Category: poise

Christiane and Stanley Kubrick and their great principle in life:

“Always be suspicious of people who have, or crave, power.”

All Stanley Kubrick’s life he said,

‘Never, ever go near power. Don’t become friends with anyone who has real power. It’s dangerous.’

Charm is attractive to many. And potent.

When you need propaganda, where do you turn?

“Where my uncle was an enormous fool, as many talented people are, was that he mistook his gift for intelligence,” says Christiane.

“He was a great big famous film person. He looked better and talked better and had enormous charm. So he thought he was also far more intelligent than Mr Goebbels. Goebbels was 10,000 times smarter than my uncle.”

“Film people, actors, are puppets. We are silly. We are silly folk.”

 

Christiane Kubrick. A few moments with an enlightened conscience.

Widow of film director Stanley Kubrick, her 41-year-old marriage, the director’s lost project about the Holocaust and his secret love of the waltz…

the impact of reality is hitting you… hoping you are adventuring new life rather than lamenting old life…

sometimes just sipping a coffee on the sidewalk is renewing… pondering is a stepping stone…

I like poking around running water… sorta like a poultice for the brain.

“I don’t look at the clouds of tomorrow through the sunshine of today.”

“Everyone’s life comes to an end. And all around us, you and me, our life will come to an end. You will stop being a journalist and you will die.

“So what can I tell you? We’re all going to come to the same fate. So you just keep going while you can, doing what you like. So I am just the same as everybody else.”

been breathin’ in the bush lately?

superb poise
glorious body
dumbfounding beauty
a great artist
we are so fine, we humans, hope we notice someday

Try the large version here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=jJrzIdDUfT4&vq=medium

a ridiculous hobby, ey wot

by shempii

binding contract:

… that there is only one state of consciousness properly constituted to eliminate compulsive anxiety: the recognition that there is only now, that now is driven by fortune and that all else is illusion. Scripture has it:

I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favor to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all.

Ecclesiastes 9:11

via Dick Jones @ patteran

via Wordcetera and written by I Wear Many Hats

When I was ten
I saw spaceships running through the sky
We flew them fast
We built them out of cardboard
And painted them with imaginary stars

When I was ten
I had a saber battle on the sea
You said en garde
We jumped on tire swings
And left the woodchips in the dust

I could use a bit of pretending
So can’t you come back
And we’ll play a happy ending

Years and years ago
We were lost, we were slow
We had plans, we had time
We found gold, we found grime
You and me, we were the team
So long ago, seems like a dream

Maybe it sounds condescending
But don’t you want to go back to pretending?

 

 

blink going by
a lot of stars in the sky
never know why

Killing isn’t end. We must achieve living. Lift you. Astound you. We are cauldron. Children and fire. I like that. Each is met with each. This dream shall never die. Pay it.

 

 

 

a lady asked me
in a long row of wine
where’s my best flavor?
I said, it’s you we find fine.

 

 

Why will we let America argue? This is sad. This is danger. I see a better country. Better. We are the first country built on agreement. Maybe, in the thread of horrid yesterdays, we’ll keep that. I promise I will.

Sometimes when you look up into the sky you feel so insignificant, well, I’d like that, I’d like to say that, walking down the street, with coffee, in my own house, but no, hell no, people want to be big shots, fighting about this, fighting about that, damn them all, damn you all, you are small, why won’t you be small?

“When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him.” — Jonathan Swift

If beauty were then beauty be,

 And not one of us lament,

But ugly is as ugly does,

 And not one of us content.

What did Robert Frost say?

The land was ours before we were the land’s.

She was our land more than a hundred years
Before we were her people. She was ours
In Massachusetts, in Virginia,
But we were England’s, still colonials,
Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,
Possessed by what we now no more possessed.
Something we were withholding made us weak
Until we found out that it was ourselves
We were withholding from our land of living,
And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
Such as we were we gave ourselves outright
(The deed of gift was many deeds of war)
To the land vaguely realizing westward,
But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,
Such as she was, such as she would become.

Discovered at and corrected by Ms. Wonderful Zo.

ours

Apollo is our benchmark. My mind changed and never stopped that first day outside Earth. Discovering home. There cannot be enough seeing ourselves. No puzzle is better. Suddenly we.

The effort in this shot !

Light balance. The depth of field. The triumph, Jimmy’s brow.  Seconds, anyone?

I need color in life, not bleak, not thugs prospecting me, not blind aggrandizing, but goodness, clarity, stalwart things, the life of higher purpose, exquisite gains, footstep by footstep. Doesn’t matter so much that Napoleon story, I will wish bin Ladin froze to stone, less worry about babies per millisecond, ramped pricing, wicked banking, yet all in all, life is amazing, thrusted wonder, awe, tremendous everything. Golly.

Silly isn’t it, when we pause, go back ten minutes or an hour, review that wee bit, judge it raw and cruel, asking if minutes are worth it? There’s always one answer. Precious. Another flurry maybe, a strong effort maybe, a rare insight maybe, a good hug maybe, a conventional unfounded postulation hung in politics maybe, a wee prize in the department store, a skill around a corner, it’s all new to you I said. Precious. Yes we can say precious.

I wonder if stars know? Surge by untired surge, the mess of stunning they are, atoms on fire, no less nuts than us, busy infinite in packages of now, well, might as well be, we learn nothing else from them. When I arrived I was dancing, they said moaning a bit, yes dancing, a little star of my own, pushing atoms too, stung in my shockwave, year by year, thrust through ideas, making my remembering, crusted in this finger, plucking keystrokes, coloring life.

See that mother, wary but fulfilled.
See that eager wonder; its wee paws.
A moment might be forever, and enough.

Not a writer is a better thing. There’s pain that writers say they solve. There’s joy that writers say they find. But where are solutions? Where is happiness? If I were a writer I’d have to explain what I do not know.

You describe the images in your photographs as water sculptures, how do you make these sculptures?

By my hands and glasses of water.

“Every now and then, I’ll meet an escapee, someone who has broken free of self-centeredness and lit out for the territory of compassion. You’ve met them, too, those people who seem to emit a steady stream of, for want of a better word, love-vibes. As soon as you come within range, you feel embraced, accepted for who you are. For those of us who suspect that you rarely get something for nothing, such geniality can be discomfiting. Yet it feels so good to be around them. They stand there, radiating photons of goodwill, and despite yourself you beam back, and the world, in a twinkling, changes.”

Marc Barasch via whiskey river

Daily dawns another day;
I must up, to make my way.
Though I dress and drink and eat,
Move my fingers and my feet,
Learn a little, here and there,
Weep and laugh and sweat and swear,
Hear a song, or watch a stage,
Leave some words upon a page,
Claim a foe, or hail a friend —
Bed awaits me at the end.
Though I go in pride and strength,
I’ll come back to bed at length.
Though I walk in blinded woe,
Back to bed I’m bound to go.
High my heart, or bowed my head,
All my days but lead to bed.
Up, and out, and on; and then
Ever back to bed again,
Summer, Winter, Spring, and Fall —
I’m a fool to rise at all!

— Dorothy Parker, Inscription for the Ceiling of a Bedroom

Regina Brett, columnist for Cleveland’s Plain Dealer.

The lessons life taught me.
The most-requested column I’ve ever written.

1. Life isn’t fair, but it’s still good.
2. When in doubt, just take the next small step.

…

50. Life isn’t tied with a bow, but it’s still a gift.

Link luv to her full list here.