Danny James

298: The good life

Ah strain, it piles over. To triumph or perish. Live forever, in high spirits and digging always your way up, or lay down in the sand and be dust.

But, do you not know, we’re in paradise?

It seems the blinking stars would only swallow the cries you never make, and so you forget while everything is sailing along calmly diligently. Until the day arrives that you discover at last you are standing at a chasm of your own making, and it asks with a bellow that dashes about the valleys and is gone, ‘who are you?’

It sounds remarkably like your voice but you’d swear you’d never made a sound.

297

But not fixed.

296

Be firm when it hits.

295: Fragments

It occurs by fragments all. And there is still time, to ready yourself for all that you would receive. Nothing that is coming for you is sudden, but winding around from an outer region of everlasting.

294: An imperfect system

Can it not be said, that only he can meet calm and relief who is storm-worn and standing and who has not stumbled thus his respiring? Who has allowed his balance to find him by at last keeping still though else nothing is, and having flung to the gusts for the valley below his charge and strain of striving vain. By not gripped by the incertitude of factual things such as winds and aims, they ceased to fatigue him and fell away into vanishment the more he fought them not. He has seen his depths and caring less for heights is happy if he can burn the day sitting on the adret of his Himalaya, to finish a good book and gathering there in himself like the snow and sunlight around him, and passing unhindered through his own being like the tide of ordinance.

293: Tropic

Is it a heavy price he happily pays?

292

A common and avoidable misery of our times is in perceiving always a need for a new start or clean slate, and having opportunity for it.

291: The dash between dates

A far-off, long approaching animate spark. A flame, a dot suspended in eternity dissolved by midnight oblivion and not extinguished.

290

Mostly, the writing is a figuring out of things. A naturally occurring process which, when with interfered by my own confused and fearful intemperance, it is quickly understood that a necessary something is lost; A clear and perhaps sometimes simple – sometimes savage veracity, that retains yet a dimension of frightful grace and symmetry that I cannot tolerate yet for having no answer for as though one were needed, and the babel hides me well.

289

With constancy receive; the bitter and bounteous, is as needs.

Holala !

Alexandra in Amérique du Sud

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