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This is the last post in the splashingbird blog. All of the posts have been moved to “born of silence” at http://www.bornofsilence.com (http://bornofsilence.wordpress.com). At the end of this week I’ll point splashing bird .com and .org to bornofsilence.com.
The bird splashes still, but at different place and with a different name.
the cost of inauthentic living is likely despair before death
revenge is a dish best served not at all
the great American illusion is that the pursuit of happiness will result in it
until you know what you are, how can you know who you are?
how remarkable, we celebrate only youth even as our own disappears
leaf after leaf floats,
like the moments of our living,
until the last one touches ground
thou hast no self to k(no)w
life resolves in mystery not explanation
none of us is spared the exactness of a fate
even after his heart attacked him, he still thought he was immortal
the truth is for most part an illusion with which people tranquilize themselves thinking that they have it or will, at worst, someday
a quest for the Truth most likely ensnares, at worst enslaves
everything is impermanent, even this wish that it weren’t
bullshit is fatiguing
a life unshared is a life half-lived
sun sets,
day cares fade,
now: the peace of night descends
fixed income
rising prices
the blues
emotions trump the intellect;
the poetic, the reasonable
having the truth blinds us to what is
the self arising at this moment can never see itself
forgiveness is the best revenge
could we be the species
that entertains itself
into extinction?
sometimes at night I
(not speaking, but spoken,
not singing, but sung)
wonder at words
bringing the world into being
at any moment
gone (perhaps)
splat like a fly
even the Dalai Lama gets the blues;
he just doesn’t have them for long
there is no market for aphorisms
when it comes to sex and money, most human beings can do most things
you don’t need to be in love for love to be in you
all is discourse, some is song
smiling first befriends the other…and oneself
giving tames the wanting beast
forgiving is a primordial act of love
nothing completely original is ever said; only the moment of utterance is new
when you no longer need to know the time, they give you a watch
wisdom includes a disposition to be where you are
living alone –
if I don’t talk to myself,
who will?
“what am I?” may be a more fruitful inquiry than “who am I?”
you can only have enough if you can also have uncertainty
for human well-being, in every sense, love is not an option
the talking primate may, upon reflection, realize s/he is an animal, too
this moment
is now
the next one
the many voices inside,
I call them all I,
thus, no one thinks I’m crazy
we are fishes in a sea of words just beginning to feel wet
trust and forgiveness are the front and the back of the hand of peace
all interpretations are provisional, at most and at best, transitional certainties
gratification may be delayed, but not desire
care is a human phenomenon, not a divine one
Singapore: old and perhaps in the Way
America: old and definitely in the way
older,
life more simple and mysterious,
both,
simple and mysterious
