Burning in the sky, I can never forget the sun.

This is the vortex and whirlpool, the centre of human life today on the earth. Now the tide rises and now it sinks, but the flow of these rivers always continues.
Here it seethes and whirls, not for an hour only, but for all present time, hour by hour, day by day, year by year.
Here it rushes and pushes, the atoms triturate and grind, and, eagerly thrusting by, pursue their separate ends. Here it appears in its unconcealed personality, indifferent to all else but itself, absorbed and rapt in eager self, devoid and stripped of conventional gloss and politeness, yielding only to get its own way; driving, pushing, carried on in a stress of feverish force like a bullet, dynamic force apart from reason or will, like the force that lifts the tides and sends the clouds onwards. The friction of a thousand interests evolves a condition of electricity in which men are moved to and fro without considering their steps. Yet the agitated pool of life is stonily indifferent, the thought is absent or preoccupied, for it is evident that the mass are unconscious of the scene in which they act.
But it is more sternly real than the very stones, for all these men and women that pass through are driven on by the push of accumulated circumstances; they cannot stay, they must go, their necks are in the slave’s ring, they are beaten like seaweed against the solid walls of fact. In ancient times, Xerxes, the king of kings, looking down upon his myriads, wept to think that in a hundred years not one of them would be left. Where will be these millions of to-day in a hundred years? But, further than that, let us ask, Where then will be the sum and outcome of their labour? If they wither away like summer grass, will not at least a result be left which those of a hundred years hence may be the better for? No, not one jot! There will not be any sum or outcome or result of this ceaseless labour and movement; it vanishes in the moment that it is done, and in a hundred years nothing will be there, for nothing is there now. There will be no more sum or result than accumulates from the motion of a revolving cowl on a housetop. Nor do they receive any more sunshine during their lives, for they are unconscious of the sun.
I used to come and stand near the apex of the promontory of pavement which juts out towards the pool of life; I still go there to ponder. Burning in the sky, the sun shone on me as when I rested in the narrow valley carved in prehistoric time. Burning in the sky, I can never forget the sun. The heat of summer is dry there as if the light carried an impalpable dust; dry, breathless heat that will not let the skin respire, but swathes up the dry fire in the blood. But beyond the heat and light, I felt the presence of the sun as I felt it in the solitary valley, the presence of the resistless forces of the universe; the sun burned in the sky as I stood and pondered. Is there any theory, philosophy, or creed, is there any system or culture, any formulated method able to meet and satisfy each separate item of this agitated pool of human life? By which they may be guided, by which hope, by which look forward? Not a mere illusion of the craven heart, something real, as real as the solid walls of fact against which, like drifted sea-weed, they are dashed; something to give each separate personality sunshine and a flower in its own existence now; something to shape this million-handed labour to an end and outcome that will leave more sunshine and more flowers to those who must succeed? Something real now, and not in the spirit-land; in this hour now, as I stand and the sun burns. Can any creed, philosophy, system, or culture endure the test and remain unmolten in this fierce focus of human life?

Source: THE STORY OF MY HEART / AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY by RICHARD JEFFERIES (Chapter XI)

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How soon are you swallowed up by the depths?

Who would here descend?
How soon is he swallowed up by the depths?
Thou, Zarathustra, still lovesth the abysses
Lovesth them as dosth the fur tree

The fur flings its roots
And the rock itself gazes
Shuddering at the depths
The fur pauses before the abysses where all around
Would feign descent amid the impatience of wild, rolling, leaping torrents
It waits so patient, stern, and silent
Lonely…

Lonely, who would venture here?
To be guest, to be thy guest
A bird of prey, per chance
Joyous at other’s misfortune
Will cling persistent to the heir of the steadfast watcher
With frenzied laughter, a vulture’s laughter

Wherefor so steadfast?
Mocks he so cruel
He must have wings who loves the abyss
He must not stay on the cliff
As thou, who hangesth there

Oh Zarathustra
Cruelest nimrod!
Of late still a hunter of God
A spider’s web, to capture virtue
An arrow of evil
Now hunted by thyself
Thine own prey
Caught in the grip of thine own soul

Now lonely to me and thee
Twofold in thine own knowledge
‘Mid a hundred mirrors
False to thyself
‘Mid a hundred memories
Uncertain and weary from every wound
shivering at every frost
Throttled in thine own noose
Self-knower
Self-hangman

Why didsth bind thyself
with the noose of thy wisdom?
Why luresth thyself
To the old serpent’s paradise?
Why stowesth into thyself
Thyself?

A sick man now
Sick of serpent’s poison
A captive now
Who has drawn the hardest lot
In thine own shaft
Now doesth thou workesth
In thine own cavern?
Digging in thyself
Helpless quite
stiff, a cold corpse
Overwhelmed with a hundred burdens
Overburdened by thyself
A knower, a self-knower
The wise Zarathustra

Thou soughtesth the heaviest burden
So foundesth thou thyself
And cansth not shake thyself off

Watching
Crouching
One that stands up right no more
Thou with grow deformed
Even in thy grave
Deformed spirit

And of late, still so proud
On all the stilts of thy pride
Of late, still the godless hermit,
The hermit with one comrade, the devil
The scarlet prince of every devilmen’s
Now between two nothings
Huddled up a question mark
A weary riddle
A riddle for vultures

They will solve thee
they hunger already for thy solution
They flutter already about their riddle
About thee
The doomed one
Oh Zarathustra
Self-knower
Self-hangman

oh Zarathustra.

πάνω σε βουνά γεμάτα κρεμασμένους και ζητιάνους που ζητούν και δεν παίρνουν από ντροπή, γύρω από ξέφωτα και δάση τρελά, μέσα σε κρύα ορμητικά ποτάμια και πάνω σε λάβες ηφαιστείων, υπάρχει εκείνος και χορεύει και φωνάζει και σιωπά για να τον ακούσουν όλοι, να δουν τη δύναμη μέσα τους και να διώξουν τις αρχαίες δεισιδαιμονίες.

«Και τελικά, τί ισχυρότερο κίνητρο για τον εξανθρωπισμό κάθε εξουσίας από τον φόβο ανεξέλεγκτων μη κατευθυνόμενων κινητοποιήσεων που μπορεί να λάβουν υπερβολικές έστω μορφές, αλλά που υποδηλώνουν κάτι που καμιά εξουσία δεν πρέπει να ξεχνά…
Ότι δηλαδή, η δυσαρέσκεια των πολιτών και των λαών δεν προϋπολογίζεται σε εργαστήρια, ότι οι κοινωνικές εκρήξεις μπορεί να μεταβληθούν σε φυσικά φαινόμενα. Και τότε, καμία εξουσία δεν θέλει να είναι στο διάβα τους!»

Συνέχεια

reign i forever.



Here amid icebergs
Rule I the nations;
This is my hammer
Giants and sorcerers

Cannot withstand it!

These are my gauntlets
Wherewith I wield it
And hurl it afar off;
This is my girdle;
Whenever I brace it

Strength is redoubled!

The light thou beholdest
Stream through the heavens
In flashes of crimson
Is but my red beard
Blown by the night-wind

Affrighting the nations!

Jove is my brother;
Mine eyes are the lightning;
The wheels of my chariot
Roll in the thunder
The blows of my hammer

Ring in the earthquake!

Force rules the world still
Has ruled it, shall rule it;
Meekness is weakness
Strength is triumphant
Over the whole earth

Still is it Thor’s-Day!

I am the God Thor
I am the War God
Here in my Northlands
My fastness and fortress

Reign I forever!
Reign I forever!
Reign I forever!
Forlorn forever…

la folie verte.

Let me be mad, mad with the madness of Absinthe
The wildest, most luxurious madness in the world.

Let me be mad, mad with the madness of Absinthe
Give me the fairest youth that ever gladened his mothers heart

Let me be mad
Let him be hero, saint, poet – whatever you will

Let me make of him an Absintheur.
And from hero he shall change to coward
From saint to libertine
From poet to brute.

You doubt me?
Come then – to Paris

η πράσινη νεράιδα.
η πράσινη τρέλα.
μέθη.
και δύο δίσκοι αφιερωμένοι στο αψέντι.
Συνέχεια