Wednesday, November 30, 2011

let's start this Cinderella long cold winter cubist style

"For this is the truth about our soul,...our self who fish-like inhabits deep seas and plies among obscurities threading her way between the boles of giant weeds, over sun-flickered spaces and on and on into gloom, cold, deep, inscrutable."
Virginia Woolf in Mrs., I miss the books that are molding in Costa Rica.

let us call a spade a spade. 2011 was a tough year. debilitating and humbling.

"Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language...At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day." Rilke in Letters to a Young Poet.

He buscado por todas partes la ciudad soñada

Rilke was mistaken in asserting Christ was not devine. Maybe right in his assessment of His love for Mary. May the shape of my life come closer to His.
You think of lands you journeyed through,
of paintings and a dress once worn
by a woman you never found again.
And suddenly you know: that was enough.
You rise and there appears before you
in all its longings and hesitations
the shape of what you lived.
remembering, rainer maria rilke

Friday, November 11, 2011


utils:(economics) a hypothetical unit measuring satisfaction

I read a book today, again. My mom and I have both read this book. There is a passage we identify as our own where the daughter tells her frail dying mother, "'Mother, I know you've always wished I'd take a gentler horse.' She opened her brown eyes, flashing in dark circled settings, squeezed my hand harder, and said, 'No, I've always loved you on the wild one." I will tell my mother not of horses. But of coyotes who are coydogs...and how I longed for two clear clear tranquil eyes as hers. Genetics are hard to overcome, so they say.