In memoriam

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Proza neuroza

Bilo je to Novogodišnje veče dobrih 12 godina unazad. Mislim da jeste, ali nisam sasvim sigurna. Ako je nekome važno, može da proveri sa Tijanom; ona sve pamti. Dakle, recimo da je bio 31. decembar 2003. na prelazu u 1. januar 2004.

Veče je bilo toliko savršeno da ja ne pamtim bolje (uprkos tome da nisam sigurna koja je godina u pitanju). I nisam jedina koja ga tako pamti. Čak je postalo mala legenda u našem malom krugu od 3. Ali u originalnoj ekipi bilo nas je četvoro. Jedini džentlmen u grupi, i jedan od retkih pravih koje sam ikada srela, Tijanin tata, je otišao iz fizičkog postojanja par godina nakon te večeri. Da sakupimo tokom života toliko mesta koja bole i bez dodira je ipak bedž izdrživosti, hrabrosti, i posvećenosti – mi ćemo pamtiti, mi koji ostanemo na ovoj strani, za sada.

Čule smo se putem Skajpa nedavno, TIjana…

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mišljenje? (ulomak iz Rudolf Steiner, Filozofija slobode)

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mišljenje? (ulomak iz Rudolf Steiner, Filozofija slobode)

nagovor na filosofiju

Naivan čovjek … se predaje životu i vjeruje da su stvari zaista onakve kakve mu se pokazuju u iskustvu. No, prvi korak koji nadilazi ovakvo stajalište mora se sastojati u pitanju: Kako se mišljenje odnosi prema opažaju? … [A]ko bilo što o opažaju hoću izreći, to je moguće samo pomoću mišljenja. Ako kažem: svijet je moja predodžba, izgovorio sam ishod jednog misaonog procesa, a ako se moje mišljenje ne može na svijet primijeniti, taj je ishod zabluda. Između opažaja i bilo kojeg izričaja o njemu umeće se mišljenje.

Razlog zbog kojega se mišljenje prilikom promatranja najčešće previđa … leži u činjenici da svoju pozornost usmjeravamo samo na predmet o kojemu mislimo, a ne istodobno i na mišljenje. Stoga se naivna svijest prema mišljenju odnosi kao prema nečemu što sa stvarima nema ništa, što stoji sasvim po strani i uspostavlja svoja razmatranja o svijetu. Slika što je mislilac stvara 0 pojavama svijeta ne smatra se nečim što pripada stvarima…

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Quia Multum Amavi

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Dear Heart I think the young impassioned priest
When first he takes from out the hidden shrine
His God imprisoned in the Eucharist,
And eats the bread, and drinks the dreadful wine,

Feels not such awful wonder as I felt
When first my smitten eyes beat full on thee,
And all night long before thy feet I knelt
Till thou wert wearied of Idolatry.

Ah! had’st thou liked me less and loved me more,
Through all those summer days of joy and rain,
I had not now been sorrow’s heritor,
Or stood a lackey in the House of Pain.

Yet, though remorse, youth’s white-faced seneschal
Tread on my heels with all his retinue,
I am most glad I loved thee—think of all
The suns that go to make one speedwell blue!

 

Oscar Wilde

Flower of Love

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Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault
was, had I not been made of common clay
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed
yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.

From the wildness of my wasted passion I had
struck a better, clearer song,
Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled
with some Hydra-headed wrong.

Had my lips been smitten into music by the
kisses that but made them bleed,
You had walked with Bice and the angels on
that verdant and enamelled mead.

I had trod the road which Dante treading saw
the suns of seven circles shine,
Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,
as they opened to the Florentine.

And the mighty nations would have crowned
me, who am crownless now and without name,
And some orient dawn had found me kneeling
on the threshold of the House of Fame.

I had sat within that marble circle where the
oldest bard is as the young,
And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the
lyre’s strings are ever strung.

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out
the poppy-seeded wine,
With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead,
clasped the hand of noble love in mine.

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms
brush the burnished bosom of the dove,
Two young lovers lying in an orchard would
have read the story of our love;

Would have read the legend of my passion,
known the bitter secret of my heart,
Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as
we two are fated now to part.

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by
the cankerworm of truth,
And no hand can gather up the fallen withered
petals of the rose of youth.

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you – ah!
what else had I a boy to do, –
For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the
silent-footed years pursue.

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and
when once the storm of youth is past,
Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death
the silent pilot comes at last.

And within the grave there is no pleasure,
for the blindworm battens on the root,
And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree
of Passion bears no fruit.

Ah! what else had I to do but love you?
God’s own mother was less dear to me,
And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an
argent lily from the sea.

I have made my choice, have lived my
poems, and, though youth is gone in wasted days,
I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better
than the poet’s crown of bays.

 

Oscar Wilde

Link

Proza neuroza

Prostor između nas ima nešto radoznalosti
nedorečenost visi kao slepi miševi
i čeka pogodan mrak
i kroz sve pulsira metronom
Jedan takt tebi pa jedan meni
i mi lažemo
A bilo je jasno na početku
da nemamo šta da izgubimo
i zbog čega bi lagali
U tom duhu
podmećemo iskrenosti koje nisu važne
i pažljivo krijemo decu kad istrče da se igraju
Previše liče na nas ali bi lako mogla biti i tuđa
Odazivaju se poslušno na različita imena
Radost
Nada
Želja

Ne bojimo se jedno drugog
i opreznost je tu iz navike
Ona je kao staro poznanstvo
Takvi smi i mi
i ličimo na pogrešnim mestima
Nećemo ostaviti tragove krvi
i sve reči među nama
bi mogle biti i negde drugo

Prostor između nas nema budućnosti
koja dovlači nameštaj i ljude da ga popune
Ona sve brzo pretrpa
tvojim stvarima mojim stvarima
detaljima i velikim planovima
i okači svoje…

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