Jessica Bibbee

Posts Tagged ‘beyond’

20140225

In aphorism, tale on 20140226 at 11:06

《What Is, What Wills》

Once upon the deep, dwelled two pairs of seafaring lovers.

Both lived rather normal lives aboard their ships on the sea, full of ups and downs, as anyone would expect to see upon the sea.

On calm seas, both pairs made love with the illimitable passion of lovers held at bay.

But the sky does what a sky wills, and so oft brewed blackened clouds with the inevitable unknown beyond. It was in these times that the difference between the lovemakers was never more lucid.

For when the storms blew in, as only a fool could deny the inevitability of, the seasoned couple ceased their lovemaking, wisely understanding their lovemaking to be powerless against warding off the mighty storm. To them, worry was a more worthy and more rewarding charm.

The other couple continued to make love like only reckless lovers knew, much to the chagrin of the other lovers. And it was true that the lovers’ lovemaking did nary a thing to make the storm go away, to shorten the waves, or to lessen the impact.

Also true was it, that the cessation of the other lovers’ lovemaking neither did anything to encourage the passing of the storm.

For a truth is a truth as is a sail a sail. Wisdom lies in wielding a truth, not simply holding a truth.

For in the end, to the common eye, it was plain to see that lovemaking -and its lack thereof- had absolutely nary a thing to do with the coming of the storm, the size of the storm, nor the passing of the storm.

With the passing of a storm, what remained for the eye to see was but two sets of lovers at sea and two kinds of love as they so fit to see.

One, a weakened bond of fair weather lovers, who made love only when the sea was calm, losing only the opportunity to love each other through and so weather a storm together.

The other, a strengthened bond between the lovers, who made love without regard to a storm (or was it very much with regard to the storm?), losing only themselves in each other whether or not came the weather.

For a storm is what only a storm wills, and love is only what love wills.

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20120513

In aphorism, proverb on 20120513 at 23:57

bystander:
noun; one who stands by [something], and thus condones [something], even supports [something].

A foolish argument is grounded in a foundation of desperation.

The fool praise the light, but live by the darkness.

The only way to fight evil is to not join it, not contribute to it.

The fool trust not those without intention to convert, confusing conversion for conviction.

The fool ask ‘How to conquer those who threaten us?’, not facing the reality of their contribution.

Who is without a weapon is feared only by the fool.

Defenseless, the fool become defensive.

Defense, by any other name, is offense.

Where some fool are critical, other fool are insecure.

Where two side against one, is strength only but numbers, is weakness only but elsewhere.

The fool seek not to hear, with a defense of listening.

The fool have ears, but do not hear; have eyes, but do not see; have hearts, but do not feel.

Resolution led by a moderator is not a resolution of two.

The fool don’t the best they can, the wise do the best they can’t.

Seize wisdom from the depths, net ignorance from the shallows.

The fool adjudge assumptions, the wise consider intentions.

Criticism that negates compliments exposes false compliments; criticism that complements compliments  reveals true compliments.

Forever to be trusted, are the fool and their fallacy.

Sooner an apology to be forgiven than the innocent to be spared.

The fool hear with ears that deceive.

Where fault lies, a defense is readied. Where understanding lies, an offense is unnecessary.

Do plumbers have pipe dreams?

Sooner a parent to side with the other than with truth.

Wisdom is not without extent.

Perspective and understanding are but two sides of a multi-dimensional reality.

Concern falls as criticism to fool ears.

The fool have a defense for every criticism, an offense for every defense, a criticism for every offense.

Who is fool enough to fight logic with illogic, falls victim to his own weapon.

What time does not heal, memory must forgive.

No one judges more or less than the next -some admit it, others deny it.

A poor defense is as good as no defense.

The fool fail to fathom the color beyond text, black and white.

20100322

In aphorism, proverb on 20100322 at 22:36

The voice of reason is never raised.

Art should express; the written word should communicate.

A thirsty camel is a drought on the way out.

The pot that boils over, boils dry.

Let us soften our inner wolf and incite our inner sheep.

The lost sheep finds a waiting world lies beyond the pasture.

Spend more time questioning your own convictions and more time understanding others’ beliefs.

20071014

In question, rumination on 20071014 at 13:52

With every utterance of control, there is an ego born of pride, of false knowing and incomplete understanding.

For as much as we control, so are we controlled by that which is around us. As much as we analyze this process, even more so do we become a part of it.

It is sheer ignorance, if the naiveté of humanity, that permits even us to step outside of that which consumes us, that which is a part of the whole, and is the whole itself. That we might suggest that our will is not its will, that our error is not its error.

It is another arrogance to say that our error is but its error, to deny our actions on its behalf.

For all that began with nature will again end with nature – that is, entertaining the contrived concept of a beginning and an end. All that meets the eye is but a piece of the whole, the whole being a cycle of which there is no witness of a beginning and without certainty of an ending.

Our eyes see with limited sight. Our minds breathe with limited life. It is this inability to conceive of that which endures all, that which is all – that defines our being a part of the process – and not outside of, beyond, or above all.

How closely tied is our instinct to our adeptness. For it is our instinct to learn, to grow, to adapt. And so, mankind has, and will, continue in a way that always will.

Why does the sun differ from the moon? For the same reason, or lack thereof, that we are not mere beasts. We are no different, though our tongue speaks not the same.

However superb we elevate our humanity about the robin, still we know not its thoughts.

Might we entertain that its thought leaves ours behind, that it lives in a world to which we are but a busy simplicity, ever concerned with fabrications of an imagination cultivated? But we do not know what the robin thinks or even wills.

If there comes a day when we do see eye to eye with the skirting robin – will we be prepared for such complexity, as we now understand not?

Is it possible that we, too, may evolve in a parallel way, and as such, these two days may never coincide as one? So the robin and man, ever in watch, ever to question, never to know.

It is this longing and lacking that drives the cycle and leads us only to tomorrow.

We are never a farther step from today.

Note: Access to WordPress  is still blocked within China. Without access to a much appreciated VPN (proxy), I would be unable to publish to my blog from within mainland China. Thus, I am blessed and grateful to be sharing. With every post, I hereby protest the oppressive nature of the Chinese government blocking access to any part of the web.

20060131

In poetry on 20060131 at 23:10

《the sex of poets》

The sex of poets emanates –
flowing as without edges,
contagious as without knowing;
words play
back and forth –
a rhythm, ever changing,
follows whereby one leads
until the pull of the next.
One moment
as without definition,
nor clearly sided with neighbors –
rolling one to the next.
Beckoned without call,
it is from a distance that
one sees deep into the heart
where life seems both
to stop and start, again –
without pause and
with the haste of lovers
kept at bay, unwilled.
The words sear clear,
sharp and pure.
They exist alone,
and yet are fed
by the hunger of ideas
yet tossed,
yet exposed –
as if the virgin ever lived
within the eyes of the soul;
forever waiting,
forever with hunger –
fresh as the moment to follow.

The sex of poets lingers
past the setting sun
into the morning dew,
where one knows not for sure
if the climax be truer
at the final release of
thoughts never felt, – or
perhaps at the time
of response; the
lover’s words, a compliment,
meshing with, as if one.
Almost beyond a reality,
the words live on
to dance without end,
to breed a careful song –
as if in tales of lore,
existence never certain.
Fleeting, though strong;
Skirting, though present –
The moment speaks not
of tangible truths
that speak of tomorrows,
but rather the window
rarely looked into –
it is there
it is waiting,
but cannot be taken with you,
nor fed to the mortal –
only to continue
in the souls of lovers –
perhaps truer than
the love of lovers itself.

The sex of poets preys
upon the passion saved
over years and decades
desires of the flesh
never satisfy the wound
of ages past
of pains neglected
merely masking in mum
the yearning ever mounting
to release with a single
sound
The silence is broken,
fears relinquished;
the rebirth of hopes
fills the air –
thick with the essence of now
and hint of next,
never to be sure.
The bliss lies within,
ever longing.
Separate worlds entwined –
an affair of the id
within…
Never lucid to the searching,
but in control.
When no longer logic bids you
surrender, at last call
with bursting souls;
hungrier still, the eve –
power of the word
has finally come, the time.