Guest guest Posted June 20, 2003 Report Share Posted June 20, 2003 My mother cleaned the houseand cooked my meals, dressed meand taught me about the death of all things, and that which is immortal.She always said:"Every day is a good day!"Last night I traveled to the villagefor her burial and as I wept, remembered her words. ~Mazie & b "Said one oyster to a neighboring oyster, 'I have a very great painwithin me. It is heavy and round and I am in distress.'And the other oyster replied with haughty complacence, 'Praise be to theheavens and to the sea, I have no pain within me. I am well and wholeboth within and without.'At the moment a crab was passing by and heard the two oysters, and hesaid to the one who was well and whole both within and without, 'Yes,you are well and whole; but the pain that your neighbor bears is a pearlof exceeding beauty.'"~Kahlil Gibran Wrapped in cotton robes of the Unknown,thin, open, wind-rustled,I come to the Winter Solstice, wheregrass, already wildly growing freethrough this skull, encircles the fruitless fruit Jar of No-Mind.One small plum tree along the path -its mantle of silent song snowing all around me, as this -a springing forth from any constraints of time and space, Yes, Yes, thisbranching breath -the breathlessness of this momentcovered in tiny, fragrant, white blossoms –deathlessness amidst the darkest winter hour.Winter Solstice, and the black tea is hotwith floating plum blossoms concentricallyswirling around each other as I too circle around that which circles ceaselessly around me.~Mazie & b Wit is the story of Vivian Bearing, Ph.D. She is a professor of 17th century literature whose specialty is the metaphysical poetry of John Donne. In fact, Donne’s haunting lines from his sonnet, "Death, be not proud..." Are a constant reminder throughout the film that life is ephemeral and fleeting. Professor Bearing, who is played by Thompson as well, is diagnosed in the last stages of ovarian cancer in the first few minutes of the film and must spend its remainder coming to terms with not only her mortality, but the transitory importance of both her intellect and her contribution to this life via her teaching of Donne’s poetry. Her journey towards death is punctuated by two research oncologists played by Christopher Lloyd and Jonathon M. Woodward as well as a caring nurse played by Audra McDonald. The juxtaposition of Bearing’s preoccupation with the metaphysical questions of life’s importance and the doctors’ preoccupation with the value of researching debilitating illness and death precipitated by cancer is at best stupefying and at worst horrifying. There is the distinct questioning of the sanctity of life within the film as well as the realization of the indignity of dying in a world ruled by science rather than the soul. Incredibly as well, thanks to Thompson’s an Nichols’ more than adept translation, humor is also a prime facet of the film. More than once, audience members are treated to the dry, if hopeless, wit of Dr. Bearing’s character whose sense of the ridiculous and the sublime is never in question. Yes, there’s much more dialogue than in the usual film fare. Yes, you have to listen to this film. Yes, there’s more to think about. Yes, there’s the feeling of power associated with words rather than images — although never doubt that the film carries powerful images in its wake as well. But, there is also more feeling in this film than in today’s usual offerings. There is true heart and a sense of wonder that can only be translated by being true to the words — by accepting language and reveling in its versatility and alchemy as opposed to falling prey to the facility of virtual imaging. Thompson and Nichols have harnessed the power of language here, and have made it palatable to and effective for modern film audiences. Their translation of Edson’s powerful dialogue and message deserves major attention and accolades from the public. ~ Rebecca Basham The eye lifts skywardthis dusk falling, callingto look higher look upover the horizon that bluethat bluecoloring this momentsome formless freedomflows into form as greenas greenI remember the thistle grew from an eaveholding nature against the nightand the night approached itselfwith tremendous desire --I wanted to touch thatas I stared at the milkweedagainst the sky.The universe existsbecause of us, our lovefor these forms.We can wink at the dream.We can touch, stare,flow into each other aslight flows into itselfat dawn, at dusk.Two pieces of a puzzlefit together perfectly,leaving only onemystery.This mystery of dreaming, andthe dreamer.The one whodreams us now as two,Cold Mountain and me --we awake in the midst ofdreaming, only to findthere is only dreaming.We seem to meet each otheragain and again here, alwaysrecognizing the futility ofresisting the night,approaching itself with tremendous desire, wanting to touch a thistle in an eave. ~Mazie & b No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee. ~John Donne, (Devotions upon Emergent Occasions, no. 6) How wonderful to swim back and forth between shores, where the green grasses equally dance in the sea-side breezes! ~Mazie & b "It is nice to get back to my room after those infernal tests. It isn’t. It would be nice if I were a cheerleader going to Daytona Beach for Spring break. Going back to my room after these infernal tests is just the next thing that happens." ~Vivian Bearing in "Wit" The way of others isnot my way, moment to momentI discover my own.There is no certaintyin being true, this is justthe way things go alongon Cold Mountain.I cleaned my cave byfirst removing myself,then everything resumed its natural state.One day the sound of the murmuring brookstopped, and a sudden gratitudefilled my heart.Now it just runs on,sometimes noticedsometimes not.We can't be free unlesswe already are.Isn't it so?When every direction is the same,we can relax and enjoythe ride.Something exhales.Birth and death tenderly caress.Love peeks out from underthe covers, smilingcoyly,grinning"Oh, what did I miss?" ~Mazie & b Wit and Wisdom "The lead character, Vivian Bearing, Ph.D. (Julia Brothers), is a professor and resident expert of John Donne's metaphysical poems. Arrogant and stuffy, she is feared by her students. She chastises their ignorance with exploratory questions and term papers and mocks their lollygagging lifestyles. Then, the other independent clause sneaks into her life: she has Stage IV metastatic ovarian cancer, which she perceives as a gross inconvenience. "My work, my students, my cancer-free life--how dare it intrude now?" she seems to ask at every turn. She enters the hospital on an in-patient basis until she can no longer care for herself. During the first months of an eight-month cycle of chemotherapy, no family, no friends come to visit her, save for one. Bearing's cockiness has surrendered to cancer. Imminent death has given way to a new kind of wit. "Hi, how are you feeling today?" asks Vivian in the play's opening line. "Hi. How are you feeling today?" She utters the sentence with complete disdain, evidenced by the scowl hiding beneath a cherry-colored baseball hat. She tells the audience she has been asked this question while throwing up in a pan, as she is injected with morphine. "It is not my intention to give away the plot," Vivian says in the first few lines of her opening soliloquy, "but I die at the end." But death is a fact of life that not even Vivian can accept as the cancer eats away at her haughtiness. "Death be not proud," she ponders." ~ Natasha Whitton The one who will kindly kill my last cowhas been playing with me all along. The milk from that cow is rich indeed, yet I'll happily share it with all who have heardtheir own death's familiar whisper.It's only milk, you see, and yetit's sweetness fills canyons with rivers of light, snow white emptying into white, snow melt gone to the ocean.~Mazie & b "In what Nancy Franklin of The New Yorker has described as the "most celebrated new play of 1998," Margaret Edson introduces Dr. Vivian Bearing, scholar of the poetry of John Donne and his metaphysical "wit." Although the play was first performed in California, it did not reach Broadway until 1999. Once there, however, its success prompted the making of an HBO version of the play, starring Emma Thompson. Dr. Bearing narrates the play through direct address, scenes from her present, as well as several flashbacks. As the play opens, she introduces herself in a professorial tone and dismisses the play about her life because it was not "cast in the mythic-heroic-pastoral mode; but the facts, most notably stage-four metastatic ovarian cancer, conspire against that." Adding, "The Faerie Queene this is not" (6). In the two hours that she has to tell her story, Dr. Bearing moves from her diagnosis with cancer to her final moments in a research hospital. The play is not, however, a suspense-filled narrative of her battle against disease, but rather a record of her decline. Near the end of her first monologue, she admits, "It is not my intention to give away the plot; but I think I die at the end" (6). Thus, the attitude of the audience should not be hopeful anticipation, but rather observation. Do not make the mistake of assuming, however, that the play is, in any way, mournful. Vivian's mechanism of defense against the doctors and nurses who surround her is her acerbic tongue. When her primary physician, Harvey Kelekian, tells her his diagnosis, she corrects his choice of words and often talks over him to the audience asking questions such as "Is anyone doing research on cancer?" and resolving to "Assemble a bibliography" (8-9). Vivan's life has been structured by her scholarship. She is unable to imagine a world outside of her cerebral space and has had this view reinforced by her many years of education. In several flashback scenes, Vivan is shown cruelly demanding excellence from her students, but in a scene with her graduate school mentor, the audience witnesses the source of this style of education. While studying under Donne scholar E.M. Ashford, Vivian was called in over an assignment that she wrote on Holy Sonnet Six, "Death be not proud." The version of the poem that she had used in her paper concluded with the line, "And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!" But, according to Ashford, the correct version of this line should read, "And death shall be no more, Death thou shalt die." As she explains, Nothing by a breath--a comma--separates life from life everlasting. It is very simple really. With the original punctuation restored, death is no longer something to act out on a stage, with exclamation points. It's a comma, a pause. (14-15) The irony, of course, is that, as Vivian discovers, death is indeed fodder for a stage drama. The pause that separates her from life everlasting is composed of torturous months of chemotherapy and pain. At this early juncture in her career, Vivian returns to the library to rewrite her paper and buries the connection between the truth of human existence and scholarly rigor. As her disease progresses, Vivian discovers that her intellect cannot rationally overcome her illness. She gradually begins to reassess her life and career and discovers with warmth and humor that her earnest desire to teach may have been led astray by a lack of compassion for her students. The parallels between her classroom behavior and the bedside manner of the doctors who treat her are numerous. Thus, Edson is able to suggest a more universal change in human attitude that is not tied explicitly to either arena. Ultimately, the play serves as a lesson in living--living to promote peaceful dying. ~ Natasha Whitton I like the darkness. Night comes like fog comes,presses me into the shore, andI become the night, the shore, this pressing, and still I askO Friend, where is the sky?I cannot see the moon tonight.I have lost sight of the stars.In a dream within this dreamy realma night-creature wandered too close,out into the open, hungering for something I no longer possessed.I am a stranger to myself now.I am a loner on a caravan that never departed.I am the raccoon in the road at wagon's impact.I came here to commit suicide. ~Mazie & b Hymn to God, My God, in my Sickness Since I am coming to that holy room, Where, with thy choir of saints for evermore, I shall be made thy music; as I come I tune the instrument here at the door, And what I must do then, think here before. Whilst my physicians by their love are grown Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie Flat on this bed, that by them may be shown That this is my south-west discovery, Per fretum febris, by these straits to die, I joy, that in these straits I see my west; For, though their currents yield return to none, What shall my west hurt me? As west and east In all flat maps (and I am one) are one, So death doth touch the resurrection. Is the Pacific Sea my home? Or are The eastern riches? Is Jerusalem? Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltar, All straits, and none but straits, are ways to them, Whether where Japhet dwelt, or Cham, or Shem. We think that Paradise and Calvary, Christ's cross, and Adam's tree, stood in one place; Look, Lord, and find both Adams met in me; As the first Adam's sweat surrounds my face, May the last Adam's blood my soul embrace. So, in his purple wrapp'd, receive me, Lord; By these his thorns, give me his other crown; And as to others' souls I preach'd thy word, Be this my text, my sermon to mine own: "Therefore that he may raise, the Lord throws down." ~John Donne This moon, a two-faced beauty --she warms up from the night skywhile I falter, frozen in my tracks,hobbled by my blood beatingto the rhythm of irresistibility.Steady goes this feint to look away.Still, reflected in the pond,that same face once resisted.I cannot stop this falling into Heart.Chanting Prajnaparamita, I'm slipped into some sacred sighexhaled from depths of night.This moon-faced daughter of Mara –Ah now,she lives in me!~Mazie & b "It came so quickly after taking so long." ~Vivian Bearing in "Wit" >From the translucent earthplum blossoms have sprungswaying from their root, bark and branch -delighted by their own fragrance!I shall savor my own perfumewhen the flowering minddrops its petals.In Spring, drunk on plum wine –Oh, such inebriation!In Winter,awake while sleeping,talking through the dream,sober.~Mazie & b Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so, For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow, Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee, Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee doe goe, Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie. Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell, And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well, And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then; One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die. ~by John Donne(1572-1631) Snow is melting upstream,born from the mountainjust climbed down.All I hear today is thisriver delivering birth notices andepitaphs, simultaneously.None are excluded.~Mazie & b La Mamma Morta - Maddalena's aria from Andrea Chénier "They killed my mother in the doorway of my room; She died saving me! Later, at dead of night, I wandered about with Bersi, when suddenly a livid glow flickers and lights ahead of me the dark street! I looked at it! My childhood home was ablaze! I was alone, and surrounded by nothingness! Hunger and poverty, deprivation and danger. I became ill, and Bersi, so good and pure traded her beauty for my sake! I bring misfortune to all who love me. It was then, in my misery, that love came to me! And murmured in a sweet, melodius voice: "You must live ! I am life itself!" Heaven is in my eyes! You are not alone! Let your tears fall on my breast! I will walk with you and be your support! Smile and hope! I am love! Is all around you blood and mire? I am divine! I can make you forget! I am the god who descends to earth from the empyrean and makes this world Ah! A paradise! Ah! I am love, love, love" And the angel approaches, kisses me, and in that kiss is death! The moribund body is my body. Take it then! I am already dead like it! ~Translation by Carlos Bardera The past?Oh General!The war is over --nobody survived.Nobody had time to mournthe dead, the sunrise was too captivating:long trails ofbattle smoke strewn across the dawn's early skydissipated over Cold Mountain,as if the dream of nightitself exploded, as iffrom now on there would only be the light of day until that too falls from the eyes, andwhat remains tends not to mindbut heals a wound at the heart.Fight on anyway --do your best!Chew your food well,the stomach will tell whenthe head on your shoulders flies through the air,another identity beyond repair.Perhaps each head will reincarnate as a kind of moon, orbitingits own promised world,drifting in a space once hopedwould be the casewhen peace ruled every planet,and love outshone the stars.~Mazie & b Inhale, exhale Forward, back Living, dying: Arrows, let flown each to each Meet midway and slice The void in aimless flight -- Thus I return to the source. ~ Gesshu Soko, died January 10, 1696, at age 79 Stalking night's brightnesslike a light-hunting night-moth,it's just as I always suspected --I am what I've been chasing,nothing else is ever found. ~Mazie & b The truth embodied in the Buddhas Of the future, present, past; The teaching we received from the Fathers of our faith Can be found at the tip of my stick. ~ Goku Kyonen, died October 8, 1272, at age 56 When Goku felt his death was near, he ordered all his monk-disciples to gather around him. He sat at the pulpit, raised his stick, gave the floor a single tap with it, and said the poem above. When he finished, he raised the stick again, tapped the floor once more, and cried, "See! See!" Then, sitting upright, he died. Snow-bound, shivering,hunched with head in hands,pondering how it came to this –this head, these hands.A young boy lay on his back in a flowering field, drifting, drifting with moon-lit clouds.In the silent distance, a strangely beckoning mountain glowed.The fragrance of that meadowlingers still, perfumingmy melancholy.The glow, my ownawaiting funeral pyre. ~Mazie & b Coming, all is clear, no doubt about it. Going, all is clear, without a doubt. What, then, is all? ~ Hosshin, 13th century Hosshin's last word was "Katsu!" (a word signifying the attainment of enlightenment.) Death is a kiss on our life, but we twist away from that.Impermanence of this body is perfect kindness,gratitude swells in the heart hearing this.In the valley tonight, I heard a call for wanderers who travel without moving tovisit the tavern of their identities.Before we even embark on the journeythere is a drunken party in full swingalready celebrating our arrival.In the sobriety that settles inwhen the first act packs to leave,I am reminded how very little of this life is my own.Clearly I have nothing and no one to call mine.Just a midnight dance into the unknownis held between this pitcher and the cup.If I were really in the world tonight, I would Love freely everyone I sawand order another round of winefor the house. Because the union of the harsh beauty of time and space seems to endure so long, dying is a sweet kiss meant to sooth us, but we've lost our humor and tilt now –just missing those compassionate lips.The Wine Bearer laughs and claps asanother patron's head thumpsdown on the table –it's going to be one of those nights!~Mazie & b Pampas grass, now dry, once bent this way and that. ~ Shoro, died April 1894, at age 80 A long hot walk through the woods.Bending over to drink from thiscool clear stream,aching feet are forgotten.Looking up:all of these firs –so many million pine needles!~Mazie & b Spitting blood clears up reality and dream alike. ~ Sunao, died in 1926 at 39 The sky-gray drizzleagainst the sky expanding --this raining light pouring skyOut of the snowfield a diamond sutra takes form,narcissus opensWisteria twine,dreaming of the Red Chamberan etched stone wakes up ~Mazie & b Bitter winds of winter -- but later, river willow, open up your buds. ~ Senryu, died September 23, 1790, at 73 After the rain,a phosphorescent trail left by a snail in the damp moonlight –a map on the moisture,our journey revealed. ~Mazie & b Empty-handed I entered the world Barefoot I leave it. My coming, my going -- Two simple happenings That got entangled. ~ Kozan Ichikyo, died February 12, 1360, at 77 A few days before his death, Kozan called his pupils together, ordered them to bury him without ceremony, and forbade them to hold services in his memory. He wrote this poem on the morning of his death, laid down his brush and died sitting upright. In the heat of this summer afternoonI become a dark wet calligraphic stroke brushed onto a gray boulder canvas, a curiosity for future explorers to discover,wonder at, and catalogue in their inventory ofinexplicable natural phenomena.In some distant birth perhaps I'll read about myself,and want to visitCold Mountain,and maybe die thereonce again.Nothing will have changed,nothing will remain the same.~Mazie & b Like dew drops on a lotus leaf I vanish. ~ Senryu, died June 2, 1827 Where are those legendary heartswhose footprints trailed up to the wind,who drank the clouds,inhaled stars andchewed whole mountains like softcandy?Searching high and wide and lowI have discovered onlychildren planting flowers -paper flowers in the air.At the first few drops of rainthese days, most fling opentheir parasols and run forsome safe shelter.I want to get totally soaked!For some days nowand long nights tooI have bided my timealong the verdant banks ofthese lazy winding rivers.Soon I shallsky-deep in dawngo wading carelesslyacross some cool clear stream.I shall be highup in the mountains' rushingrivery fullness of luciditywhere sleek-skinnedflexed and floatingrainbow colored trout goflashing, impaledupon a stream of lightbefore my fresh astonished eyes!A primal ecstasy awaits me there –far from the denizens of theRed Dust towns –it is the sound I make when the thunder burstsbetween these ears too longaccustomed to the busy chatter ofthe mute.In the chilled euphoricquake of some immensity dawning, still glimmering galaxies clutched in sunrise,merged in clearlight morning symmetry ofbrighter than bluegold bursting beautyI'll be walked through by the nameless, and in one suddenly eternal moment I'll be gone. ~Mazie & b O ~ Shinsui, died September 9, 1769, at 49 During his last moment, Shisui's followers requested that he write a death poem. He grasped his brush, painted a circle, cast the brush aside, and died. The circle is one of the most important symbols of Zen Buddhism. It indicates void -- the essence of all things -- and enlightenment. Cold Mountain –teach me the art of motionless flight.You glide majestically through silent starfields, and yet all stars appear within your own infinite body.When you murmur in such tender whispers, humming softly, nameless stars will gather beside me tonight.There's no climbing down from this ledge now.There's no poetry I can answer with, exceptto be the poem opened by the same hands youuphold the stars with. ~Mazie & b LoveEternal. The new MSN 8: smart spam protection and 2 months FREE* Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted June 20, 2003 Report Share Posted June 20, 2003 Dear Shradhaji, What a collection you have gathered.They are like the lotuses I saw in a tank at nearby Village. Your khalil Gibran's Quote has touched my heart! Thanks for the beauty that is God!!! On Fri, 20 Jun 2003 Mazie Lane wrote : >My mother cleaned the house >and cooked my meals, dressed me >and taught me about the death of >all things, and that which is > Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Guest guest Posted June 20, 2003 Report Share Posted June 20, 2003 Dear Shradhaji, How sweet of you to send these to us!!!! Yours sincerely, Chilukuri Bhuvaneswar On Fri, 20 Jun 2003 Mazie Lane wrote : >My mother cleaned the house >and cooked my meals, dressed me >and taught me about the death of >all things, and that which is >immortal. >She always said: >"Every day is a good day!" >Last night I traveled to the village >for her burial and as I wept, >remembered her words. >~Mazie &; b Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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