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In contradistinction to the underestimation in the field of rocket science and the aerospace industry, Parsons' accomplishments in the arcane sciences have been highly overrated and grossly exaggerated. As a magician he was essentially a failure. As a Thelemite he learned the hard way what was required. He loved Crowley's 'Law' but couldn't adhere to it—though he tried harder than most. He violated the rules, undertook unauthorized and unorthodox magical operations, and claimed the grade of Magister Templi without first completing all the grades below it. He couldn't handle working under authority—his ego was too big. His record of failure is valuable in that regard. He was a great promulgator of thelemic ideals in his essays, but as an idealist his elitism ruined his work. Indeed, some would say he was guilt of hubris, which the gods always punish. ↗
¡En esta vida no la supe amar! Dame otra vida para reparar, ¡oh Dios! mis omisiones, para amarla con tantos corazones como tuve en mis cuerpos anteriores, para colmar de flores, de risas y de gloria sus instantes; para cuajar su pecho de diamantes y en la red de sus labios dejar presos los enjambres de besos que no le di en las horas ya perdidas... Si es cierto que vivimos muchas vidas Conforme a la creencia teosófica, Señor, otra existencia de limosna te pido para quererla más que la he querido, paran que en ella nuestras alamas sean tan una, que las gentes que nos vean en éxtasis perenne ir hacia Dios, digan: ¡Como se quieren esos dos! A la vez que nosotros murmuramos con un instinto lúcido y profundo (mientras que nos besamos como locos): ¡Quizás ya nos amamos con este mismo amor en otro mundo! ↗
E sì, mi manca ancora. Per quanto incomprensibile possa essere, sento ancora la sua mancanza. La sento soprattutto in questo tipo di situazione, quando esco, quando mi siedo in un ristorante con qualcuno, quando viene un po’ di sole dopo che ha piovuto, quando la gente intorno parla del più e del meno, quando la normalità incalza. E’ soprattutto in quei momenti che mi domando cosa ci faccio lì. Perché rimango. Perché non me ne vado. E perché quello che mangio non sa di niente. E perché delle cose che mi dicono gli amici, cose per le quali dovrei provare un qualche interesse, non m’importi assolutamente nulla. E risponda per pura cortesia, sperando che se la bevano e pensando che se pure non se la bevono fa lo stesso. E perché quando mi sembra di cominciare a rilassarmi, finalmente, vengo subito assalito dal solito stormo di piccoli ricordi felici che vuole portarmi via da dove sto. E perché mi sembra di aver lasciato la vita da qualche parte. Ma dove? Fanculo, va’. ↗
The future of fiction? he said. Maybe, she said. Will it have room for, you know, love & stuff? he said. Always, she said. OK then, he said. ↗
He says, "But it is really whatever, you know? You've saved me way more times. And we call ourselves friends." It doesn't matter what we call ourselves, really. "You already saved me," I say. "That was nothing." "I'm not talking about the cave." He wrinkles his nose. "That first day," I say, "When you got up on the rocks to flirt with a human boy." He smiles big, with all his ground-down teeth shining. ↗
During the glory days of the Apollo project, a young astronomer who analyzed Moon rocks at a university laboratory fell in love with my friend Carolyn, and risked his job and the national security to give her a quantum of moon dust. “Where is it? Let me see!” I demanded at this news. But she answered quietly, “I ate it.” After a pause she added, “There was so little.” As though that explained everything. ↗
War, not peace, produces virtue. War, not peace, purges vice. War, and preparation for war, call forth all that is noble and honorable in a man. It unites him with his brothers and binds them in selfless love, eradicating in the crucible of necessity all which is base and ignoble. There in the holy mill of murder the meanest of men may seek and find that part of himself, concealed beneath the corrupt, which shines forth brilliant and virtuous, worthy of honor before the gods. Do not despise war, my young friend, nor delude yourself that mercy and compassion are virtues superior to andreia, to manly valor. ↗
#virtue #war #warrior #warrior-ethos #love
My honey child, them housing projects Cannot contain her multitudes A sunbeam, hard upon her Just a fly strugglin’ through her braid loops Watch me prove to ‘em I’m more than nothin’ But a ragamuffin with homesick eyes Yes, when it gets to be the same old thing Shorty you ought to come and see about me My love, she is a drummer Than industrial steel, her backbone tougher The eloping night and the honey moon that trails Just dirt ‘neath her finger nails I’ll be down on them crossroads ‘Til daybreak winks a bright eye And if it gets to be the same old thing Shorty you ought to come and see about me She’s heard all the right things And they did not persuade her She has no use for your words What she wants is your labor ‘Cause when gringos speak of minorities They tend to keep their voices low Ah, but when that gets to be the same old thing Shorty you ought to come and see about me ↗
#bravado #love #poverty #station #valentine-xavier-bronzeville
It is eighteen years ago, almost to the day- A sunny day with the leaves just turning, The touch-lines new-ruled - since I watched you play Your first game of fotball, then, like a satellite Wrenched from its orbit, go drifting away Behind a scatter of boys. I can see You walking away from me towards the school with the pathos of a half-fledged thing set free Into a wilderness, the gait of one Who finds no path where the path should be. That hesitant figure, eddying away Like a winged seed loosened from its parent stem, Has something I never quite grasp to convey About nature's give-and-take - the small, the scorching Ordeals which fire one's irresolute clay. I had worse partings, but none that so Gnaws at my mind still. Perhaps it is roughly Saying what God alone could perfectly show- How selfhood begins with a walking away, And love proved in the letting go. ↗
#growing-up #love #parenthood #love
