2
" it appears various ancient Mystics had a hard time explaining
with their archaic languages lacking the words for detailing
“the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost”
the Trinity concept being misunderstood by a good host
the Father is the immutable unmoving Godhead
from whence the Holy Ghost flows to all widespread
the Son, a physical expression in those whose self is dead
God can't be received fully if the “me” occupies space
the sense of individual selfhood disappears without a trace
the higher nature of God is formless unmanifested
from it, this changing world of form is emanated
everything is God, in God, all-inclusively unending
ungraspable by brain-mind and its inferior comprehending
people wonder, “okay, but what created God?”
contemplate “Eternal” or “Infinite” to see the query flawed
All is the Mind of God without exception
including your Mind prior to conception
formless No-Thing, yet Infinitely Everything
yet both, yet neither, for it's beyond expounding "
― Jarett Sabirsh , Love All-Knowing: An Epic Spiritual Poem
3
" It's the whistling," Laila said to Tariq, " the damn whistling, I hate more than anything" Tariq nodded knowingly. It wasn't so much the whistling itself, Laila thought later, but the seconds between the start of it and impact. The brief and interminable time of feeling suspended. The not knowing. The waiting. Like a defendant about to hear the verdict. Often it happened at dinner, when she and Babi were at the table. When it started, their heads snapped up. They listened to the whistling, forks in mid-air, unchewed food in their mouths. Laila saw the reflection of their half-lit faces in the pitch-black window, their shadows unmoving on the wall. The whistling. Then the blast, blissfully elsewhere, followed by an expulsion of breath and the knowledge that they had been spared for now while somewhere else, amid cries and choking clouds of smoke, there was a scrambling, a barehanded frenzy of digging, of pulling from the debris, what remained of a sister, a brother, a grandchild. But the flip side of being spared was the agony of wondering who hadn't. After every rocket blast, Laila raced to the street, stammering a prayer, certain that, this time, surely this time, it was Tariq they would find buried beneath the rubble and smoke. At night, Laila lay in bed and watched the sudden white flashes reflected in her window. She listened to the rattling of automatic gunfire and counted the rockets whining overhead as the house shook and flakes of plaster rained down on her from the ceiling. Some nights, when the light of rocket fire was so bright a person could read a book by it, sleep never came. And, if it did, Laila's dreams were suffused with fire and detached limbs and the moaning of the wounded. Morning brought no relief. The muezzin's call for namaz rang out, and the Mujahideen set down their guns, faced west, and prayed. Then the rugs were folded, the guns loaded, and the mountains fired on Kabul, and Kabul fired back at the mountains, as Laila and the rest of the city watched as helpless as old Santiago watching the sharks take bites out of his prize fish. "
4
" The photograph, then, becomes a representation of a representation of a disease that represents. In other words, in order to produce the most perfect images of hysteria, the hysteric – a woman whose illness simulates the symptoms of other diseases – was transformed, through hypnosis, into an artificial hysteric who perfectly simulated the simulations of hysteria. The medical photograph becomes a copy of a copy of a copy, a representation so far removed from the original that all duplicitous traits, were easily erased, leaving the deranged and chaotic nature of the original far behind. The photograph succeeded in turning the hysteric into a wholly artificial being, literally a flat, framed, unmoving image. "
― , The Decadent Reader: Fiction, Fantasy, and Perversion from Fin-de-Siècle France
11
" You sit at the edge of the world,
I am in a crater that's no more.
Words without letters
Standing in the shadow of the door.
The moon shines down on a sleeping lizard,
Little fish rain from the sky.
Outside the window there are soldiers,
steeling themselves to die.
(Refrain)
Kafka sits in a chair by the shore,
Thinking for the pendulum that moves the world, it seems.
When your heart is closed,
The shadow of the unmoving Sphinx,
Becomes a knife that pierces your dreams.
The drowning girl's fingers
Search for the entrance stone, and more.
Lifting the hem of her azure dress,
She gazes --
at Kafka on the shore "
― Haruki Murakami , Kafka on the Shore
17
" Silence. Montag sat like a carved white stone. The echo of the final hammer on his skull died slowly away into the black cavern where Faber waited for the echoes to subside. And then when the startled dust had settled down about Montag's mind, Faber began, softly, " All right, he's had his say. You must take it in. I'll say my say, too, in the next hours. And you'll take it in. And you'll try to judge them and make your decisions as to which way to jump, or fall. But I want it to be your decision, not mine, and not the Captain's. But remember that the Captain belongs to the most dangerous enemy to truth and freedom, the solid unmoving cattle of the majority. We all have our harps to play. And it's up to you now to know with which ear you'll listen. "
18
" Let's have a bet, then. If I'm right, you kiss me," he says." And if I'm right?" " Name it." It's like taking candy from a baby. Mr. Macho Guy's ego is about to be taken down a notch, and I'm all too happy to be the one to do it. " If I win you take me and the class project seriously," I tell him. " No teasing me, no making ridiculous comments." " Deal. I'd feel terrible if I didn't tell you I have a photographic memory." " Alex, I'd feel terrible if I didn't tell you I copied the info straight from the book." I look at the research I'd done, then flip open to the corresponding page in my chem book. " Without looking, what does it need to be cooled at?" I ask.Alex is a guy who thrives on challenges. But this time the tough guy is going to lose. He closes his own book and stares at me, his jaw set. " Twenty degrees. And it needs to be dissolved at one hundred degrees, not seventy," he answers confidently.I scan the page, then my notes. Then back at the page again. I can't be wrong. Which page did I- " Oh, yeah. One hundred degrees." I look up at him in complete shock. " You're right." " You gonna kiss me now, or later?" " Right now," I say, which I can tell shocks him because his hands go still. At home, my life is dictated by my mom and dad. At school, it's different. I need to keep it that way, because if I have no control in every aspect of my life I might as well be a mannequin." Really?" he asks." Yeah." I take one of his hands in mine. I'd never be this bold if we had an audience, and am thankful for the privacy of the nonfiction titles surrounding us. His breathing slows as I sit up on my knees and lean into him. I'm ignoring the fact that his fingers are long and rough and that I've never actually touched him before. I'm nervous. I shouldn't be, though. I'm the one in control this time.I can feel him restraining himself. He's letting me make the move, which is a good thing. I'm afraid of what this boy would do if he let loose.I place his hand against my cheek so it cups my face and I hear him groan. I want to smile because his reaction proves I have the power.He's unmoving as our eyes meet.Time stops again.Then I turn my head into his hand and kiss the inside of his palm." There, I kissed you," I say, giving him back his hand and ending the game.Mr. Latino with the big ego got bested by a ditzy, blond bimbo. "
