pink_trike wrote:tiltbillings wrote:THE SECOND COMING - Yeats
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
There are echos of something much more ancient than Buddhism in this.
A sign posted in a public restroom:
Interview with Derrida:
Q.: Do you mean to say that you do not want to have any identity?
J.D.: On the contrary, I do, like everyone else. But by turning around this impossible thing, and which no doubt I also resist, the "I" constitutes the very form of resistance. Each time this identity announces itself, each time a belonging circumscribes me, if I may put it this way, someone or something cries: Look out for the trap, you're caught. Take off, get free, disengage yourself. Your engagement is elsewhere. Not very original, is it'?
Q.: Is the work you do aimed at refinding this identity?
J.D.: No doubt, but the gesture that tries to refind of itself distances, it distances itself again. One ought to be able to formalize the law of this insurmountable gap. This is a little what I am always doing. Identification is a difference to itself, a difference with/of itself. Thus with, without, and except itself. The circle of the return to birth can only remain open, but this is at once a chance, a sign of life, and a wound. If it closed in on birth, on a plenitude of the utterance or the knowledge that says "I am born," that would be death.
Foucault responding to criticisms that he always changes his position:
'What, do you imagine that I would take so much trouble and so much pleasure in writing, do you think that I would keep so persistently to my task, if I were not preparing--with a rather shaky hand--a labyrinth into which I can venture, in which I can move my discourse, opening up underground passages, forcing it to go far from itself, finding overhangs that reduce and deform its itinerary, in which I can lose myself and appear at last to eyes that I will never have to meet again. I am no doubt not the only one who writes in order to have no face. Do not ask who I am and do not ask me to remain the same: leave it to our bureaucrats and our police to see that our papers are in order.'
tiltbillings wrote:"What are we to make of a creation in which the routine activity
is for organisms to be tearing others apart with teeth of all types-
biting, grinding flesh, plant stalks, bones between molars, pushing the
pulp down the gullet with delight, incorporating its essence into one's
own organization, and then excreting with foul stench and gasses the
residue. Everyone reaching out to incorporate others who are edible to
him. The mosquitoes bloating themselves on blood, the maggots, the
killer-bees attacking with a fury and a demonism, sharks continuing to
tear and swallow while their own innards are being torn out-not to
mention the daily dismemberment and slaughter in "natural" accidents
of all types: an earthquake buries alive seventy thousand bodies in Peru,
automobiles make a pyramid heap of over fifty thousand a year in the
U.S. alone, a tidal wave washes over a quarter of a million in the
Indian Ocean. Creation is a nightmare spectacular taking place on a
planet that has been soaked for hundreds of millions of years in the
blood of all its creatures. The soberest conclusion that we could make
about what has actually been taking place on the planet for about three
billion years is that it is being turned into a vast pit of fertilizer."--Ernst Becker THE DENIAL OF DEATH
Ben wrote:Nicely put, Nathan!
Speaking of road signs...
Where else, but America!
With the exception of appraisal of Dhamma, insanity appears widely as underestimated as sanity is overestimated.tiltbillings wrote:The emergence of intelligence, I am convinced, tends to unbalance the ecology. In other words, intelligence is the great polluter. It is not until a creature begins to manage its environment that nature is thrown into disorder. Until that occurs, there is a system of checks and balances operating in a logical and understandable manner. Intelligence destroys and modifies the checks and balances even as it tries very diligently to leave them as they were. There is no such thing as an intelligence living harmony with the biosphere. It may think and boast it is doing so, but its mentality gives it an advantage and the compulsion is always there to employ this advantage to its selfish benefit. Thus, while intelligence may be an outstanding survival factor, the factor is short-term, and intelligence turns out to be the great destroyer. -- written by a crazy character in SHAKESPEARE'S PLANET, a sci-fi novel by Clifford Simak, 1976.
zavk wrote:Hmmm... do you guys go around collecting photos of road signs? Heh....
I think I once saw the spice mix, dukkah, mis-spelled as dukkha. I remember thinking, 'Yeah, it will sure spice up your life!'