Sea of Words and Mountains of Make - Belief ... , Some of My Books

I have SAILED Across a SEA of WORDS

I have SAILED Across a SEA of WORDS

To ASK if you will 

come AWAY with me ...

I am a child of books , 

I come from a world of stories 

We Will Travel over 

Mountains of MAKE - Believe ...

and ESCAPE MONSTERS

in HAUNTING CASTles ...

Staying Alive, Mary Oliver

“The world’s otherness is antidote to confusion [and] standing within this otherness — the beauty and the mystery of the world, out in the fields or deep inside books — can re-dignify the worst-stung heart.” 

Adults can change their circumstances; children cannot. Children are powerless, and in difficult situations they are the victims of every sorrow and mischance and rage around them, for children feel all of these things but without any of the ability that adults have to change them. Whatever can take a child beyond such circumstances, therefore, is an alleviation and a blessing.

I learned to build bookshelves and brought books to my room, gathering them around me thickly. I read by day and into the night. I thought about perfectibility, and deism, and adjectives, and clouds, and the foxes. I locked my door, from the inside, and leaped from the roof and went to the woods, by day or darkness.

[…]

I read my books with diligence, and mounting skill, and gathering certainty. I read the way a person might swim, to save his or her life. I wrote that way too.

I did not think of language as the means to self-description. I thought of it as the door — a thousand opening doors! — past myself. I thought of it as the means to notice, to contemplate, to praise, and, thus, to come into power.

[…]

I saw what skill was needed, and persistence — how one must bend one’s spine, like a hoop, over the page — the long labor. I saw the difference between doing nothing, or doing a little, and the redemptive act of true effort. Reading, then writing, then desiring to write well, shaped in me that most joyful of circumstances — a passion for work.

You must not ever stop being whimsical. And you must not, ever, give anyone else the responsibility for your life.

***

I don’t mean it’s easy or assured; there are the stubborn stumps of shame, grief that remains unsolvable after all the years, a bag of stones that goes with one wherever one goes and however the hour may call for dancing and for light feet. But there is, also, the summoning world, the admirable energies of the world, better than anger, better than bitterness and, because more interesting, more alleviating. And there is the thing that one does, the needle one plies, the work, and within that work a chance to take thoughts that are hot and formless and to place them slowly and with meticulous effort into some shapely heat-retaining form, even as the gods, or nature, or the soundless wheels of time have made forms all across the soft, curved universe — that is to say, having chosen to claim my life, I have made for myself, out of work and love, a handsome life.

[…]

And now my old dog is dead, and another I had after him, and my parents are dead, and that first world, that old house, is sold and lost, and the books I gathered there lost, or sold — but more books bought, and in another place, board by board and stone by stone, like a house, a true life built, and all because I was steadfast about one or two things: loving foxes, and poems, the blank piece of paper, and my own energy — and mostly the shimmering shoulders of the world that shrug carelessly over the fate of any individual that they may, the better, keep the Niles and the Amazons flowing. And that I did not give to anyone the responsibility for my life. It is mine. I made it. And can do what I want to with it. Live it. Give it back, someday, without bitterness, to the wild and weedy dunes.

Beauty Amid the Wreckage of the Soul -Tchaikovsky -

Tchaikovsky on Depression and Finding Beauty Amid the Wreckage of the Soul

“Life is beautiful in spite of everything! … There are many thorns, but the roses are there too.”

In a letter from the spring of 1870, shortly after his thirtieth birthday, Tchaikovsky writes:

I am sitting at the open window (at four a.m.) and breathing the lovely air of a spring morning… Life is still good, [and] it is worth living on a May morning… I assert that life is beautiful in spite of everything! This “everything” includes the following items: 1. Illness; I am getting much too stout, and my nerves are all to pieces. 2. The Conservatoire oppresses me to extinction; I am more and more convinced that I am absolutely unfitted to teach the theory of music. 3. My pecuniary situation is very bad. 4. I am very doubtful if Undine will be performed. I have heard that they are likely to throw me over. 

In a word, there are many thorns, but the roses are there too.

***

In the fall of 1876, Tchaikovsky consoles his beloved nephew through a period of dejection and melancholy:

Probably you were not quite well, my little dove, when you wrote to me, for a note of real melancholy pervaded your letter. I recognized in it a nature closely akin to my own. I know the feeling only too well. In my life, too, there are days, hours, weeks, aye, and months, in which everything looks black, when I am tormented by the thought that I am forsaken, that no one cares for me. Indeed, my life is of little worth to anyone. Were I to vanish from the face of the earth to-day, it would be no great loss to Russian music, and would certainly cause no one great unhappiness. In short, I live a selfish bachelor’s life. I work for myself alone, and care only for myself. This is certainly very comfortable, although dull, narrow, and lifeless. But that you, who are indispensable to so many whose happiness you make, that you can give way to depression, is more than I can believe. How can you doubt for a moment the love and esteem of those who surround you? How could it be possible not to love you? No, there is no one in the world more dearly loved than you are. As for me, it would be absurd to speak of my love for you. If I care for anyone, it is for you, for your family, for my brothers and our old Dad. I love you all, not because you are my relations, but because you are the best people in the world.

Book Shelves and Colours .. OneKindesign...

An ordinary bookcase can be completely transformed into a rainbow of color when you have coordinated books arranged by hue, creating a magnetic appeal. Have a look through your collection in a new light, see what you might be able to do to re-work it to make it more attractive. Your bookshelves can be the focal point your a space when colors are grouped together. If you have white walls, it can really create a dramatic center point, just as in the image above. Adding the colorful books will help to infuse some color into your space.

You can also switch out the books for more or less color, depending on your visual interest. It may take you all day just to get the color order just perfect, but it could take just as long to find a book you have been looking for if your collection is vast enough. When taking time to reorganize your collection, you will more than likely rediscover some gems you have been meaning to read for ages. If you don’t have a collection of books, or enough books with colorful spines, then you need to go book scouring!

Find many different ways to make your bookshelf a colourful focal point with our collection that we have put together for you. We hope you find some great inspiration. Enjoy!

Night and the Madman - Gibran Kahlil Gibran -

Night and the Madman

BY GKG

“I am like thee, O, Night, dark and naked; I walk on the flaming
path which is above my day-dreams, and whenever my foot touches
earth a giant oak tree comes forth.”
 
“Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thou still lookest
backward to see how large a foot-print thou leavest on the sand.”
 
“I am like thee, O, Night, silent and deep; and in the heart of
my loneliness lies a Goddess in child-bed; and in him who is being
born Heaven touches Hell.”
 
“Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thou shudderest yet
before pain, and the song of the abyss terrifies thee.”
 
“I am like thee, O, Night, wild and terrible; for my ears are crowded with cries of conquered nations and sighs for forgotten lands.”
 
“Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thou still takest thy
little-self for a comrade, and with thy monster-self thou canst
not be friend.”
 
“I am like thee, O, Night, cruel and awful; for my bosom is lit
by burning ships at sea, and my lips are wet with blood of slain
warriors.”
 
“Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman; for the desire for a
sister-spirit is yet upon thee, and thou has not become alone unto
thyself.”
 
“I am like thee, O, Night, joyous and glad; for he who dwells in
my shadow is now drunk with virgin wine, and she who follows me is sinning mirthfully.”
 
“Nay, thou art not like me, O, Madman, for thy soul is wrapped in
the veil of seven folds and thou holdest not thy heart in thine
hand.”
 
“I am like thee, O, Night, patient and passionate; for in my breast
a thousand dead lovers are buried in shrouds of withered kisses.”
 
“Yea, Madman, art thou like me?  Art thou like me?  And canst thou ride the tempest as a steed, and grasp the lightning as a sword?”
 
“Like thee, O, Night, like thee, mighty and high, and my throne is
built upon heaps of fallen Gods; and before me too pass the days
to kiss the hem of my garment but never to gaze at my face.”
 
“Art thou like me, child of my darkest heart?  And dost thou think
my untamed thoughts and speak my vast language?”
 
“Yea, we are twin brothers, O, Night; for thou revealest space and
I reveal my soul.”