subota, 15.03.2008.
"The distance between insanity and genius is measured only by success." (Elliot Carver, Tomorrow Never Dies)
Što učiniti kada dijete ne želi spavati nego gledati televiziju cijelu noć? |
| < | ožujak, 2008 | > | ||||
| P | U | S | Č | P | S | N |
| 1 | 2 | |||||
| 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 |
| 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 |
| 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 |
| 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 |
| 31 | ||||||
Dnevnik.hr
Gol.hr
Zadovoljna.hr
Novaplus.hr
NovaTV.hr
DomaTV.hr
Mojamini.tv
Ako netko zna ili misli da zna...
- Koji je smisao života?
Bit
- Početak je bio pravi. U našem sjajnom vremenu je potrebna posebnost. Oduševljenje je ovdje. Treba nam hrabrosti. Misao postoji, a teško je zamisliva. Želimo uživati, a komunikacija je teška. Čast je apstraktna. Služi nam da preživimo težnju ka savršenstvu. Čini nas sretnima. U umjetnosti je sve dozvoljeno. NajVeće Kazalište. Tražimo tišinu bez obzira na bol otuđenosti. Očekuje se duhovitost, za koju kažu da je drskost koja je stekla obrazovanje. Povjerenje i iskrenost su ono što je najbolje kažem. Želim znati da zaslužujemo bliskost. Treba mi snaga da nastavim. A nastavit ću jednom.
Jednom..
jedan dva tri četiri pet šest sedam osam devet deset
- The Mental Traveller
I traveld thro' a Land of Men
A Land of Men & Women too
And heard & saw such dreadful things
As cold Earth wanderers never knew
For there the Babe is born in joy
That was begotten in dire woe
Just as we Reap in joy the fruit
Which we in bitter tears did sow
And if the Babe is born a Boy
He's given to a Woman Old
Who nails him down upon a rock,
Catches his Shrieks in Cups of gold.
She binds iron thorns around his head,
She pierces both his hands & feet,
She cuts his heart out at his side
To make it feel both cold & heat.
Her fingers number every Nerve
Just as a Miser counts his gold;
She lives upon his shrieks & cries
And She grows young as he grows old
Till he becomes a bleeding youth
And she becomes a Virgin bright;
Then he rends up his Manacles
And binds her down for his delight.
He plants himself in all her Nerves
Just as a Husbandman his mould
And She becomes his dwelling place
And Garden fruitful Seventy fold.
An aged Shadow soon he fades
Wandring round an Earthly Cot
Full filled all with gems & gold
Which he by industry had got
And these are the gems of the Human Soul,
The rubies & pearls of a lovesick eye
The countless gold of the akeing heart,
The martyrs groan & the lovers sigh.
They are his meat, they are his drink;
He feeds the Beggar & the Poor
And the way faring Traveller,
For ever open is his door.
His grief is their eternal joy;
They make the roofs & walls to ring
Till from the fire on the hearth
A little Female Babe does spring
And she is all of solid fire
And gems & gold that none his hand
Dares stretch to touch her Baby form
Or wrap her in his swaddling-band
But She comes to the Man she loves
If young or old or rich or poor;
They soon drive out the aged Host
A Begger at anothers door.
He wanders weeping far away
Untill some other take him in
Oft blind & age-bent sore distrest
Untill he can a Maiden win
And to allay his freezing Age
The Poor Man takes her in his arms;
The Cottage fades before his Sight,
The Garden & its lovely Charms.
The Guests are scatterd thro' the land
For the Eye altering alters all;
The Senses roll themselves in fear
And the flat Earth becomes a Ball;
The Stars, Sun, Moon all shrink away
A desart vast without a bound
And nothing left to eat or drink
And a dark desart all around.
The honey of her Infant lips,
The bread & wine of her sweet smile,
The wild game of her roving Eye
Does him to Infancy beguile
For as he eats & drinks he grows
Younger & younger every day
And on the desart wild they both
Wander in terror & dismay.
Like the wild Stag she flees away,
Her fear plants many a thicket wild
While he pursues her night & day
By various arts of Love beguild,
By various arts of Love & Hate
Till the wide desart planted oer
With Labyrinths of wayward Love
Where roams the Lion, Wolf & Boar
Till he becomes a wayward Babe
And she a weeping Woman Old.
Then many a Lover wanders here;
The Sun & Stars are nearer rolld.
The trees bring forth sweet Extacy
To all who in the desart roam
Till many a City there is Built
And many a pleasant Shepherds home
But when they find the frowning Babe
Terror strikes thro the region wide,
They cry ‘the Babe the Babe is Born’
And flee away on Every side
For who dare touch the frowning form
His arm is witherd to its root;
Lions Boars Wolves all howling flee
And every Tree does shed its fruit
And none can touch that frowning form
Except it be a Woman Old;
She nails him down upon the Rock
And all is done as I have told.
William Blake
Duhovni Putnik
Putovah ja kroz Zemlju Ljudi,
Kroz Zemlju Ljudi i Žena k tom,
Strahote takve čuh i vidjeh
Ko nitko prije na putu svom.
S veseljem tu se Dijete rađa
Što s bolom začeto bje prije,
Kao što Žanjemo s veseljem
Ono što se sa suzom sije.
Ako je Čedo Dječak dadu
Starci tad ga, koja hvata,
Prikovavši za stijenu njega,
Krikove mu u vrč od zlata.
Željeznim trnjem glavu mu paše,
Ruci mu, nozi nanosi zlijed,
Srce mu vadi iz grudi zato
Da spozna što je žar i led.
Prstima sve mu Žile broji,
Kao što Škrtac s blagom radi;
Plač i cvil njegov njoj je hrana,
I dok on stari ta se mladi.
Sve dok ne posta Djeva sjajna,
A on pun snage mladić vitak;
Odbaci tad on svoje lance
I sveza je za svoj užitak.
Usadi joj se u sve žile,
Baš kao ratar tlu svom odan;
Boravište mu posta Ona,
Vrt sedamdeset puta plodan.
Ko Stara Sjena blijedjet poče,
Lutajući po Svijetu cijelom,
Prepun dragulja, prepun zlata,
Što zadobi ih svojim djelom.
To su dragulji Ljudske Duše,
Rubini, biser čežnjiva oka,
Bolnoga srca zlato, uzdah
Ljubavnika i bol duboka.
Oni mu bjehu jelo i piće;
Prosjak, Siromah tim se poji,
Za Putnika mu namjernika
Dver otvorena uvijek stoji.
Njegova bol je vječna im radost,
Od njih mu krov i svaki zid zvoni,
Sve dok na ognjištu iz vatre
Djetešce Žensko ne izroni.
Ona je sva od čvrste vatre,
Dragulja, zlata, nema tu
Ruke što je dotaknut smije
Il' povojem omotat' nju.
Al' ona priđe tom kog voli,
Nek ubog, bogat, star je il' mlad;
Ko Prosjaka na druga vrata
Izgnaše starog Gazdu tad,
On ode plačuć' u daljinu,
Dok ne primi ga tko na cesti;
Dok pogrbljen, slijep, ojađen,
Ne mogne mladu Djevu sresti.
I da olakša Starost hladnu,
Zagrli tada on je star;
Nestade Kuća mu iz vida,
Vrt i sav njegov ljupki Čar.
Raspršiše se Gosti svuda,
Svaka stvar novom Oku bje nova;
Smotaše se od straha čula
I Kugla posta Zemlja ova;
Iščeze Sunce, Zvijezde, Mjesec,
Sve beskrajna je pustoš sama,
Ni jela niti pića nema,
Sve pustinja je svud i tama.
Usana njenih Dječjih med,
Njen smijeh s kog vino i kruh jede,
Pomamni nemir njena oka
U Djetinjstvo ga tad zavede;
Jer dok on jede to i pije,
Svakog dana mlađi biva,
I oboje kroz pustoš idu,
Duša im stah i očaj skriva.
Ko divlja Srna juri ona,
Njezin strah sadi grmlje sve veće;
Danju i noću on je slijedi
I ljubavne joj zamke meće;
Od Ljubavi i Mržnje zamke
Te prekriše kraj pusti sav
Ljubavni gusti Labirinti
Gdje luta Vepar, Vuk i Lav;
Svojeglavo on posta Dijete,
A ona Starica što plače;
Stiže tu mnogo Zaljubljenih,
Sunce i Zvijezde sjaju jače,
Pružaju stabla slatki zanos
Svima što u tu pustoš stižu,
Gradovi mnogi tu i mnoge
Kolibe pastirske se dižu.
Al' kad su našli mrko Čedo,
Užas se tuda širit' stane;
Vikahu: "Dijete, Dijete se rodi!"
I pobjegoše na sve strane.
Jer tom što dirne lik taj mrki
U ramenu se ruka suši;
Ričući bježe Lav, Vuk i Vepar,
Sa svakog Stabla plod se ruši.
Ne smije nitko lik taj mrki
Dotaknut, ako to Starica nije;
Prikova ona za Stijenu njega
I sve je ko što rekoh prije.
William Blake
Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies; -
Hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower - but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.
Tennyson
Cvijete u raspucalom zidu,
Ubrah te iz pukotina; -
Držim te tu, sveg sa korijenom, u svojoj ruci,
Maleni cvijete - no da mogu razumjeti
Što si, sav sa korijenom i sav u svemu,
Znao bih što je Bog i što je čovjek.
I ja sanjam da sam tu
sputan u tom kutu bijednom
a snio sam da sam jednom
uživao sreću svu
Što je život? Mahnitanje.
Što je život? Puste sanje
prazna sjena što nas ovi
O, malen je dar nam dan,
jer sav život - to je san
a san su i sami snovi.
Pedro Calderon de la Barca
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cB9_9_TpdPo