Archive for March, 2011

Anais Nin Quotes and Writings

“A leaf fluttered in through the window this morning, as if supported by the rays of the sun, a bird settled on the fire escape, joy in the task of coffee, joy accompanied me as I walked…”

“Age does not protect you from love. But love, to some extent, protects you from age…”

“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom…”

“Anxiety is love’s greatest killer. It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic…”

“Dreams pass into the reality of action. From the actions stems the dream again; and this interdependence produces the highest form of living…”
 
 
“Each friend represents a world in us, a world not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.”
 
“How wrong it is for a woman to expect the man to build the world she wants, rather than to create it herself…”
 
“I will not be just a tourist in the world of images, just watching images passing by which I cannot live in, make love to, possess as permanent sources of joy and ecstasy.”
 
“I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naive or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.”
 
 
“Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish it’s source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings. “
 
“Our life is composed greatly from dreams, from the unconscious, and they must be brought into connection with action. They must be woven together. “
 
“The dream was always running ahead of me. To catch up, to live for a moment in unison with it, that was the miracle. “
 
“There are very few human beings who receive the truth, complete and staggering, by instant illumination. Most of them acquire it fragment by fragment, on a small scale, by successive developments, cellularly, like a laborious mosaic. “
 
“We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely … When I don’t write, feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing.”     (‘The New Woman’, 1974)

 

The Liquid Measure of Your Steps…

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.  Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.  Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh, your hands the color of a savage harvest, hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails; I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body, the sovereign nose of your arrogant face, I want to eat the fleeting shades of your lashes.

I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight, hunting for you, for your hot heart, like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

– Pablo Neruda, ‘The Wondering Minstrels: Love Sonnet XI’

The Spiders Lullaby…

Oh, what tangled webs we weave…

I had a dream of glass spiders; pink and champagne brilliant colors; beautifully adorned with different precious stones.  Each carried four large pearls on its back.  I saw inside one of the pearls that something began to move.  I started to panic. The pearls appeared to be an encasing a way or means to carry their babies; in the way that many garden spiders do.  The spiders seemed to sense my fear and began to scurry about in an animal-like frenzy.  They were trying to bite and their venom was deadly.  No longer able to enjoy their beauty, I did the only thing I could think to do; I began stomping on them…hard.  Brightly colored glass shattered across the floor… and I felt content.  Safe.

The Dream Chronicles… What does it mean?

Women Who Run With the Wolves

We are all filled with a longing for the wild. There are few culturally sanctioned antidotes for this yearning. We were taught to feel shame for such a desire. We grew our hair long and used it to hide our feelings. But the Shadow of Wild Woman still lurks behind us during our days and in our nights. No matter where we are, the shadow that trots behind us is definitely four-footed.

Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Phd. Foreward.

“I hope you will go out and let stories happen to you, and that you will work them, water them with your blood and tears and you laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom.”  — Clarissa Pinkola Estés

I call her Wild Woman, for those very words, wild and woman, create llamar o tocar a la puerta, the fairy-tale knock at the door of the deep female psyche. Llamar o tocar a la puerta means literally to play upon the instrument of the name in order to open a door. It means using words that summon up the opening of a passageway. No matter by which culture a woman is influenced, she understands the worlds wild and woman, intuitively.

When women hear those words, an old, old memory is stirred and brought back to life. The memory is of our absolute, undeniable, and irrevocable kinship with the wild feminine, a relationship which may have become ghosty from neglect, buried by overdomestications, outlawed by the surrounding culture, or no longer understood anymore. We may have forgotten her names, we may not answer when she calls ours, but in our bones we know her, we yearn toward her; we know she belongs to us and we to her…

…She comes to us through sound as well; through music which vibrates the sternum, excites the heart; it comes through the drum, the whistle, the call, and the cry. It comes through the written and the spoken word; sometimes a word, a sentence or a poem or a story, is so resonant, so right, it causes us to remember, at least for an instant, what substance we are really made from, and where is our true home.

These transient “tastes of the wild” come during the mystique of inspiration–ah, there it is; oh, now it has gone. The longing for her comes when one happens across someone who has secured this wildish relationship. The longing comes when one realizes one has given scant time to the mystic cookfire or to the dreamtime, too little time to one’s own creative life, one’s life work or one’s true loves.

Yet it is these fleeting tastes which come both through beauty as well as loss, that cause us to become so bereft, so agitated, so longing that we eventually must pursue the wildish nature. Then we leap into the forest or into the desert or into the snow and run hard, our eyes scanning the ground, our hearing sharply tuned, searching under, searching over, searching for a clue, a remnant, a sign that she still lives, that we have not lost our chance. And when we pick up the trail, it is typical of women to ride hard to catch up, to clear off the desk, clear off the relationship, clear out one’s mind, turn to a new page, insist on a break, break the rules, stop the world, for we are not going on without her any longer.

 

Get Lost with Me…Just for a Moment…Lost in Eachother