Envy (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 186)

“You envy the leaves and the grass because the rain wets them, and you want to be the grass and the leaves and the rain too. But I am content to enjoy them and everything else in the world that is good and young and happy.”

Happy Ever After

Leo Tolstoy          1859

But It’s Here Now (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 184)

“Some people think that it’s only possible to be happy if one makes noise,” she said, after a pause. “I find it’s too delicate and melancholy for noise. Being happy is rather melancholy—like the most beautiful landscape, like those trees and the grass and the clouds and the sunshine today.”

“From the outside,” said Gumbril, “it even looks rather dull.” They stumbled up the dark staircase to his rooms. Gumbril lit a pair of candles and put the kettle on the gas ring. They sat together on the divan sipping tea. In the rich, soft light of the candles she looked different, more beautiful. The silk of her dress seemed wonderfully rich and glossy, like the petals of a tulip, and on her face, on her bare arms and neck the light seemed to spread an impalpable bright bloom. On the wall behind them, their shadows ran up towards the ceiling, enormous and profoundly black.

“How unreal it is,” Gumbril whispered. “Not true. This remote secret room. These lights and shadows out of another time. And you out of nowhere and I, out of a past utterly remote from yours, sitting together here, together—and being happy. That’s the strangest thing of all. Being quite senselessly happy. It’s unreal, unreal.”

“But why,” said Emily, “why? It’s here and happening now. It is real.”

“It all might vanish, at any moment,” he said.

Emily smiled rather sadly. “It’ll vanish in due time,” she said. “Quite naturally, not by magic; it’ll vanish the way everything else vanishes and changes. But it’s here now.

They gave themselves up to the enchantment. The candles burned, two shining eyes of flame, without a wink, minute after minute. But for them were no longer any minutes. Emily leaned against him, her body held in the crook of his arm, her head resting on his shoulder. He caressed his cheek against her hair; sometimes, very gently, he kissed her forehead or her closed eyes.

“If I had know you years ago . . .” she sighed. “But I was a silly little idiot then. I shouldn’t have notice any difference between you and anybody else.”

Antic Hay

Aldous Huxley          1923

 

 

 

 

Taking Someone Along in Your Soul (Love vs Sex 245)

He knew nothing of the figure’s origin; Goldmund had never told him Lydia’s story. But he felt everything; he saw that the girl’s form had long lived in Goldmund’s heart. Perhaps he had seduced her, perhaps betrayed and left her. But, truer than the most faithful of husband, he had taken her along in his soul, preserving her image until finally, perhaps after many years in which he had never seen her again, he had fashioned this beautiful, touching statue of a girl and captured in her face, her bearing, her hands all the tenderness, admiration, and longing of their love.

Narcissus and Goldmund

Hermann Hesse          1930

Anything for Diversion (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 181)

“There are quiet places also in the mind,” he said, meditatively. “But we build bandstands and factories on them. Deliberately—to put a stop to the quietness. We don’t like the quietness. All the thoughts, all the preoccupations in my head—round and round, continually.” He made a circular motion with his hand. “And the jazz bands, the music hall songs, the boys shouting the news. What’s it for, what’s it all for? To put an end to the quiet, to break it up and disperse it, to pretend at any cost it isn’t there. Ah, but it is, it is there, in spite of everything, at the back of everything. Lying awake at night, sometimes—not restlessly, but serenely, waiting for sleep—the quiet re-established itself, piece by piece; all broken bits, all the fragments of it we’ve been so busily dispersing all day long. It re-establishes itself, an inward quiet, like this outward quiet of grass and trees. It fills one, it grows—a crystal quiet, a growing expanding crystal. It grows, it becomes more perfect; it is beautiful and terrifying, yes, terrifying, as well as beautiful. For one’s alone in the crystal and there’s no support from outside, there’s nothing external and important, nothing external and trivial to pull oneself up by or to stand on, superiorly, contemptuously, so that one can look down. There’s nothing to laugh at or feel enthusiastic about. But the quiet grows and grows. Beautifully and unbearably. And at last you are conscious of something approaching; it is almost a faint sound of footsteps. Something inexpressibly lovely and wonderful advances through the crystal, nearer, nearer. And, oh, inexpressibly terrifying. For if it would touch you, if it were to seize and engulf you, you’d die; all the regular, habitual, daily part of you would die. There would be an end of bandstands and whizzing factories, and one would have to begin living arduously in the quiet, arduously in some strange unheard-of manner. Nearer, nearer come the steps; but one can’t face the advancing thing. One daren’t. It’s too terrifying, it’s too painful to die. Quickly, before it’s too late, start the factory wheels, bang the drum, blow the saxophone. Think of the women you’d like to sleep with, the schemes for making money, the gossip about your friends, the last outrage of the politicians. Anything for diversion. Break the silence, smash the crystal to pieces. There, it lies in bits; it is easily broken, hard to build up and easy to break. And the steps? Ah, those have taken themselves off, double quick. Double quick, they were gone at the first flawing of the crystal. And by this time the lovely and terrifying thing is three infinities away, at least. And you lie tranquily on your bed, thinking of what you’d do if you had ten thousand pounds and all of the fornifications you’ll ever commit.” He thought of Rosie’s pink underclothes.

“You make things very complicated,” she said, after a silence.

Antic Hay

Aldous Huxley          1923     

Answer the Question (Love vs Sex 242)

Why am I with you?
Please answer the question.

You’re with me because you love me.

And why do I love you?
What is at the core of my love?

You love me because I am aware, empathetic, and intelligent.

Yes, but what impact do those traits have upon me?
You have other traits too that are not as positive, that could be considered detractors or significant negatives. So, why do your positive traits outbalance your problems and the challenges they present to me?

I guess that even though sometimes it’s difficult to be with me, you believe that the good outweighs the bad.

Maybe in part, but that’s not really the answer. Why would I choose to stay with you? People don’t just stay with someone because they love them. Love itself is not enough and it has never ever really been enough to justify a true commitment to a relationship. Love is awesome all by itself, but commitment to a relationship of love is on a different level. So, why would I choose to stay with you?

I suppose because you believe in me.

Bada-boom, bada-bang, we have a winner! I guess late is better than never! It would not be so bad of an idea to try and remember that. . . may indefinitely or perpetually or something along those types of temporal parameters. Let me help you out one more time, just to get you started again. . . I believe in you, butthead.

Cribb          2017

Such Inertia (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 166)

Existence

is only a dance

of

patterns (pattern recognition) and drive.

This

tempo and melody

allow for

the identification of

truth

and the birth

of

contemplation, dedication, integrity,

and

ultimately

of

love.

It is about

primordial energy

taking structured forms

of independence

which then

seek interconnectivity

with other independent forms

and

express their desire

through the intensity and the tenacity

of

their focus.

It is the ebb and flow of energy and intensity,

of patterns and drive,

of separation and union,

and the appreciation of such inertia.

Chaos

ushered forever forth

by

its constant distractive and nullifying consumption

on the aegis

of

its own godforsaken tentacles

of apathy and fear,

swirls endlessly in motion as well,

but only

in the stagnant agitation of entropy,

in the refusal

to

acknowledge and actualize

meaningful

inertia.

The negation of existence

is thus fundamentally

a static acquiescence

of isolating denial and of plausible delusion

regarding the remainder of the universe

which is not engaged.

The agitation of entropy

is

only

a dark and woefully cracked mirror

to the meaningful inertia

of focus,

but lost souls

will often be charmed and bedazzled

by its excitable and nervous oscillations,

drawn and lured closer

to that

which was before beginning

rather than towards

that which is meant to become.

Existence is meant to move forward.

We are meant to become.

That becoming occurs

via

a

dance

of

patterns and drive.

Cribb

2017

In the Name of the Best within You (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 164)

In the name of the best within you, do not sacrifice this world to those who are its worst. In the name of the values that keep you alive, do not let your vision of man be distorted by the ugly, the cowardly, the mindless in those who have never achieved this title. Do not lose your knowledge that man’s proper estate is an upright posture, an intransigent mind and a step that travels unlimited roads. Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish, in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach. Check your road and the nature of your battle. The world you desired can be won, it exists, it is real, it is possible, it’s yours.

Alisa Zinov’yevna Rosenbaum          1957