can't stop

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2mdtop9B6I0can't

Excerpt from "The Badgers" by Leonid Leonov

The Fierce Kalafat

My grandfather heard this story from his father, and his father read it in one of the books of the Old Believers.

'Twas in the olden times when there was more elbow-room everywhere. And the airs were purer and cleaner. Fields and birds, woods and foxes, and clear springs sprouting in the gullies. Domains were so mighty in those days that no lifetime was long enough for traveling all round them. The tsars that reigned were an unsociable lot, one wilder than the other. A tsar, look you, would go up in the morning to the top of his tower and look out over the woods- very nice and open views there used to be in those days, too- and he'd see the clouds sailing peacefully in the sky, and hear the wind in the woods and the river prattling along. And the loneliness of it would come over him all of a sudden and he'd roar from the top of the tower: “Tis all mine! The woods and the river and the bogs and the gullies and the peasants and the bears and the land and everything under heaven!” The peasant didn't take any offense at that, even if he heard him. A rooster's just the same: he likes to crow from his perch about his barnyard, and they feed him ant-eggs for it. And what if it was a tsar crowing from his perch instead of a cock? Folks lived their lives, then, without harming one another.....

Well, about the middle of those times a son was born to one of these rooster kind of tsars. And the son grew big and was overgrown with hair. He could have been famous for his hair alone. 'Twas no joke-it grew out of his eyes even! And when he was rising nine he came to his father, the tsar, and said:

“This is no way to live, papa,” says he, “no system about it. Your kingdom's got no order in it whatsoever. Now, tell me if you can: how many blades of grass there are in the field, and how many trees in the woods? How many stars in the heavens, how many fish in the rivers? You ought to know to the last blade of grass how much you've got. Aha, but you don't know?”

His papa scratched his head: things like this had never come into it before. “Why, I'll say this,” he answers, “twelve generations of us have lived the same way. We ate our fill and took our time over it, and slept well, and, it seems to me, we had a grand life of it, taking it all round.”

“You're wrong,” says the son. “Now there's a science called 'yeometry,' and you have to live according to that science. We'll put a number on every fish, and on every star as well, on every blade of grass-plain or flowery. Well, I'm off to the mountains. I'm going to study yeometry there....”

And so it was: he just took a little house on his back and went off to the mountains.

Eleven years he sat in that little house. Another fellow would have ploughed I don't know how much land in that time, and he did no more than his yeometry. To cut a long story short, he learnt it till he came to a full stop. When he was twenty he came home to his father. “How do you do, papa?” he says, “how's your heath these days?” His father got a fright when he saw him. “Why,” he says, “you've certainly shot up and filled out a lot, haven't you?” And he had. He would go out when there was a thunderstorm and just wave his cap about the sky and blow the clouds away. “Well now,” says the son, “I'm letting you retire and I'm going to look after things myself. My name from now on is going to be Kalafat, see! (In their tongue 'tis supposed to mean: I'll get everywhere I want to). “Now,” says he, “I know what'll make the world sit up!” His papa was quite willing: “You clever folks go ahead and sing your song and we poor ignorant fools will sit here and listen!” So he made his father retire and set to work to earn his living in the sweat of his brow. He branded the fish, issued passports to the birds and wrote down every blade of grass in a book. Then everything around him got so downhearted. And it was no joke, everything in nature was topsy-turvy all of a sudden. The bear pined away, not knowing whether he was man or beast, now that he'd been given a passport. And Kalafat had taken it into his head to build a tower up to the skies. “I want to have a look and see what sort of a view there'll be from it,” says he, “and while we're about it we'll label the stars!” And 'twas this idea of his that brought about the end of the world.

So the days of Kalafat began. He collected peasants from all over his dominion and went to fight. He conquered seven distant countries and two gave in to him of their own free will. From there Kalafat rushed down to the sea, and conquered another people. All these captives were intended to build his tower for him.

Just as he was going home he fell in with an old man of the woods. The old man had on a hat made of bark and a bow in his hand. “Don't go against what I say,” said the old man, “let the whole army go home, don't do harm to yourself; you'd do better to learn cobbling!” “That I'll not,” said the other, “I'm going to build a tower.” “But there are other ways to do that,” says the old man. “I want to grow,” says Kalafat. “But you're big enough as it is. They say a sparrow swelled up on you till it weighed ten pounds.” “Oh, that's nothing,” Kalafat bragged. “I've got a louse on me swelled up to five pounds!” At that the old man laughed out loud. “What's the sense in your growing, then, if a louse is going to grow up alongside of you? It'll only have more of you to eat? You're as big as a mountain already and the louse will only be half as big again.” Kalafat turned away from the old man: 'twas plain he didn't know any yeometry.

And then everything started to swell. Folks swelled up with strength and fury; trees became the pride of the earth; night stretched out twice as long as the day; Kalafat's tower grew till it reached the skies. It took him twenty years, it would take us twenty ages. You would want a year to go all round it. The clouds broke against it and ran in rivers down the walls.

Then one day the head stonemason came up to Kalafat and said: “We can't go any farther. We've struck against the sky. And it's pretty damp, too. And there are a lot of rogues trying to get in first!” 'Twas true: while the building had been going on, a terrible number of rogues, one to every brick, nearly, had sprung up.

In the springtime Kalafat started out to get to the top of the tower, to heaven, in short. He picked seven of the more honest of the rogues, and bolted all the doors so that none of the common folks could follow him; after all, it was his ascension to heaven......

He climbed for five years. Five of the rogues had died already; they couldn't stand the damp. The others climbed up and up. At the end of the fifth year the sky above grew a bit clearer. Kalafat got up steam and reached the very top in no time. He looked round and he howled. The Old Believers say that there isn't a single lost dog that could howl like that tsar howled. All his yeometry had gone whistling down the wind.

While he had been climbing the tower, the building hadn't been able to stand Kalafat's weight, and it had sunk. He hadn't got an inch higher: every time he'd make a step up, the tower would sink a step into the ground. And there were the woods with the wind moaning in them, and the foxes in the woods, just as before. The fields were sweet with the smell of flowers, and the birds sang over them. Nature had thrown off Kalafat's passport and was herself again.

So it all ended in nothing.

Excerpts from "The Way of Chuang Tzu" (translated by Thomas Merton)

THE TRUE MAN

What is meant by a "true man"?
The true men of old were not afraid
When they stood alone in their views.
No great exploits. No plans.
If they failed, no sorrow.
No self-congratulation in success.
They scaled cliffs, never dizzy,
Plunged in water, never wet,
Walked through fire and were not burnt.
Thus their knowledge reached all the way
To Tao.
The true men of old
Slept without dreams,
Woke without worries.
Their food was plain.
They breathed deep.
True men breathe from their heels.
Others breathe with their gullets,
Half-strangled. In dispute
They heave up arguments
Like vomit.
Where the fountains of passion
Lie deep
The heavenly springs
Are soon dry.
6o The true men of old
Knew no lust for life,
No dread of death.
Their entrance was without gladness,
Their exit, yonder,
Without resistance.
Easy come, easy go.
They did not forget where from,
Nor ask where to,
Nor drive grimly forward
Fighting their way through life.
They took life as it came, gladly;
Took death as it came, without care;
And went away, yonder,
Yonder!
They had no mind to fight Tao.
They did not try, by their own contriving,
To help Tao along.
These are the ones we call true men.
Minds free, thoughts gone
Brows clear, faces serene.
Were they cool? Only cool as autumn.
Were they hot? No hotter than spring.
All that came out of them
Came quiet, like the four seasons.

THE EMPTY BOAT

He who rules men lives in confusion;
He who is ruled by men lives in sorrow.
Yao therefore desired
Neither to influence others
Nor to be influenced by them.
The way to get clear of confusion
And free of sorrow
Is to live with Tao
In the land of the great Void.
If a man is crossing a river
And an empty boat collides with his own skiff,
Even though he be a bad-tempered man
He will not become very angry.
But if he sees a man in the boat,
He will shout at him to steer clear.
If the shout is not heard, he will shout again,
And yet again, and begin cursing.
And all because there is somebody in the boat.
Yet if the boat were empty,
He would not be shouting, and not angry.
If you can empty your own boat
Crossing the river of the world,
No one will oppose you,
No one will seek to harm you.

The straight tree is the first to be cut down,
The spring of clear water is the first to be drained dry.
If you wish to improve your wisdom
And shame the ignorant,
To cultivate your character
And outshine others;
A light will shine around you
As if you had swallowed the sun and the moon:
You will not avoid calamity.
A wise man has said:
"He who is content with himself
Has done a worthless work.
Achievement is the beginning of failure.
Fame is the beginning of disgrace."
Who can free himself from achievement
And from fame, descend and be lost
Amid the masses of men?
He will flow like Tao, unseen,
He will go about like Life itself
With no name and no home.
Simple is he, without distinction.
To all appearances he is a fool.
His steps leave no trace. He has no power.
He achieves nothing, has no reputation.
Since he judges no one
No one judges him.
Such is the perfect man:
His boat is empty.

ACTIVE LIFE

If an expert does not have some problem to vex him,
he is unhappy!
If a philosopher's teaching is never attacked, he pines
away!
If critics have no one on whom to exercise their spite,
they are unhappy.
All such men are prisoners in the world of objects.
He who wants followers, seeks political power.
He who wants reputation, holds an office.
The strong man looks for weights to lift.
The brave man looks for an emergency in which he
can show bravery.
The swordsman wants a battle in which he can swing
his sword.
Men past their prime prefer a dignified retirement,
in which they may seem profound.
Men experienced in law seek difficult cases to extend
the application of laws.
Liturgists and musicians like festivals in which they
parade their ceremonious talents.
The benevolent, the dutiful, are always looking for
chances to display virtue.
Where would the gardener be if there were no more
weeds?
What would become of business without a market of
fools?
Where would the masses be if there were no pretext
for getting jammed together and making noise?
What would become of labor if there were no super-­
fluous objects to be made?
Produce! Get results! Make money! Make friends!
Make changes!
Or you will die of despair!
Those who are caught in the machinery of power take no
joy except in activity and change-the whirring of the ma­
chine! Whenever an occasion for action presents itself, they
are compelled to act; they cannot help themselves. They are
inexorably moved, like the machine of which they are a part.
Prisoners in the world of objects, they have no choice but to
submit to the demands of matter! They are pressed down and
crushed by external forces, fashion, the market, events, public
opinion. Never in a whole lifetime do they recover their right
mind! The active life! What a pity!


full text: http://terebess.hu/zen/mesterek/MertonChuangTzu.pdf

Dreams....

Still Dreamin....

Strange Dreams....

Only When I'm Dreaming....

All a Dream.....

Don't Like to Dream....

Secret Dreams.......

Talkin in my Sleep....

Bliss Carman and Richard Hovey - Songs from Vagabondia

Vagabondia

Off with the fetters

That chafe and restrain!

Off with the chain!

Here Art and Letters,

Music and wine,

And Myrtle and Wanda,

The winsome witches,

Blithely combine.

Here are true riches,

Here is Golconda,

Here are the Indies,

Here we are free,

Free as the wind is,

Free as the sea,

Free!

Houp-la!

What have we

To do with the way

Of the Pharisee?

We go or we stay

At our own sweet will;

We think as we say,

And we say or keep still

At our own sweet will,

At our own sweet will.

Here we are free,

To be good or bad,

Sane or mad,

Merry or grim

As the mood may be,—

Free as the whim

Of a spook on a spree,—

Free to be oddities,

Not mere commodities,

Stupid and salable,

Wholly available,

Ranged upon shelves;

Each with his puny form

In the same uniform,

Cramped and disabled;

We are not labelled,

We are ourselves.

Here is the real,

Here is the ideal;

Laughable hardship

Met and forgot,

Glory of bardship

World's bloom and world's blot;

The shock and the jostle,

The mock and the push,

But hearts like the throstle

A-joy in the bush;

Wits that would merrily

Laugh away wrong,

Throats that would verily

Melt Hell in Song.

What though the dimes be

Elusive as rhymes be,

And Bessie, with finger

Uplifted, is warning

That breakfast next morning

(A subject she's scorning)

Is mighty uncertain!

What care we? Linger

A moment to kiss—

No time's amiss

To a vagabond's ardor—

Then finish the larder

And pull down the curtain.

Unless ere the kiss come,

Black Richard or Bliss come,

Or Tom with a flagon,

Or Karl with a jag on—

Then up and after

The joy of the night

With the hounds of laughter

To follow the flight

Of the fox-foot hours

That double and run

Through brakes and bowers

Of folly and fun.

With the comrade heart

For a moment's play,

And the comrade heart

For a heavier day,

And the comrade heart

Forever and aye.

For the joy of wine

Is not for long;

And the joy of song

Is a dream of shine;

But the comrade heart

Shall outlast art

And a woman's love

The fame thereof.

But wine for a sign

Of the love we bring!

And song for an oath

That Love is king!

And both, and both

For his worshipping!

Then up and away

Till the break of day,

With a heart that's merry,

And a Tom-and-Jerry,

And a derry-down-derry—

What's that you say,

You highly respectable

Buyers and sellers?

We should be decenter?

Not as we please inter

Custom, frugality,

Use and morality

In the delectable

Depths of wine-cellars?

Midnights of revel,

And noondays of song!

Is it so wrong?

Go to the Devil!

I tell you that we,

While you are smirking

And lying and shirking

Life's duty of duties,

Honest sincerity,

We are in verity

Free!

Free to rejoice

In blisses and beauties!

Free as the voice

Of the wind as it passes!

Free as the bird

In the weft of the grasses!

Free as the word

Of the sun to the sea—

Free!

Read them all here: http://www.canadianpoetry.ca/confederation/Bliss%20Carman/vagabondia/index.htm

"Resume"

I got my first false kiss

from cold indifferent ignorance

but she quickly pulled away

and ran upstairs.

So I drew a hot bath

Like a roman suicide

but no blood in the water

only gentle virgin's tears.

I got my first real kiss

from unexpected big heart bliss

leaping over boundaries

clutching tight, kissing right

whispered teachings in the car

I almost learned

but couldn’t quite.

I lost my virginity

to an enormous rolling sea

of acceptance and affection

pulling me in her direction

and just begging for five seconds

of my hurried ecstasy.

Oh I tried my best to love her

but my heart could never cover

the ugly sharp disdain

of my hated haughty mind.

How come they only love you

when your serotonin's high?

How come they only see you

when you fit in, when you hide?

How come they never love you

when your just your lonely self?

Because you only love them

when you try.

"King Charlamine, the Dumbass"

King Charlamine, the dumbass.

First of his name

I wear the crown that starts the reign

of King Charlamine, the dumbass,

walking in the rain

I hear the echo of the shame

of King Charlamine, the dumbass,

speaking to himself

of cold lost memories and what else

belongs to Charlamine, the dumbass,

Imagined golden crown

and his sceptre hanging down

down to dead days, the dumbass,

holding on so tight

won't give in without a fight

so he squeals and so he slaps

runs away until collapse

but King Charlamine, the dumbass

can't be killed so easily,

beneath his burning bodhi tree

he realizes emptiness

so when you swing you always miss,

King Charlamine, the dumbass,

with nothing much to say

so he pours out every day

down the drain of pages white

with a coward's meek delight

its King Charlamine, the dumbass

with his fingers in his ass

dreaming of a loving lass

can't be learned and can't be taught

always sold but never bought

is King Charlamine, the dumbass

pretending not to care

till he weeps and tears his hair,

in the bucket of despair

you will always find him there,

face reflected in the slops

madly laughing till he drops

and fades away....

To return another day

and continue on the reign

of the poor tormented brain

of King Charlamine, the dumbass.