Logic in all its infinite potential, is the most dangerous of vices. For one can always find some form of logic to justify his action, and rest comfortably in the assurance, that what he did abides by reason. That is why, for us brittle beings, Intention is the only true weapon of peace. ― Ilyas Kassam
I HAVE BEEN infusing myself for the last five years with this kind of thought. That if you…
KISMUTH, while still Stateside, took Greyhound to Asheville from Durham. This was in North Carolina, a place I used to call home, and the visit that turned out to be so much more than a recreational stepping-away from day-to-day duties of laundry, routine, and minding my small son. It was a few summers ago, when I still had hope that there was something to have returned to North Carolina for,…
SAT DOWN with a pen and some new filler paper for a six-ring binder that’s smaller than B5 size that I’ve had since the mid 1990s. It has a Montreal sticker on the inside flap and a “Form ever follows function. —Louis Sullivan” decree cut from a magazine, Architectural Record?, and taped on the inside back one. And yeah, that tape’s held up. I’ve had it all this time thinking I’d finally get…
BEING VERY FAR from the trees and the blue of the Carolina sky in North Carolina, USA, means often thinking about what it’s like there. It was easy to get nostalgic about seasons, trees on Broad Street, and the conversations with people I’ve known for fifteen years when I was looking at going back there after 10 years away in different parts of the world. You go away and you see what home is.…
IS WRITING OR DRAWING or doing something else that’s creative important to you, but you find you don’t do it enough?
Why? Busyness. Or rather, lack of focus and difficulty prioritizing the thing that matters to me personally the most. Why do we do this? How can we make time and space to better create room for what we care about? (Aside: here’s one way.)
I have a funny feeling it’s not “allowed”…
The World Is Too Much With Us
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are…
ONE OF THE THINGS that happens when you start to reflect on the important things (which happens if you unplug for a few days) is that you discover the details. Right around you. Where you are, and where you finally make space to truly look.
Going on the travels did a lot of shift-making. The recent excursions have, too. More to come. For today, though, I’ll just stop here.
It’s a cracked mirror.
— Salim Jiwa, author of The Death of Air India Flight 182, in a phone interview with @Kismuth. Today is the 29-year anniversary of an as-yet unresolved and highly emotional, internationally politicized tragedy. In which some of us had directly personal losses. Newsfolk call them soft targets.
"Still miss the idea of having had a chance to get to know you, growing up. Share our stories. Our family evolutions. The funny little things our children say." http://kismuth.wordpress.com/2014/06/23/twenty-nine-years-ago-today-i-lost-you/