Nov 30, 2005

Another Dumb Test:)

The Air Faerie... You are an interesting breed of
faeries, but the hardest of all to catch. This
is mostly because you don't know you're even
being chased, so easily distracted. You are
playful and hyper. Laughter is the best
medicine, that's your motto. Some see you as
airheaded, but really you aren't. You can be
intelligent when you want too, you'd just
rather play. Life is short, you make the best
of it.

What's your inner Faerie?
brought to you by Quizilla

Nov 28, 2005

Target Touched

i guess you may be wondering
what I want to do
kinda evasive sorta tentative

i'd like to touch your upper arm
help you hug your resilience
and lean on you for a fraction of a second

then i will caress your cheek
lose my awareness of empathy
and breathe in your lonely fragrance

last i would touch your temple
finger a thought or two
watch them morph into feelings

then i'll contain my desire
maintain the enchantment
and dream of your touch.

Nov 27, 2005

No way!

There's a song I had on an old cassette, actually I had only half the song, the last of some Supertramp songs to fill the sixty minutes after the Eagles' album Hotel California. I searched for this song many times, and wasn't in any of the albums I could find. And today, while I was browsing some feeds I stumbled across ... the very same song. I don't even remember whose blog it was, but thanks anyway!
Talk about chance:D

The song is very sad and beautiful. Honestly, it makes me very happy to listen to it.

Don't Leave Me Now - Supertramp
Don't leave me now
Leave me out in the pouring rain
With my back against the wall
Don't leave me now
Don't leave me now
Leave me out with nowhere to go
As the shadows start to fall
Don't leave me now
Don't leave me now
Leave me out on this lonely road
As the wind begins to howl
Don't leave me now
Don't leave me now
All alone in this darkest night
Feeling old and cold and grey
Don't leave me now
Don't leave me now
Leave me holding an empty heart
As the curtain starts to fall
Don't leave me now
Don't leave me now
All alone in this crazy world
When I'm old and cold and grey and time is gone...

A disclaimer from a journal entry in my favorite site: Though none of us practice it, free peer-to-peer dowloading is quite convenient.

Nov 23, 2005

Chronicles of Visions

On November 22, 2005, is the 42nd anniversary of the deaths of J.F.Kennedy, assassinated in Dallas, Texas, British writer Aldous Huxley, most famous for his anti-utopia Brave New World, and C.S.Lewis, called 'apostle to the sceptics'.

His book Mere Christianity played a crucial part in my conversion to Christianity in 1992. Afterwards, I read most of his works and translated or edited several. He was a friend of J.R.R. Tolkien who, in turn, played a crucial part in his conversion to Christianity. I am not a big fan of Tolkien's poetry but here is the poem which he supposedly wrote after one of their memorable conversations.


To one [C.S. Lewis] who said that myths were lies and therefore worthless, even though 'breathed through silver'.

Philomythus to Misomythus

You look at trees and label them just so,
(for trees are 'trees', and growing is 'to grow');
you walk the earth and tread with solemn pace
one of the many minor globes of Space:
a star's a star, some matter in a ball
compelled to courses mathematical
amid the regimented, cold, inane,
where destined atoms are each moment slain.

At bidding of a Will, to which we bend
(and must), but only dimly apprehend,
great processes march on, as Time unrolls
from dark beginnings to uncertain goals;
and as on page o'er-written without clue,
with script and limning packed of various hue,
an endless multitude of forms appear,
some grim, some frail, some beautiful, some queer,
each alien, except as kin from one
remote Origo, gnat, man, stone, and sun.
God made the petreous rocks, the arboreal trees,
tellurian earth, and stellar stars, and these
homuncular men, who walk upon the ground
with nerves that tingle touched by light and sound.
The movements of the sea, the wind in boughs,
green grass, the large slow oddity of cows,
thunder and lightning, birds that wheel and cry,
slime crawling up from mud to live and die,
these each are duly registered and print
the brain's contortions with a separate dint.
Yet trees are not 'trees', until so named and seen
and never were so named, till those had been
who speech's involuted breath unfurled,
faint echo and dim picture of the world,
but neither record nor a photograph,
being divination, judgement, and a laugh
response of those that felt astir within
by deep monition movements that were kin
to life and death of trees, of beasts, of stars:
free captives undermining shadowy bars,
digging the foreknown from experience
and panning the vein of spirit out of sense.
Great powers they slowly brought out of themselves
and looking backward they beheld the elves
that wrought on cunning forges in the mind,
and light and dark on secret looms entwined.

He sees no stars who does not see them first
of living silver made that sudden burst
to flame like flowers beneath an ancient song,
whose very echo after-music long
has since pursued. There is no firmament,
only a void, unless a jewelled tent
myth-woven and elf-patterned; and no earth,
unless the mother's womb whence all have birth.
The heart of Man is not compound of lies,
but draws some wisdom from the only Wise,
and still recalls him. Though now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
Dis-graced he may be, yet is not dethroned,
and keeps the rags of lordship once he owned,
his world-dominion by creative act:
not his to worship the great Artefact,
Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
Though all the crannies of the world we filled
with Elves and Goblins, though we dared to build
Gods and their houses out of dark and light,
and sowed the seed of dragons, 'twas our right
(used or misused). The right has not decayed.
We make still by the law in which we're made.

Yes! 'wish-fulfilment dreams' we spin to cheat
our timid hearts and ugly Fact defeat!
Whence came the wish, and whence the power to dream,
or some things fair and others ugly deem?
All wishes are not idle, nor in vain
fulfilment we devise -- for pain is pain,
not for itself to be desired, but ill;
or else to strive or to subdue the will
alike were graceless; and of Evil this
alone is deadly certain: Evil is.

Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate
that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate;
that seek no parley, and in guarded room,
though small and bate, upon a clumsy loom
weave tissues gilded by the far-off day
hoped and believed in under Shadow's sway.

Blessed are the men of Noah's race that build
their little arks, though frail and poorly filled,
and steer through winds contrary towards a wraith,
a rumour of a harbour guessed by faith.

Blessed are the legend-makers with their rhyme
of things not found within recorded time.
It is not they that have forgot the Night,
or bid us flee to organized delight,
in lotus-isles of economic bliss
forswearing souls to gain a Circe-kiss
(and counterfeit at that, machine-produced,
bogus seduction of the twice-seduced).
Such isles they saw afar, and ones more fair,
and those that hear them yet may yet beware.
They have seen Death and ultimate defeat,
and yet they would not in despair retreat,
but oft to victory have tuned the lyre
and kindled hearts with legendary fire,
illuminating Now and dark Hath-been
with light of suns as yet by no man seen.

I would that I might with the minstrels sing
and stir the unseen with a throbbing string.
I would be with the mariners of the deep
that cut their slender planks on mountains steep
and voyage upon a vague and wandering quest,
for some have passed beyond the fabled West.
I would with the beleaguered fools be told,
that keep an inner fastness where their gold,
impure and scanty, yet they loyally bring
to mint in image blurred of distant king,
or in fantastic banners weave the sheen
heraldic emblems of a lord unseen.

I will not walk with your progressive apes,
erect and sapient. Before them gapes
the dark abyss to which their progress tends
if by God's mercy progress ever ends,
and does not ceaselessly revolve the same
unfruitful course with changing of a name.
I will not treat your dusty path and flat,
denoting this and that by this and that,
your world immutable wherein no part
the little maker has with maker's art.
I bow not yet before the Iron Crown,
nor cast my own small golden sceptre down.

In Paradise perchance the eye may stray
from gazing upon everlasting Day
to see the day illumined, and renew
from mirrored truth the likeness of the True.
Then looking on the Blessed Land 'twill see
that all is as it is, and yet made free:
Salvation changes not, nor yet destroys,
garden nor gardener, children nor their toys.
Evil it will not see, for evil lies
not in God's picture but in crooked eyes,
not in the source but in malicious choice,
and not in sound but in the tuneless voice.
In Paradise they look no more awry;
and though they make anew, they make no lie.
Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
and poets shall have flames upon their head,
and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
there each shall choose for ever from the All.

Where are the poets? Where are the visionaries? Where are the prophets?...:)

Nov 19, 2005

Real Illusions Reflections

Going to the Steve Vai concert in Sofia was a miracle of moderate magnitude, as far as circumstances are concerned. At once I had the desire to go, the money to spend, and someone to rely on to babysit the kids. (She probably doesn't read this, but if she does, THANKS for being such a great friend both to me and the kids.) Oh yes, I forgot, I had someone to go with me, which is also a wonderful coincidence, of a purely natural kind, nothing miraculous about it (a tribute to my atheist readers).

The performance was staggering in its virtuosity, and it swept me off my feet. I hadn't slept properly for ages and had forgotten to eat that day, nothing of which mattered for total experience I had. When I was not in the land of dreams and fantasy while listening to the music, I thought how one can distinguish between feeling and technique in a performance. Those musicians were excellent, all of them, even for my untrained ear, and they managed to convey their love of music to us, and take us on a beautiful journey out of everyday life. I have always considered music to be a shortcut to heavenly joys and a mark of divinity in humans. So it was an escape from all that ties me to the ground and saddens me. A friend said that escapism is contemptible... but that's who I am and there is no way out of it, one way or another.

I bought a book by G.K. Chesterton, St Francis of Assisi. This famous prayer is attributed to St. Francis.

Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
Where there is sadness, joy.

O divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek
To be consoled as to console,
To be understood as to understand,
To be loved, as to love;
For it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
It is in dying to self that we are born to eternal life.

Incoherent again, I know, but I needed a tribute to my theist readers, too:)

Nov 15, 2005

Horrors and Nightmares

Passibility - the capability of feeling and suffering, sensitivity.

I came across a very interesting article on the problem of suffering, and the rise of the passibilism: a 20th century theological theory which states that God partakes in the suffering of humans. A key quote from the article:

"The modern theological response to the existence of profound and senseless suffering is to assert that God suffers with the oppressed; as Kenneth Surin puts it, ‘The only credible theology for Auschwitz is one that makes God an inmate of the place’."

The article is called Human And Divine Suffering

Roughly in context:
Fear is a deep striking emotion and makes you feel alive. I am translating a horror movie and was so affected that I was too scared to work on it at night and postponed it (!) for the next day. Horror is not a tolerable genre for my sensibility, and I can only watch such movies in broad daylight. However, I spent the day doing other things, so translation remained for the next night:D

Nov 2, 2005

First Time Second Post

This Is My Life, Rated
Take the Rate My Life Quiz

Why Do I Write?

it's hard to explain,
especially to strangers,
but you're a friend,
a fellow-reader,
so I'll try.
it's the awareness of my mortality
and the longing for eternity
which clash and echo
in my head and heart.
it's the tenseness of fancy
it's the looseness of desire
it's the breath of someone you love
but they don't even know.
it's the feeling of flying
it's the dream of exotic lands
its the compulsion of imagination
that makes me write.
how can I explain?
it's just that I believe
that every person I meet
is another opportunity,
another story,
waiting to be told.

I found this in an old Q book. For those who remember.