jerusalem has been destroyed twice, besieged 23 times, attacked 52 times, and captured and recaptured 44 times. It has been arab, persian, jewish, roman, greek, babylonian, turkish, marmeluke, british, byzantine, crusader, ottoman; napoleon almost took it but marched past, kaiser Wilhelm visited, and the allied forces fought for it in the first world war.
on another note, I just sneezed while sculling a huge glass of water and nearly drowned.
asdfghjklwertyuivbnm!! because somehow the water makes up for the repulsive binge? read this and gasped. out loud. GOL? :\
…her message is committed// to hands I cannot see//For love of her, sweet countrymen// Judge tenderly of me.
“…Man’s feeling of homelessness or alienation has been intensified in the midst of a bureaucratised, impersonal mass society. He has come to feel himself an outsider even within his own human society. He is trebly alienated: a stranger to God, to nature, and to the gigantic social apparatus that supplies his material wants.
But the worst and final form of alienation… is man’s alienation from his own self. In a society that requires of man only that he perform competently his own particular social function, man becomes identified with this function, and the rest of his being is allowed to subsist as best it can-usually to be dropped below the surface of consciousness and forgotten”*
Is that what mediums like tumblr seek to revive? The ‘rest of being’ that in no way relates to our ‘social function’? Is the sole purpose of this complex web of blogs to give voice to the suppressed regions of your brain?
In these blogs you are not defined by the labels of student, teacher, artist or comedian. You are just people, strengthening your connection to one another outside the customary contexts of ‘occupations’.
We subvert Barrett’s idea of alienation with the shared knowledge that we are all alike. In that we are Conscious Beings. Enjoy your weekend, my co-people.
Barrett, William. ‘Irrational Man: A Study in Existential Philosphy’’ (1958) p36
Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?
For a drink of written water from a spring
whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?
Why does she lift her head; does she hear something?
Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth,
she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips.
Silence - this word also rustles across the page
and parts the boughs
that have sprouted from the word “woods.”
Lying in wait, set to pounce on the blank page,
are letters up to no good,
clutches of clauses so subordinate
they’ll never let her get away.
Each drop of ink contains a fair supply
of hunters, equipped with squinting eyes behind their sights,
prepared to swarm the sloping pen at any moment,
surround the doe, and slowly aim their guns.
They forget that what’s here isn’t life.
Other laws, black on white, obtain.
The twinkling of an eye will take as long as I say,
and will, if I wish, divide into tiny eternities,
full of bullets stopped in mid-flight.
Not a thing will ever happen unless I say so.
Without my blessing, not a leaf will fall,
not a blade of grass will bend beneath that little hoof’s full stop.
Is there then a world
where I rule absolutely on fate?
A time I bind with chains of signs?
An existence become endless at my bidding?
The joy of writing.
The power of preserving.
Revenge of a mortal hand.
By Wislawa Szymborska
From “No End of Fun”, 1967
Translated by S. Baranczak & C. Cavanagh