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Nothing in all the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity.

Martin Luther King, Jr.

The mass media is poison, concocted by the wealthy to further enslave the collective.

Marshall McLuhan

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I have a passion for landscape, and I have never seen one improved by a billboard. Where every prospect pleases, man is at his vilest when he erects a billboard. When I retire from Madison Avenue, I am going to start a secret society of masked vigilantes who will travel around the world on silent motor bikes, chopping down posters at the dark of the moon. How many juries will convict us when we are caught in these acts of beneficent citizenship?

David Ogilvy, “Confessions of an Advertising Man”

Soliloquy of the Solipsist

I I walk alone; The midnight street Spins itself from under my feet; When my eyes shut These dreaming houses all snuff out; Through a whim of mine Over gables the moon's celestial onion Hangs high I Make houses shrink And trees diminish By going far; my look's leash Dangles the puppet-people Who, unaware how they dwindle, Laugh, kiss, get drunk, Nor guess that if I choose to blink They die I When in good humor, Give grass its green Blazon sky blue, and endow the sun With gold; Yet, in my wintriest moods, I hold Absolute power To boycott any color and forbid any flower To be I Know you appear Vivid at my side, Denying you sprang out of my head, Claiming you feel Love fiery enough to prove flesh real, Though it's quite clear All your beauty, all your wit, is a gift, my dear, From me —Sylvia Plath

Know, O beloved, that man was not created in jest or at random, but marvellously made and for some great end. Although he is not form everlasting, yet he lives for ever; and though his body is mean and earthly, yet his spirit is lofty and divine.

Al-Ghazzali, The Alchemy of Happiness (1097)

“A man once went to the public steam bath, where he stretched out on a slab and fell asleep. In his sleep he dreamed. A person exactly resembling himself entered the bath, taking the cubicle opposite. This man was being treated like someone rich and important. The dreamer went up to the cubicle door to get a closer look. He saw that the individual had does in there. The thought occurred to him, “Suppose I change places with fellow. If I swapped bath towels, I could pass for him.” He put his thought into action. When masseurs came in and saw the dead body lying on the slab, they cried, “Help! This man has gone and died here.” Then they carried him out. Turning to the dreamer, they asked if he has sweated enough. He said that he has, so they washed him down and him nice and clean. After leaving the bath, he went through the pockets of the dead man’s clothes, which he was now wearing. They contained thousands of dollars. He got into the car that came to take the other man home and went to his apartment. There several gorgeous ladies came up to him, saying, “You must be tired after your bath, but please take these bank drafts. It seems you have made a big profit from your estate in such and such a place. They have sent the key to the villa you recently had built. And Madame would like to see you...” At that moment, his face stinging from a hard slap, he found himself looking up at the scowling faces of the masseurs. “Get up, you loafer,” they snarled. “You've been lying here since morning. The bath is closing.” Then they threw him out into the street. This man’s state is similiar to the condition of people who live in this world without faith. What they see is nothing but a dream. When the angels of death come for these people’s souls, then they will realize they have nothing!” —Sheikh Muzaffer Ozak

AFTERTHOUGHT: Hayao Miyazaki’s “Spirited Away”

“Once there was a King, who was interested in music and dancing and drama and higher education. He told his minister, “I want to hear good music and see dancing and dramatic performances. How can we arrange this?” “May it please your Majesty, all the people in this country are accomplished musicians and actors and dancers, so that if we invite one group, we will offend another group. We must let it be known that there will be a competition six months from now and that winners will get a prize from the King.” So a great stage was built in an open area of a thousand acres. The contest was announced, and everyone, down to the age of six months, started training themselves in music and acting. On the appointed day, the huge space was filled with artists. There was a pavillion for the King and below it a small stage which would hold about twenty-five people, and all around that was the entire population of the country. The King asked the minister to blow the conch shell and tell the audience to stand to one side and the competitors on the other. It was done, and there was no audience. Everyone was a competitor! The King turned to the teacher seated beside him, “What shall I do?” “Let them all dance and sing and act at once, and then decide who’s the best.” So they did, and the noise was horrendous. You couldn't distinguish one voice from another. It was like thousands of donkeys braying and foxes howling... In the same way God made the world, and everyone came with a billion different costumes and hypnotic illusion-projections, and the event got so chaotic and degraded and violent with all the competiting religions and the complicated philosophical systems and the art-status titles, and with everyone aggressively pushing to be impressive, and with no one there like the King. The Kingdom of God is what there is to win, and that’s within. It’s very rare that someone comes and just watches with the King and so receives the prize within the King.” —Bawa Muhaiyaddeen

“FK, Frida Kahlo, Franz Kafka. Two of the greatest symbolic figures of the twentieth century share their initials, their pain, perhaps even their positions in the world. Kafka sees himself as an animal hanging over an abyss, his hind legs still stuck to his father’s traditions, his forelegs finding no firm ground. Kahlo, tortured, hung, mutilated, cut up in bits and pieces, eternally metamorphosed by bother sickness and art, could say along with her brother Jew from Prague: “There shall be much hope, but not for us”: Prague, “the little mother,” has claws. So does Mexico City. They do let go. Kafka’s Kahlo, Franz’s Frieda (sic): The heroine of The Castle, Kafka’s Frieda (sic), is both the way to salvation and the agony of romance love. For them both, the K of Prague and the K of Mexico, Nietzsche memorable wrote, “Whoever has built a new heaven has found the strength for it only in his own hell.” In the measure that her hope was her art and her art was her heaven, the Diary is Kahlo’s greatest attempt to bridge the pain of their body with the glory, humour, fertility, and outwardness of the world. She painted her interior being, her solitude, as few artists have done. The Diary connects her to the world through a magnificient and mysterious consciousness that ”we direct ourselves through millions of beings — stones — bird creatures — star beings — microbe beings — sources of ourselves”. She will never close her eyes. For she says here, to each and every one of us, “I am writing to you with my eyes.” (Fuentes 24). Fuentes, Carlos and Lowe, S. M. The Diary of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait. New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1995.

“It was a worse thing,” answered the Ancient One. “It was anger. When a man is overcome by anger he has a poisoned fever. He loses his strength, he loses his power over himself and over others, he throws away time in which he might have gained the end he most desires. THERE IS NO TIME FOR ANGER IN THE WORLD.”

So King Amor learned the uselessness of anger, for they sat long upon the battlements while the Ancient One told him how its poison worked in the veins and weakened the strongest man until he was made a fool. That night Amor lay under the sky looking at his myriad brothers, the stars, and drawing calm from them.

“If you lie through the night upon the battlements and think only of the stillness and the stars you will forget your anger and its poison will die away. If you put into your mind a beautiful thought it will take the place of the evil one. There is no room for darkness in the mind of him who thinks only of the stars.” This had been said to him by the Ancient One.

— Frances Hodgson Burnett, “The Land of the Blue Flowers”

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I'll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about. Ideas, language, even the phrase each other doesn't make any sense.

Jalal ad-Din Rumi

#rumi #poem #poetry

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being the more joy you can contain. Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?

Kahlil Gibran

As the seasons change and the once lush life begins to fade, I sit there pondering if the loneliness of these passing seasons will cease. I wish for someone to be with me to watch the birds migrate, the cool breeze which brings the rain and the snow, and watch as the last leaf from the tree falls gently to the ground. I may not know the comfort that many know, but I do long for such a thing to become reality.

Anonymous

In early youth, as we contemplate our coming life, we are like children in a theatre before the curtain is raised, sitting there in high spirits and eagerly waiting for the play to begin.

Arthur Schopenhauer

If a man insisted always on being serious, and never allowed himself a bit of fun and relaxation, he would go mad or become unstable without knowing it.

Herodotus

Turn off your mind, and observe yourself. Your feelings, your sensations, your physical reactions. Don’t think about them. That means – don’t analyse. Don't cling, judge, deny, repress. Accept them. Embrace them. Don’t seek anything else. If you are unhappy, seek to be unhappy. Let it take as long as it takes, and watch it transmute into peace.

Urbanmonk.com (Albert)

“Ishq par zor nahin hai yeh woh atish Ghalib, Ke lagai na lage aur bhujai na bane.

Love is that kind of fire which is beyond control, oh Ghalib, It is a fire you cannot kindle and also one, you cannot extinguish even if you want to.”

— Mirza Ghalib

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