Become As Gods [DRAFT IDEA 1]

Desire and Despair -- And the Dream

Tonight I was feeling depressed, so I broke out my flute and calligraphy brush. It's probably a good way just of making myself feel more depressed, because practicing I was able to hear and see really how rusty I've become. From time to time, I remind myself of all the things I used to do -- writing, poetry, calligraphy, Greek, Latin, flute, Chinese -- and then eventually lost interest in. Writing especially reminds me of the past, of all these things that are literally past, because I so rarely do it any more -- but it embodies the spirit that drove me to all of these things -- the spirit of reflection, which becomes the desire to work myself into a point and push that through, a longing for excellence -- and that was the meaning in or of all the things I successively applied myself to. Why I've abandoned them, in fact -- because it was excellence first that I was after -- excellence and reputation, virtue. Pure excellence, pure reputation are nothing. ...

Once Mysterious...

From the subjective side, consciousness presents no mystery. Consciousness is found to exist not just among its other objects but even as the a priori possibility of finding such objects. Consciousness is a given whose structure and elements present themselves to consciousness. Consciousness knows itself and, for itself, is objective. The mystery of consciousness is only discovered from the objective side. Through an eternity (which means through the progress of a world order) there was only motion and mobile, a universe of pure and unreflective impulse. Then, one day, as if a spark were struck, awareness flamed into existence. Was this extra existence, which is admittedly so different from matter (as different as we believe life to be from death) a possibility of that same matter all along? This mystery is felt in the question, "Where did it come from?" The thought that it could arise through some coincidence, a brute coordination in the na...

Interpretation: "Leda" by H.D.

Where the slow river meets the tide, a red swan lifts red wings and darker beak, and underneath the purple down of his soft breast uncurls his coral feet. Creature of the sea, made from the deep, Not its darkness where the hundred monsters Sleep but from a deeper still, where pearls And other jewels their corazón await, A depth so clear, so still, Deeper than the deep, about its treasures Clinging like a sheet, edge upon the edge Of what is seen, a flicker and a sweep. This way to emerge! Royally too evident become And darker darkness radiate, to sweep and fly, Ever in the way things underneath Have shown themselves And wear the world as a wreath, Oblivious to any demand, "Why?" Through the deep purple of the dying heat of sun and mist, the level ray of sun-beam has caressed the lily with dark breast, and flecked with richer gold its golden crest. Gold on gold more gilded, on the other hand, recedes Into a darkness and stillness, leads The mi...

The Musings of Alencia Lysander

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