As is my custom, I will be meeting up with my friend Kate tomorrow for our annual labyrinth walk to honor the memory of Dave Carter (August 13, 1952 - July 19, 2002) - hard to believe it's been 6 years since his passing...
Can't wait to show Kate my new tattoo - I'm betting the spirit of Dave (in dragonfly form) will be flitting about for a closer look as well... :-)
[ Added 7/20/08: a YouTube video just posted to the Dave-and-Tracy list... ]
SONG: Long, Black Road into Tulsa Town by Dave Carter
BOOK: The Tibetan Book of the Dead: First Complete Translation by Graham Coleman, Thupten Jinpa (editors), Gyurme Dorje (translator)
POEM: An Obscure Meadow Lures Me by José Lezama Lima (translated by Nathaniel Tarn)
BOOK: The Tibetan Book of the Dead: First Complete Translation by Graham Coleman, Thupten Jinpa (editors), Gyurme Dorje (translator)
POEM: An Obscure Meadow Lures Me by José Lezama Lima (translated by Nathaniel Tarn)
An obscure meadow lures me,
her fast, close-fitting lawns
revolve in me, sleep on my balcony.
They rule her beaches, her indefinite
alabaster dome re-creates itself.
On the waters of a mirror,
the voice cut short crossing a hundred paths,
my memory prepares surprise:
fallow dew in the sky, dew, sudden flash.
Without hearing I’m called:
I slowly enter the meadow,
proudly consumed in a new labyrinth.
Illustrious remains:
a hundred heads, bugles, a thousand shows
baring their sky, their silent sunflower.
Strange the surprise in that sky
where unwilling footfalls turn
and voices swell in its pregnant center.
An obscure meadow goes by.
Between the two, wind or thin paper,
the wind, the wounded wind of this death,
this magic death, one and dismissed.
A bird, another bird, no longer trembles.
QUOTE: "People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life which bears no relation to true immortality but through which they continue to occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive. It is as though they were traveling abroad." ~ Marcel Proust
her fast, close-fitting lawns
revolve in me, sleep on my balcony.
They rule her beaches, her indefinite
alabaster dome re-creates itself.
On the waters of a mirror,
the voice cut short crossing a hundred paths,
my memory prepares surprise:
fallow dew in the sky, dew, sudden flash.
Without hearing I’m called:
I slowly enter the meadow,
proudly consumed in a new labyrinth.
Illustrious remains:
a hundred heads, bugles, a thousand shows
baring their sky, their silent sunflower.
Strange the surprise in that sky
where unwilling footfalls turn
and voices swell in its pregnant center.
An obscure meadow goes by.
Between the two, wind or thin paper,
the wind, the wounded wind of this death,
this magic death, one and dismissed.
A bird, another bird, no longer trembles.
QUOTE: "People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life which bears no relation to true immortality but through which they continue to occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive. It is as though they were traveling abroad." ~ Marcel Proust
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