The human race has one effective weapon, and that is laughter. To laugh is to light a fire. The way we need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake. We need the fire. To it’s fullest. So that every sound expelled brings a spark and illuminates the world. Laughter becomes one’s key to the experience of others. You get the full value of joy when you have somebody else to share it with. In that moment, you love and are being loved. That is enough. Ask nothing further. Laughter suspends the passage of time. And that in itself, has its own infinity.
The masculine point of view. The one, right now, going on. With its surplus of information. All day long, so much information it’s hard not to lose our common sense. I think best these men can do is not talk about themselves anymore. I’ve always noticed that in portraits of great writers, the mouth is always firmly closed. Perhaps we could climb about and remind each other of the women and men of the ages that did, and that are doing the important thinking. Garner their thoughts and offer them in turn, like a kiss traveling from lip to lip.
When fences divide, lift up the ground and see. The system of roots beneath. With ears to the ground, listen. There is a cadence of new possibilities. Hidden, invisible keys sending out symphonies to bring the world back to life. Like clockwork. The click of its moving parts. And an overture is written! The wrist of the artist pulls the foreground into frame, and we follow every cord as he ties a string to every living thing.
I see eloquence as a painting of the thoughts. A work of art that ought to be consumed. To sharpen our minds. Run and polish our brains against one another and give an edge to our pleasure. For no pleasure has any savor without communication. You'll find me at the highest of my ecstasy when our attention is at its fullest. I call it vital. Because no spirited mind will ever stop within itself. To go beyond its strength and dare grow as the years go. Age imprints more value in the mind than it does wrinkles on the face. What a beautiful thing. The domain of thought. Always aspiring to go beyond its strength.
We are what time, circumstance, history has made of us. We are the very ink history was written with. But we are also, much more than that. These questions we ask ourselves to illuminate the world. The things that torment us the most, are the very things that connect us with all the people alive. Or who have ever been alive. No one can possibly know what is about to happen. It's happening, each time. For the only time. And time is what we have. The way it's known to be infinite. No end, no beginning. The infinite passion of life.
There’s this “somewhere” between physical reality and the intangible world, that is so paper thin it draws a line and creates its own country of thought. From time to time you cross this frontier, and understand the notion that different languages bring different visions of life. Simple things, such as the abundant testimony that if you choose love rather than self, you put yourself into life and never lose your openness. The way a woman will put a man’s hand on her breast, so he may find what lies beneath it. This “somewhere" is beautifully endless.
The silence of the walls. Of the room in which you live in. It isn’t just the silence of a place, but the warm air that blows in your face, fills your lungs and penetrates your heart. Like a passing accident that runs through your whole body. In a place where you expect to hear no sound, there’s a fresh combination of new beginnings. You not only begin to see things differently from what people before you have interpreted them to be. But you write, for all that matters. Whether it matters for ages or only for a few hours. In this moment, you do not think. You are thought.
I wonder. Why is it not knowing means being at fault? We pretend to know lots of things we don't know. But does looking uninformed or without a clear opinion that embarrassing? Really. Isn't knowledge all about what we don't know? I have limits. You have limits. But beyond limitations, we share a common ground. Imagination. We're all born with it. Deep talents and abilities. Comes with the kit. We create. New things. All the time. We're always onto something, aren't we? We progress through the power of imagination. I like to think that. That our most distinctive feature, is imagination.
On the outskirts of agony sits some observant fellow who points. Points out lines of thought to dip deep into the stream. Arrange whatever pieces come your way. The basic principle of physics is there. That action and reaction are equal and opposite. That when you persecute people, you always rouse them to be strong and stronger. Blame it or praise it, there is no denying it. The wild horse is us.