Yellow paper day today.
Along with the dream life there is the life of ideas and half-ideas, of glimmerings and flashes and indescribable atmospheres of the mind. What we actually do in what is called the real world depends largely on how we live this unseen life in our inner world of words and images, songs and bits of poems, names and numbers and memories and dreams remembered and unremembered. Whether the song in our heads is Michael Jackson or Franz Schubert it is fitting itself to and reinforcing something in us that comes forward to meet it. That’s how art affects life; we use it to be more what we are and to become what is in us wanting us to become it.
from: The moment under the moment
He was almost on the point of crying, but he began to laugh.
“And that’s funny to you?” said the father.
“You don’t know what I’m laughing at,” said Boaz-Jachin. “Nothing is smooth and easy for me, and my life isn’t one girl after another — it seems to be one father after another. And how would it help you if I had a wrinkled face and clouded eyes and short hair? Would your daughter then become a nun?”
The father’s face relaxed behind the beard and the glasses. “It’s hard to let go,” he said.
“And it’s hard to hold on,” said Boaz-Jachin.
“To what?” said the father.
“The wheel,” said Boaz-Jachin.
“Ah,” said the father. “I know that wheel.”
from: The Lion of Boaz-Jachin and Jachin-Boaz