outside inspiration

The Fly [ William Blake ]

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Little Fly
Thy summers play,
My thoughtless hand
Has brush’d away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink & sing;
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength & breath;
And the want
Of thought is death;

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

| William Blake |

‘How 2 get what you really really, really really want…

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I’ve found that listening to an audiobook of Wayne Dyer & Deepak Chopra entitled ‘How to Get what You Really, Really Want’ inspires/empowers me & generally lifts my mood (even if I’m only 1/2 listening while cleaning the house etc..)

anyways :) -there is one part that (in the section about what you really, really Don’t want, you’ll get that too :)) – that I for some reason thought of the perfect example for — 

Wayne discusses having an amazing amount of money  & buying hideous things even though you don’t like them. Which, I guess, to me doesn’t make sense, although I understand the point he’s trying to make. The other day, I thought of a change to his example, that would make it make more sense to me — 

you’re in the mall with a ton of money — every second you spend thinking about/looking  at something, costs you $1,000

you walk by a window -” that is the most hideous rug I’ve ever seen… ” (cost you $1,000)–  instead of diverting attention from the ‘hideous’ piece, you linger (another $1,000, oh by the way) .. ‘I would never…’ (another $1,000 of your precious attention-bank) ..’ have you ever seen something so horrible? ($1,000) … 20 minutes later, still staring at the unacceptable item, you’ve invested over 1 Million dollars of attention on this thing that you definitely Don’t want — 

on what you did want, it only took $2,500

why do we spend so much time on what we’re sure isn’t what we want & then act surprised when this we’ve invested so much time in happens.. we’ve paid for it, the universe is just delivering.

for ‘now’

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when we live in the future
we invite fear

when we live in the past
we invite sorrow

but when we live in the moment
we invite excitement, enthusiasm and innocent wonder

 

(found written on a napkin in my pile of writings/observations)

A Minor Bird

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[Dickenson]

I have wished a bird would fly away,
and not sing by my house all day;

Have clapped my hands at him from the door,
when it seemed as if I could bear no more.

The fault partly must’ve been in me
The bird was not to blame for his key.

and of course there must be something wrong
in wanting to silence any song.

some things I’ve come across

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  • Happiness lies in making other happy, in forsaking self interest to bring joy to others
  • Self-Analysis: Write down thought and aspirations daily – find out what you are – not what you imagine you are
  • Man is the architect of his own destiny

Between the Idea and the Reality

Between the Motion and the Act

Falls the Shadow

‘This is the way the world ends..
this is the way the world ends..
Not with a bang, but a whimper’

T.S. Elliot


 

As Weary Pilgrim

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[Bradstreet]

As weary pilgrim, now at rest,
Hugs with delight his silent nest,
 His wasted limbs now lie full soft
That mirey steps have trodden oft,
Blesses himself to think upon
His dangers past, and travails done.
The buringing sun no more shall heat,
Nor stormy rains on him shall beat.
The briars and thorns no more shall scratch,
Nor hungry wolves at him shall catch.
His erring paths no more shall tread,
Nor wild fruits eat instead of bread.
For waters cold he doth not lon,
For thirst no more shall parch his tongue.
No rugged stones his feet shall gall,
Nor stumps nor rocks cause him to fall.
All cars and fears he bids farewell,
and means in safety now to dwell.
A pilgrim I, on earth perplexed
with sins, with cares and sorrows vext,
By age and pains brought to decay,
and my clay house mold’ring away.
Oh, how I long to be at rest,
and soar on high among the blest.
This boody shall in silence sleep,
Mine eyes no more shall ever weep.
No fainting fits shall me assail,
Nor grinding pains my body frail,
With cares and fears ne’er cumb’red be
Nor losses know, nor sorrows see.
What though my flesh shall there consume,
it is the bed christ did perfume,
And when a few years shall be gone.
This mortal shall be clothed upon.
A corrupt carcass down it lies
A glorious body it shall rise.
In weakness and dishonor sown
in power ’tis raised by Christ alone.
Then soul and body shall unite
And of their maker have the sight.
Such lasting joys shall there behold
As ear ne’er hear nor tongue e’er told.
Lord make me ready for that day,

Then come, dear Bridegroom, come away

A Love Poem

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by John Ciardi

I have labored for her love.
I could not hide my failure.

Nothing could hide my need
I believe she is grateful.

I bribed her with dances.
A joy skims.

It makes no difference except to me.
Except as she is moved to be kind.

I think she is moved .
We have taken habit of one another.

I can imagine no other mercy.

It is too late for flying lessons.
The bifocal clouds blur.

I am too heavy to skim.
What swims before my eyes.

Darling, forgive me
I can no longer beat time.

The Something/Nothing Any Love can Tell

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[John Ciardi]

The something/nothing any love can tell,
but no hate hear, what the sad ghost
of a common thought sighs back from any hell
that memorizes in black what was almost
enough out of time in its kept green–
that, as I may, I wish us

I have seen
no reason to think more can be, nor less.
What is not heaven is a respite we can be imperfect in, and still let bless
the ghost of what perfections we can see
in some mind’s eye, this while a mind and eye still name the ghost we see our reasons by.
The daylong dragbreath of the ghostless trek
through marshes outside love, such as it is,
makes every something nothing. The breakneck
swandive into a cup at circuses
of angel aerialists gold billboards blare
makes too much of too little. There and there the trekker ends in quicksand alone
the diver’s act goes wide, once and no more.
But here, by what can stay out of what is gone,
by what may come that never was before–
not till a mercy stirred– what needs and meets
lets start that something nothing still completes.
What does not wish is dead. What does not guess
all wish may come to nothing to nothing wastes its breath.
What treks out it’s numb-numbered singleness

was bor distrustful. and what flings it’s death
from godstarred perches to the watery eye of a trick univers, so needs to die
and it leaves this life still dreaming. I do not
conclude I love you. I awake and find I do, and then conclude the little/lot of loving you is something more than mind can parse a nothing to. And wish us then  your life and mine, til what we are has been.

The Little Things in Life

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Too often we don’t realize
what we have until it’s gone

Too often we wait too late to say
‘I’m sorry, I was wrong’

Sometimes it seems we hurt the ones
we hold dearest to our hearts

And we allow stupid things
to tear our lives apart

Far too many times we let unimportant things get in our mind
and by then it’s usually too late
to see what made us blind

So be sure that you let people know
how much they mean to you

Take the time to say the words
before your time is through

Be sure that you appreciate
everything you’ve got

And be thankful for the little things
in life that mean a lot

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