Develop a mind full of love;
be compassionate and virtuous;
arouse your energy, be resolute,
always firm in making progress.
there is a pallor of gray
a whiff of brine
an onion skin thin lace of smoke
doing clumsy flappy laps
round and round my heart
my private clown of a ghost fish
or you or me
it will not stay forever
a smile forms above my head
beamed on my chest
heavy like Earth
as my blood and bones
sing a duet
about ceaseless change
*Zivoradka is Konstantin’s (my 5-year old ex-neighbor) goldfish he won from a halloween party two years ago. I met Zivoradka Thursday night, September 13, 2012. According to Matho, Konstantin’s father, Zivoradka has survived at least 10-15 other fancier fish who have shared its tank. Matho said everyday he is waiting for Zivoradka to die, which prompts Konstantin to hit him on the chest, which promts Matho to make a sad face and silently walk away, which makes Konstantin run after Matho, showering him with a sea of sorrys. Matho accepts and comes back to the kitchen where Zvoradka’s plactic lunchbox-like tank was. I wonder what Zivoradka was thinking as I snap snap snapped sad-quality pictures of its tank with my phone (I want to draw Zivoradka). My body was digesting red velvet bundt cake, home made lemonade, and some chocolate wafer sticks from a red tin box while all this was happening.
Zivoradka is Bosnian for “one who lives a long life” or something like that.
I asked Melica, Matho’s wife & Konstantin’s mother, if that is a name used on humans and she said “Oh no no no!” while laughing “I just made it up.”
I think Zivoradka is a most awesome name for a genderless Halloween fish. It is unknown if Zivoradka is a boy or a girl.
Real wisdom is recognizing and accepting
that every experience is impermanent.
With this insight you will not be overwhelmed
by ups and downs.
And when you are able
to maintain an inner balance,
you can choose to act in ways that will
create happiness for you and for others.
i saw this potato at today’s farmers market and it asked me if i could please take it home, and if possible to put eyes on it. what use are lipless lips, it sighed, without eyes? it was a simple enough request and so i agreed; using vine charcoal, i gave it sightless sight.
i asked it if we could do a little sketch and it said OH MY GOD YES so here we are!
we hope you enjoyed our show.
#2 tomorrow. I mean later. 2:30 AM sheesh. Time flies when you’re painting bladders.
“Life is short, misery sure, mortality certain. But on the way, in your work, why not carry those two inflated pig-bladders labaled Zest and Gusto. With them, traveling to the grave, I intend to slap some dummox’s behind, pat a pretty girl’s coiffure, wave to a tad up a persimmon tree.
Anyone wants to join me, there’s plenty of room in Coxie’s Army.”
- – excerpt from essay by Ray Bradbury, ’The Joy of Writing’ 1973
Do not say that I’ll depart tomorrow
because even today I still arrive.
Look deeply: I arrive in every second
to be a bud on a spring branch,
to be a tiny bird, with wings still fragile,
learning to sing in my new nest,
to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower,
to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.
I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry,
in order to fear and to hope.
The rhythm of my heart is the birth and
death of all that are alive.
I am the mayfly metamorphosing on the surface of the river,
and I am the bird which, when spring comes, arrives in time
to eat the mayfly.
I am the frog swimming happily in the clear pond,
and I am also the grass-snake who, approaching in silence,
feeds itself on the frog.
I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones,
my legs as thin as bamboo sticks,
and I am the arms merchant, selling deadly weapons to
I am the twelve-year-old girl, refugee on a small boat,
who throws herself into the ocean after being raped by a sea
pirate, and I am the pirate, my heart not yet capable of seeing and
I am a member of the politburo, with plenty of power in my
hands, and I am the man who has to pay his “debt of blood”
to my people dying slowly in a forced labor camp.
My joy is like spring, so warm it makes flowers bloom in all
walks of life.
My pain is like a river of tears, so vast it fills the four oceans.
Please call me by my true names,
so I can hear all my cries and laughs at once,
so I can see that my joy and pain are one.
Please call me by my true names,
so I can wake up,
and so the door of my heart can be left open,
the door of compassion.
“as he looks over the neat rows of rooftops by the glistening river atop his practice stool, a kind wind dries boy beethoven’s dirty tears, which turn into fat clouds over the rhine.”
This quick doodle/makings of a story from earlier today is inspiring me to create a baby Beethoven book of sorts. Big smile.
This requires a separate blog post, but the book on Beethoven’s life I read as a teen mentioned on this post here, well, I have been reunited with it during a trip to Manila a couple of months ago!
Pictures and story to follow :)
pretty neat. thanks, holstee people.