet in my arms,
  like fairy-gifts fading away,
thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
  let thy loveliness fade as it will,
and around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
  would entwine itself verdantly still.

it is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
  and thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear
that the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,
  to which time will but make thee more dear;
no, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
  but as truly loves on to the close,
as the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets,
  the same look which she turned when he rose.

thomas moore

two monks reached a river where they met a young woman. wary of the current, she asked if they could carry her across. one hesitated, but the other quickly picked her up, put her on his shoulders, transported her across the water, and put her down on the other bank. she thanked him and departed.

as the monks continued on their way, the one was brooding and preoccupied. unable to hold his silence, he spoke out. "brother, we are taught to avoid any contact with women, but you picked that one up on your shoulders and carried her!"

"brother," the second monk replied, "i set her down on the other side, while you are still carrying her."

seems as if yesterday's post was cause for alarm in certain circles - and while i appreciate the concern from those who expressed it, you needn't worry, i'm okay.

really, i am. don't ask me to explain, i can't! and by no means am i depressed, quite the contrary, i'm happier than i've been in years. years. but every once in a while, i get a little down, and yesterday was one of those days.

you can never say i don't have a certain flair for words, can you?

so does robert frost:

two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
and sorry i could not travel both
and be one traveler, long i stood
and looked down one as far as i could
to where it bent in the undergrowth;

then took the other, as just as fair,
and having perhaps the better claim,
because it was grassy and wanted wear;
though as for that, the passing there
had worn them really about the same,

and both that morning equally lay
in leaves no step had trodden black.
oh, i kept the first for another day!
yet knowing how way leads on to way,
i doubted if i should ever come back.

i shall be telling this with a sigh
somewhere ages and ages hence:
two roads diverged in a wood, and i -
i took the one less traveled by,
and that has made all the difference.

i've taken a path less traveled. patience, courage, a certain fortitude, and long suffering have seen me to the crossroads, and i choose happiness.

frankly, i have a great life, and even if offered all the riches of the world, i would never return to yesterday. i've come too far, grown too much, gained wisdom untold, and finally found peace to barter so meanly with myself.

i'm okay. finally.

a friend asked me yesterday if i ever felt alone. he wondered if he needed a girlfriend to feel complete. there were some good answers, some inane ones - one person even sugested that cats might make him feel better. this was my response:

"do i feel alone? all the time. on a crowded street, i am alone. in a roomful of people, i am alone. with family, friends, and loved ones, i am alone. "it hurts" doesn't even begin to describe it.

most times, it's a dull ache deep inside, and i also look up (at the ceiling of the world), see the stars painted there, and wonder if i'll ever feel wanted, needed, loved. this feeling is pervasive, inescapable, relentless agony, regardless of my relationship status.

sometimes, though, it's far worse. times like these, i yearn with every fiber of my being to be held, for gentle hands to stroke my hair, to caress my face, warm and loving arms to enfold me and protect me as i cry. i care not for sexual intimacy, i only want to be held.

i want to hear the whispered words "it's okay, i'm here, it'll be allright" as my soul tears itself away from my body, pours out my eyes, rips itself from a tortured throat, my body bathed in a white hot river of molten suffering. times like this i would rather be dead than live one single second more in such pain. it folds me up, like the origami masterpiece of a madman bent on my destruction. it's physical, the utter and complete desolation, desolation that wraps a 30 year old man into as tight a ball he can manage, huddled in a corner under a blanket, sobbing softly.

times like this, i'd trade all my possessions, all my dreams, abandon everything of meaning to me for just one night where this bitter cup was not mine to drink. please please please anyone, somebody, help me. take it from my lips. i cannot drink any more. i'm drunk and sick and more on the gall of it.

times like this, all i have is a pillow, an empty bed, an empty life.

nothing brings surcrease. a void yawns black below my feet every single night. it's a hole, a great and terrible lack of something, anything inside. sometimes, if i'm tired, i can fall asleep before i plummet into the dark. most nights, i can't seem to find gilead, and her balm is lost to me. this is why i survive on a few hours of sleep a day - i keep hoping that i can fall asleep before my demons take hold of me, and begin to hurt me.

not to denegrate or in any way set aside your pain, friend, when you've been hurt as i have, when you've undergone the suffering that i've experienced, when you go to sleep crying, wake up, remember where and what you are, and sob anew at the thought of another day with this emptiness inside, come and we'll discuss. we'll go to a cafe, watch the people parade by, and philosophize.

i've begun to loathe myself. the joy of living leaches out of me. the leaves of my existence are steeped in the water of life, drained by the immensity of my regret, my loneliness, this transfiguration into pain.

i am your pain, my friend, and when i find that which fills this abyss, or at least bridges the chasm, i'll share.

until then, seek ye out that small brass gate in the towering wall of sleep. enter, and walk the streets of your dreams with your head high, your eyes proud and fierce. the demons will see your demeanor, and cower, craven, in a corner. sleep will once again be the balm you so desperately need.

cats and women aren't the answer. neither is a premature end. there is only survival."

whenever anyone asked him about zen, the great master gutei would quietly raise one finger into the air.

a boy in the village began to imitate this behavior. whenever he heard people talking about gutei's teachings, he would interrupt the discussion and raise his finger.

gutei heard about the boy's mischief. when he saw him in the street, he seized him and cut off his finger. the boy cried and fled, but gutei called out to him. when the boy turned to look, gutei raised his finger into the air.

the boy tried to raise his finger in response, and realized that it was missing.

at that moment the boy became enlightened.

and hate is such a strong word. there are so very very few things that i can say that about, much less actually do.

after so long and bitter a dark and stormy time of anger, to have struggled so mightily with myself, to have surrendered to it, understood it, embraced it, and then let it go at long last, i very nearly loathe myself for saying it.

ack. sux0r! not for the reasons that you might at first assume, and if you have no idea what i'm talking about, so be it. this is my page, not yours...

you see, dear reader, i'm overreacting, and i know it. knowing that i'm doing this is personally frustrating. do i really hinge such an overgenerous portion my self-worth on this, a piddly little insignificant thing? it seems that to a certain degree i must, or i wouldn't feel so, so...i can't even put a finger on how i feel.

if you say that you're gonna call, then by all means call, if for no other reason to say, "hey, i'm really sorry, but i'm loosing the grip on the tail of my tiger-like life, can you wait a bit while i drill a hole, attach a steel cable, and then tie that bad boy to my waist? you can? smashing!"

such an impressive array of mixed feelings. so febrile an attempt to put them into words. oh well - i'll just go to sleep, and perchance, dream.

oh, and did i mention that my dreams are incredibly vivid, lifelike, and a window into what i want my life to be? sleep is no longer surcrease, no more the soveriegn specific that it once was, when i was young and easy. sometimes sleep also is teh sux0r.

so, perhaps my personal poet-hero dylan thomas is appropos:

fern hill

now as i was young and easy under the apple boughs
about the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
 the night above the dingle starry,
  time let me hail and climb
 golden in the heydays of his eyes,
and honoured among wagons i was prince of the apple towns
and once below a time i lordly had the trees and leaves
  trail with daisies and barley
 down the rivers of the windfall light.

and as i was green and carefree, famous among the barns
about the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
 in the sun that is young once only,
  time let me play and be
 golden in the mercy of his means,
and green and golden i was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
  and the sabbath rang slowly
 in the pebbles of the holy streams.

all the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
 and playing, lovely and watery
  and fire green as grass.
 and nightly under the simple stars
as i rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
all the moon long i heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
 flying with the ricks, and the horses
  flashing into the dark.

and then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
with the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
 shining, it was adam and maiden,
  the sky gathered again
 and the sun grew round that very day.
so it must have been after the birth of the simple light
in the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
 out of the whinnying green stable
  on to the fields of praise.

and honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
 in the sun born over and over,
  i ran my heedless ways,
 my wishes raced through the house high hay
and nothing i cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
in all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
 before the children green and golden
  follow him out of grace,

nothing i cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
 in the moon that is always rising,
  nor that riding to sleep
 i should hear him fly with the high fields
and wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
oh as i was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
  time held me green and dying
 though i sang in my chains like the sea.

time held me green and dying though i sang in my chains like the sea

so, how to digest all of this? it's simple, really - bah.

it'll happen, or it won't. so, with a knowing, bemused, yet slightly melancholy smile, i'm off.