Stand Inside Your Love

By The Smashing Pumpkins
 

You and me
Meant to be
Immutable
Impossible
It's destiny
Pure lunacy
Incalculable
Insufferable
But for the last time
You're everything that I want and ask for
You're all that I'd dreamed
Who wouldn't be the one you love
Who wouldn't stand inside your love
Protected and the lover of
A pure soul and beautiful you
Don't understand
Don't feel me now
I will breathe
For the both of us
Travel the world
Traverse the skies
Your home is here
Within my heart
And for the first time
I feel as though I am reborn
In my mind
Recast as child and mystic sage
Who wouldn't be the one you love
Who wouldn't stand inside your love
And for the first time
I'm telling you how much I need and bleed for
Your every move and waking sound
In my time
I'll wrap my wire around your heart and your mind
You're mine forever now
Who wouldn't be the one you love and live for
Who wouldn't stand inside your love and die for
Who wouldn't be the one you love 

Is there still a place, a role, for passion and devotion like this in conventional, adult existence? I remember feeling like this as a teenager. It revisits now and again, but taxes, insurance, and dinner parties take their toll on passion, on the chances to immerse oneself in the things that make us feel deeply and want wildly. Such a big, wide world - and it's so easy to stay stuck in such a tiny morsel of it, such a tiny plot of planet, such a limited pattern of neurons, day in, day out. What happens to the weird, the unknown, what happens to wonder, to being moved? What happens when we find ourselves so consumed with the every day that we suddenly notice that the amount of time we have for passionate existence is something we scrimp and scrape to obtain - living only for a half hour of stolen time in a day when we're lucky to find even that?

"Its translucent color so alluring and taste and aroma so gently and mellow offer admiring feelings of a graceful lady."

Went on mini-adventure with husband to a Japanese market yesterday. I found this, pink sparkling sake, and a yuzu cocktail, in addition to many other odd wonders I did not purchase (like chocolate mini hamburgers, the only English on the outside of the box reading "Every Burger"). I want to go to Japan.

From The Diary of Anais Nin

If I were to transcribe and save every passage from this book that completely moved me, that resonated with my spirit more than any few lines ever have, that gripped me completely, I would have to take down three fourths of the book. But here is the most current object of my affection:

"I, myself, concentrated so much on my sixth sense that I developed this vision which sees beyond facts, the better to find sensations and divinations. It is possible I never learned the names of birds in order to discover the bird of peace, the bird of paradise, the bird of the soul, the bird of desire. It is possible I avoided learning the names of composers and their music the better to close me eyes and listen to the mystery of all music as an ocean. It may be I have not learned dates in history in order to reach the essence of timelessness. It may be I never learned geography the better to map my own routes and discover my own lands."

Dreams Under Skin

This is the third dream I have had since I started my current job, that involved me pulling some kind of metal or plastic objects out of my body that were embedded there.

Last night I was at the horse stables I worked at for many years - I needed tweezers for something (nothing to do with the fact that someone has made a habit out of borrowing my tweezers to take the bones out of fish - to create dinners which I am very grateful for, however), and I found them implanted in my left shoulder. There were four of five pairs, entirely submerged under my skin the long way, except for a tiny bit of the top of the handles sticking out, so that when it was somehow communicated to me, "There are your tweezers; if you want them, you'll have to pull them all out," I could reach around with my right hand and pull them out of my shoulder.

This also has nothing to do, I'm sure, with the fact that I am surrounded all day at work by people who perform surgeries and manufacture devices to implant into kids to aid said surgeries. I still think there might be a bit more to it though. Much of what I have in the way of freedom, creative space, ideals, is being invaded by the life many of us are forced into living day in and day out. I'm beginning to feel that more and more of me is being infiltrated. I suppose my body is one of the most significant possible frontiers; the most unimaginable one (though not the most horrifying - I'd rather have my body taken than my mind, heart, or soul), so naturally, the fears manifest in dreams. Never mind the fact that I am required to sit all day long and be in one place, under neon lights in front of a flickering screen.

Bursting At The Seams

"There's a hole in our soul that we fill with dope, and we're feelin' fine."

I'm having a particularly hard time thinking square with my spiraling mental patterns.

I'm bursting at the seams.

But I love and I know it's real.

Little Gems

"When we think about the future of the world, we always have in mind its being at the place where it would be if it continued to move as we see it moving now. We do not realize that it moves not in a straight line, but in a curve, and that its direction constantly changes." - Ludwig Wittgenstein

"Is consciousness a permanent part of the universe, giving hope of indefinite growth in wisdom, or is it a transitory accident on a small planet on which life must ultimately become impossible?" - Bertrand Russell

Cellar Door

"An amusing story is told of an Italian lady who knew not a word of English, but who, when she heard the word cellar-door, was convinced that English must be a most musical language. If the word were not in our minds hopelessly attached to a humble significance, we, too, might be charmed by its combination of spirant."

"Linguist Geoff Nunberg writes, that cellar door 'at once brings to mind a word from one of those warm-blooded languages English speakers invest with musical beauty, spare in clusters and full of liquids, nasals, and open syllables with cardinal vowel nuclei — the languages of the Mediterranean or Polynesia, or the sentimentalized Celtic that Lewis and Tolkien turned into a staple of fantasy fiction.' "

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