Georgia O’Keeffe, A Black Bird With Snow Covered Red Hills One ancient text tells the story of a crow who was flying with a piece of meat in its beak. Twenty crows were pursuing it trying to grab the meat. Flying high to escape them, it became tired. Suddenly, it dropped the meat, and the twenty crows flew down shrieking, fighting for it. Then the crow, flying high, thought, “How good it is to carry nothing — the whole sky belongs to me!” —from “A Conscious Struggle Toward Reality,” by Lizelle Reymond, published in Sacred Tradition And Present Need, an East/West Publication. Thank you, veareflejos.

Georgia O’Keeffe, A Black Bird With Snow Covered Red Hills

One ancient text tells the story of a crow who was flying with a piece of meat in its beak. Twenty crows were pursuing it trying to grab the meat. Flying high to escape them, it became tired. Suddenly, it dropped the meat, and the twenty crows flew down shrieking, fighting for it. Then the crow, flying high, thought, “How good it is to carry nothing — the whole sky belongs to me!”

—from “A Conscious Struggle Toward Reality,” by Lizelle Reymond, published in Sacred Tradition And Present Need, an East/West Publication.

Thank you, veareflejos.

All this happened, more or less.
Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five (via aperfectcommotion)

(Source: mythologyofblue)

I don’t know Who — or what — put the question, I don’t know when it was put. I don’t even remember answering. But at some moment I did answer Yes to Someone —or Something —and from that hour I was certain that existence is meaningful and that, therefore, my life, in self-surrender, had a goal.

~~~~~~

When the morning’s freshness has been replaced by the weariness of midday, when the leg muscles give under the strain, the climb seems endless, and suddenly nothing will go quite as you wish-it is then that you must not hesitate.

~~~~~~
The great commitment is so much easier than the ordinary, everyday one — and can all too easily shut our hearts to the latter. A willingness to make the ultimate sacrifice can be associated with, and even produce, a great hardness of heart. You thought you were indifferent to praise for achievements which you would not yourself have counted to your credit, or that, if you should be tempted to feel flattered, you would always remember that the praise far exceeded what the events justified. You thought yourself indifferent — until you felt your jealousy flare up at his naive attempts to make himself important, and your self-conceit stood exposed. Concerning the hardness of the heart — and its littleness — let me read with open eyes the book my days are writing, and learn.
Dag Hammarskjold, “Markings” (Thank you, 108zenbooks)
Talent’s just an instrument. It’s like having a pen that works instead of one that doesn’t. I’m not saying I’m able to work consistently out of the premise, but it seems like the big distinction between good art and so-so art lies somewhere in the art’s heart’s purpose, the agenda of the consciousness behind the text. It’s got something to do with love. With having the discipline to talk out of the part of yourself that can love instead of the part that just wants to be loved. I know this doesn’t sound hip at all.
David Foster Wallace, interviewed by Larry McCaffery (via reclusland & emesq)
“At three, I wanted to be a cook. At five, I wanted to be Napoleon. My ambition has been growing ever since, and now my ambition is to become Salvador Dali, nothing else. It is, nevertheless, very difficult, because the closer I come to Salvador Dali, the farther away from me he goes.”  - Salvador Dali  from predatorywaspobserver

“At three, I wanted to be a cook. At five, I wanted to be Napoleon. My ambition has been growing ever since, and now my ambition is to become Salvador Dali, nothing else. It is, nevertheless, very difficult, because the closer I come to Salvador Dali, the farther away from me he goes.” 

- Salvador Dali 

from predatorywaspobserver

Josef Albers (from yama-bato)

Josef Albers (from yama-bato)

Stress is basically a disconnection from the earth, a forgetting of the breath. Stress is an ignorant state. It believes that everything is an emergency. Nothing is that important. Just lie down.
Natalie Goldberg (from Whiskey River)
Amedeo Modigliani. Portrait of Blaise Cendrars. 1918. Oil on cardboard. 61 x 50 cm. Since it’s Blaise Cendrars’ birthday today here are two quotes: “Is there a more monstrous thought, a more convincing spectacle, a more patent affirmation of the impotence and madness of the brain? War. All our philosophies, religions, arts, techniques and trades lead to nothing but this. The finest flowers of civilization. The purest constructions of thought. The most generous and altruistic passions of the heart. The most heroic gestures of man. War. Now and thousand years ago. Tomorrow and a hundred thousand years ago. No, it’s not a question of your country, my German or French friend, or yours, whether you’re black or white or Papuan or a Borneo monkey. It’s a question of your life. If you want to live, kill. Kill so that you can be free, or eat, or shit. The shameful thing is to kill in masses, at a predetermined hour on a predetermined day, in honour of certain principles, under cover of a flag, with old men nodding approval, to kill in a disinterested or passive way. Stand alone against them all, young man, kill, kill, you are unique, you’re the only man alive, kill until the others cut you short with the guillotine or the cord or the rope, with or without ceremony, in the name of the Community or King. What a laugh.” — Blaise Cendrars (Moravagine) *** “Only a soul full of despair can ever attain serenity and, to be in despair, you must have loved a good deal and still love the world.” — Blaise Cendrars

Amedeo Modigliani. Portrait of Blaise Cendrars. 1918. Oil on cardboard. 61 x 50 cm.

Since it’s Blaise Cendrars’ birthday today here are two quotes:

“Is there a more monstrous thought, a more convincing spectacle, a more patent affirmation of the impotence and madness of the brain? War. All our philosophies, religions, arts, techniques and trades lead to nothing but this. The finest flowers of civilization. The purest constructions of thought. The most generous and altruistic passions of the heart. The most heroic gestures of man. War. Now and thousand years ago. Tomorrow and a hundred thousand years ago. No, it’s not a question of your country, my German or French friend, or yours, whether you’re black or white or Papuan or a Borneo monkey. It’s a question of your life. If you want to live, kill. Kill so that you can be free, or eat, or shit. The shameful thing is to kill in masses, at a predetermined hour on a predetermined day, in honour of certain principles, under cover of a flag, with old men nodding approval, to kill in a disinterested or passive way. Stand alone against them all, young man, kill, kill, you are unique, you’re the only man alive, kill until the others cut you short with the guillotine or the cord or the rope, with or without ceremony, in the name of the Community or King. What a laugh.”

— Blaise Cendrars (Moravagine)

***

“Only a soul full of despair can ever attain serenity and, to be in despair, you must have loved a good deal and still love the world.”

— Blaise Cendrars