And who am I, God-whom-I-don't-believe-in? God-who-is-my-alter-ego? Suddenly the turn table switches to a higher speed, and in the whizzing that ensues I loose track of my identity. I act and react, and suddenly I wonder “Where is the girl that I was last year? … Two years ago? … What would she think of me now?” And I remember vaguely tolstoi's [sic] argument about fate and inevitability and free will. As an act recedes into the past and becomes imbedded in the network of one's individuality it seems more and more a product of fate - - inevitable. However, an act in the immediate present seems to be more a product of free will.
Is it not that a particular act becomes inevitable, while obviously so, since completed.

[…]

Events, as one grows older, first stand out in relief, and then start whizzing by like a deck of cards. Spoken words, felt emotions, actual situations – all lapse almost immediately into a dry, theoretical vacuum.

[…]

Overwhelmed by lack of time, race of time, speed of time, I retreat into non-thought – merely into Epicurean sensual observations and desires – momentary ephemeral flashes of well-being and ill-being. Do I think? After a fashion. Do I put myself in other people's minds and viscera? No. Not half enough. Do I listen? Yes. Tonight I listened for three solid hours to Ann Hunt review her life, her background, and her vocations. Do I create? No, I reproduce. I have no imagination. I am submerged in circling ego. I listen, God knows why. I say I am interested in people. Am I rationalizing? God knows. Maybe he doesn't. If he lives in my head or under my left ventricle, maybe he's too uncomfortable to know much of anything.
Why am I obsessed with the idea that I can justify myself by getting manuscripts published? Is it an escape – an excuse for any social failure – so I can say “No, I don't go out for many extra-curricular activities, but I spend alot of time writing.” Or is it an excuse for wanting to be alone and meditate alone, not having to brave a group of women? (Women in numbers have always disturbed me.) Do I like to write? Why? About what? Will I give up and say “living and feeding a man's insatiable guts and begetting children occupies my whole life. Don't have time to write?” Or will I stick to the damn stuff and practice? Read and think and practice? I am worried about thinking. Mentally I have led a vegetable existence this summer.


- The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath.

My friend soul_bonnie posted this today and I thought I'd share:

‘Corrective rape’, the vicious practice of raping lesbians to ‘cure’ their sexuality, is a crisis in South Africa.

https://secure.avaaz.org/en/stop_corrective_rape/?fpla


You can't believe how angry this makes me. Losing faith in humanity here.

I usually don't post petitions, but please sign this one.

"A Tale of Two Cities" by Charles Dickens: the most beautiful writing you'll ever discover.

David Tennant - the Doctor knows how to deal with aliens. Also, they should meet someone nice, smart and funny.

Originally posted by neo_prodigy at Spirit Day

When you see this meme, post a poem on your LJ.

Song
by Allen Ginsberg


The weight of the world
is love.
Under the burden
of solitude,
under the burden
of dissatisfaction

the weight,
the weight we carry
is love.

Who can deny?
In dreams
it touches
the body,
in thought
constructs
a miracle,
in imagination
anguishes
till born
in human--
looks out of the heart
burning with purity--
for the burden of life
is love,

but we carry the weight
wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
at last,
must rest in the arms
of love.

No rest
without love,
no sleep
without dreams
of love--
be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
or machines,
the final wish
is love
--cannot be bitter,
cannot deny,
cannot withhold
if denied:

the weight is too heavy

--must give
for no return
as thought
is given
in solitude
in all the excellence
of its excess.

The warm bodies
shine together
in the darkness,
the hand moves
to the center
of the flesh,
the skin trembles
in happiness
and the soul comes
joyful to the eye--

yes, yes,
that's what
I wanted,
I always wanted,
I always wanted,
to return
to the body
where I was born.






First I thought about giving you Sylvia Plath's "Mad Girl's Love Song" or Edgar Allan Poe's "Annabel Lee" (or "The Raven" but that would have been really boring) because they're other favorites of mine, but really, my all-time favorite, a poem that everyone should know is Allen Ginsberg's "Song". I love this to pieces.





But you said you didn't read much? - Well, what is much? - current read: Die Stadt der Träumenden Bücher (The City of Dreaming Books) - Walter Moers; The Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger; City of Thieves - David Benioff

In memory of family and friends who have lost the battle with cancer; and in support of the ones who continue to conquer it!

Post this on your LJ if you know someone who has or had cancer. 93% won't copy and paste this. Will you?

I don't usually order a lot for takeout. Mostly it's pizza, though, or I go and get some Chinese, french fries or burger's. But really, I only actually order pizza.
Or does Starbucks count as takeaway? Cause then I definitely need to mention coffee and muffins from Starbucks. Yep.