April 24th, 1976 at 8:00 pm
by Rastaban (1976)
It is the man who doesn't know who searches. The man who doesn't have who grasps out and kills the thing.
It is man the homo sapien who must cut open the songbird to learn why it sings. He must know. He must know. He must grasp out to find out.
And so he “discovers” vocal cords—or whatever—”Ah,” he says, “I know how he sings—by these.” But yet he knew how before—by that. And still he does not know why. And a songbird is dead.
This is man as homo sapien. he doesn't know what life is (because he doesn't know how to know), and so he searches. And the search becomes more important than life itself, and is seen to transcend any single bit of life. And every search brings him farther from knowing and thirstier and thirstier for more search.
So that there is now a truth in paradox.
He who would know, shall never know.
He who searches shall never find but a necessity to search. He who grasps at things never will have them in his hands.
To know, you must cease trying to know; to own, cease trying to own.
To be a man, stop trying to be men.
The songbird's song is not for knowing, only to be heard.
The rule of life is not to construct rules: for to ritualize life is to kill it, or to turn away from it to something dogmatically not life. Just as when formulas and definitions and systems and rules are brought to the study of mathematics—suddenly you have ritualized it and no longer have it: instead of studying math you are now studying rules (or definitions or logos).
It is a popular game with us: to replace living things with rules.
He who would know will never know.
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April 23rd, 1976 at 3:00 pm
by Rastaban (1976)
“But look at me!” he cried. “I'm not a Christian—I wasn't then. I've never prayed to any God! Yet a miracle occurred—and I was healed from dying—saved from an incurable disease. And I'm no Christian.”
“God works in mysterious ways,” said the girl.
“Did it ever occur to you,” jumped in his former schoolfriend, “that the Lord has chosen to save your life so that you might through Jesus Christ be really saved—so you might find eternal life?”
“He must've miscalculated then.”
“I don't understand you—how can you say it was a miracle—and not care about it. You ought to be grateful to God.”
“I am grateful—but not to God or anyone—”
“How can you be so callous?”
“Easy. I simply don't believe there's a 'miracle-worker'.”
“You don't believe in miracles period!”
“Yes!. But you see, to me miracles are a thing natural to life—that no God has any part in.”
“They're not miracles then.”
“To me they are.”
“Don't go around thinking you're a Christian—because you're not.”
“No. I guess I'm an atheist.”
“I pity you!”
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April 22nd, 1976 at 7:45 pm
by Rastaban (1976, Journal, Poetry)
That day,
When spring is come
And the birds are new with their yellow’d song
And the wind is born
And the morning blued, and the sun is up
And thrashing about till the cold is gone,
And the buds peek forward
From the womb of the tree
Raising their heads like flowers to the air
The black flies buzz black with
The quick lust of the bee
And the butterflies flair
With their certain, butterfly flair;
When the mountains gleem
With the long silvery slaking
Of the slow-ebbing meltwater to the sea
Leaving them green
And snaking, in the crust of perennial birth
And the moist spring sheen
Of new life and new earth.
That day,
When the ants spin hotly
From out their cave doors in the ground
To be searching new food
And the dragonflies wake softly
From the silence of their morning
And the winter-death of sound;
That day, I’ll prance to you
Out the evening light
And we’ll make our bed
Until it is night.
April 22, 1976
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April 19th, 1976 at 8:45 am
by Rastaban (1976, Journal)
The real problem with the Communist movement—is that they’ve ruined a perfectly good word.
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April 18th, 1976 at 2:00 pm
by Rastaban (1976)
And silence went in me, for the being I could not know.
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April 18th, 1976 at 9:00 am
by Rastaban (1976)
It was a man.
“Hello,” said the man in a language Fiera didn't know.
“Hello,” said Fiera in English back.
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