check out my new blog entry about Photographer Leif Nash’s ‘Snow Wild Wood’ / on my other internet home http://sleepingpirate.blogspot…
check out my new blog entry about Photographer Leif Nash’s ‘Snow Wild Wood’ / on my other internet home http://sleepingpirate.blogspot.com/search/label/artist%20leif%20nash
So, I’m thinking about doing 4unit English for my HSC. I want to explore the relationship between Existentialism and Religion and basical…
So, I’m thinking about doing 4unit English for my HSC. I want to explore the relationship between Existentialism and Religion and basically use it as an excuse to research notions of meaning, because i reckon it’s really fascinating :D Romanticism is just in here, because it’s pretty :P If anyone can name the authors of all these quotes, then… you’re awesome? and no googling allowed! Romanticism You must not misunderstand me, darling, / Who can affirm that God exists? / And yet who can deny it? / Is there not One who upholds and enfolds all things, / Including you, me and himself? / Does not the vault of heaven soar above us? / Does not the solid earth lie firm beneath us? / Do I not gaze into your eyes? / Does not creative life infuse your heart and mind, / Weaving eternal mysteries / Seen yet unseen even at your side? / Let that vastness fill your heart; / And when unmitigated bliss is yours, / Call it what you will, / Fate or Heart, Love or God. / For my part, I have no name for it. / Feeling is all that matters. / Names are naught but noise and smoke / That enshrouds the heavenly light. Existentialism Atheistic existentialism…declares with greater consistency that if God does not exist there is at least one being whose existence comes before its essence, a being which exists before it can be defined by any conception of it. That being is man or, as Heidegger has it, the human reality. Man first of all exists, encounters himself, surges up in the world – and defines himself afterwards Religion Superstition is a deviation of religious feeling and of the practices this feeling imposes. It can even affect the worship we offer the true God, e.g., when one attributes an importance in some way magical to certain practices otherwise lawful or necessary. To attribute the efficacy of prayers or of sacramental signs to their mere external performance, apart from the interior dispositions that they demand is to fall into superstition
It’s another milestone for In her memories…..... It has crosse…
It’s another milestone for In her memories…..... It has crossed 1005 views mark and rolling…........ :) 1005 views 14.07.2009 / 20:35 IST Thanks to all who supported me for commenting, favoriting and featuring it. P!
Yippee! Hippy! Tis the season to be jolly! The holidays have stolen me from the university at which dwelt I have from the autumnal Octobe…
Yippee! Hippy! Tis the season to be jolly! The holidays have stolen me from the university at which dwelt I have from the autumnal October, in which red leaves did swirl, to the frosty December which sees the naughties finally grow up into a new decade, though I’m sure many will squirm in anticipation of the teens. My first term in a new chapter of my life, and a new institution (Oxford University, you may have heard of it, though you probably haven’t heard of my college, Regent’s Park, probably because it’s a PPH (permanent private hall, bracketed within brackets showing its fame)) and I am two months older though I feel as though I have grown in a decade of wisdom, personality, intelligence, etc during those 8 weeks – 0th to 8th, writing 16 essays totalling around 32,000 words in all, and yet it seemed as though I was barely working at all amidst the meeting of new friends and consumption of much alcohol, tea, coffee and the redemption of water. Oh how it seems most macabre that at the beginning of this jaunt into a new stage of my fledging existence, I was nervous and awkward as each new strange face greeted me with the repeated salutations and overtures which were empty and pointless and yet so necessary as a social prerequisite upon our ways of making friends and enemies. Jim Morrison’s haunting words, ‘People are strange, when you’re a stranger’ making so much sense. Indeed, at the beginning of any new venture people seem most bizarre and tiresome. To some, new faces seem exotic and exciting but in my hardened shell of apprehension and a most unnerving guilt these faces all seemed clown-like and threatening – who are these most scandalous, odious buffoons storming into my vision and altering my predicament. Yes, that all seems rather macabre now as those previously detestable faces are now as much part of my life as the previous buffoons who forced their ways into my heart before. My unyielding shell has been dissolved by their warm generosity of spirit and mind (mostly alcohol actually, that most agreeable key that unlocks the ghastly door of inhibitions) and they are now friends, not enemies, and people who I miss as I return to the mainstay of my life that I call home. I left home wanting to leave as I was bored of the place and longing to begin a new adventure (this happiness waned when the new land of opportunities actually presented itself, into the despicable apprehension already mentioned) but expecting to be happy to be back home come the inevitability of Christmas. Yet, I sit here writing with one university term under my belt in an odd state of depression in the desire to go back to the new Mexico of my life, on that golden St. Giles street. I miss those new friends, I miss the stimulation, I miss the adventure. Next week will warm my situation for old friends from the past will return to their homes from their adventures and they will have a renewed exotic nature that will make them most pleasing to be with, yet this home I am in still seems to bring me down to an emptiness that my new home in Oxford fills. What do I do with this new found boredom? I’ve been writing and reading more than usual. As Helmholtz Watson moaned, ‘I believe that one would write better if the climate were bad’. That’s probably why my writing is tinged with a tad of venom that is lacking when I am entertained. Yet, wasn’t Kerouac’s writing inspired by a buzz of activity in his travels? Wasn’t Ginsberg fired on by his camaraderie with his beatnik peers? Weren’t Wolfe and Thompson spurred by the adventures they submerged themselves in? Weren’t Orwell and Huxley driven by their fear for the world? I suppose these beige days provide an opportunity for reflection on the experiences I have which is why I’ve spent the last couple of days updating my diary which had not been written into since a long month ago, as is the frantic nature of my new life. Yet, in my always increasing dream to write in a manner that might come close to emulating the splendour and effervescence of the beatniks, I find that I am not yet able to retell the stories in my life in a satisfying manner. Is my life not extraordinary enough to make good literature or am I too young a writer to be capable of presenting my life in an extraordinary way? Oh the majesty of these most brilliant writers to capture the joie de vivre that they seemingly had and yet give it a brush of reality that turns it into being more than just romantic drooling but gives it the enchantment that Keats and Coleridge had exuded before. My dream to write in this nature is surely futile such is the majesty of these heroes, but as Hunter, the great romantic journalist asked, “Who is the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived or he who has stayed merely on the shore and merely existed?” I hope to spend my life answering that most wonderful question in the stormy waters that lie ahead. Let’s just hope that Oxford’s climate allows a storm to brew.
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