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Thursday, January 31, 2013

“It's my firm conclusion that human meaning comes from humans, not from a supernatural source. After we die, our hopes for an afterlife reside in the social networks that we influenced while we were alive. If we influence people in a positive way -- even if our social web is only as big as our nuclear family -- others will want to emulate us and pass on our ideas, manners, and lifestyle to future generations. This is more than enough motivation for me to do good things in my life and teach my children to do the same.”

-Greg Graffin
Anarchy Evolution: Faith, Science, and Bad Religion in a World Without God

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posted by Primessa Espiritu
11:20 am



Monday, January 28, 2013

Dear Charlie,

The darkness that surrounds me is not a cell. It seeps to the center of my breath and steady on trajectory, it holds my heart. I am not hiding in silence. With every death occurring within my body, many different systems of thought cross my mind. With every tilt of my gaze, another face appears with a signature that begs recognition. Through darkness I let the ones I've felt fall away. It is the only way to stay...

Breathing new life into my visions, sent out and left to float around my field, pictures, songs, letters, one you so brilliantly threw my way, like stale bread, stays close. Hot hunter of words, Alphamaneric of the first order of Codes, bless your star. Combinations made by your pen sends lights up my spine. Like buttons, pressure on my sight. Circular, so gently, around darkly skies, lives this bright promise of Home.

The silence I pay today will pull back the pieces together once again. A launchpad for fireworks. My shoulders are weak beneath volumes of grievances collected from pocket watches, handkerchiefs, high heels, teddy bears and jars of vinegar. Like sun to fresh cut flowers, silence will drink up what it can and I will be left with only an empty shell to emerge from.

It has the potential to be noise, but it is far from it tonight.

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posted by Primessa Espiritu
12:59 am



Sunday, January 27, 2013

There is a logic of language and a logic of mathematics. The former is supple and lifelike, it follows our experience. The latter is abstract and rigid, more ideal. The latter is perfectly necessary, perfectly reliable: the former is only sometimes reliable and hardly ever systematic. But the logic of mathematics achieves necessity at the expense of living truth, it is less real than the other, although more certain. It achieves certainty by a flight from the concrete into abstraction. Doubtless, to an idealist, this would seem to be a more perfect reality. I am not an idealist. The logic of the poet — that is, the logic of language or the experience itself — develops the way a living organism grows: it spreads out towards what it loves, and is heliotropic, like a plant. 

The Secular Journal of Thomas Merton

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posted by Primessa Espiritu
10:11 pm


Keep them still

Elliott Smith

Drink up, baby, stay up all night
With the things you could do, you won't but you might
The potential you'll be that you'll never see
The promises you'll only make

Drink up with me now and forget all about
The pressure of days, do what I say
And I'll make you okay and drive them away
The images stuck in your head

People you've been before that you 
Don't want around anymore
That push and shove and won't bend to your will
I'll keep them still

Drink up, baby, look at the stars
I'll kiss you again, between the bars
Where I'm seeing you there, with your hands in the air
Waiting to finally be caught

Drink up one more time and I'll make you mine
Keep you apart, deep in my heart
separate from the rest, where I like you the best
And keep the things you forgot

People you've been before that you
Don't want around anymore 
That push and shove and won't bend to your will
I'll keep them still

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posted by Primessa Espiritu
8:44 pm



Monday, January 14, 2013

My hand offered to you for the day, then passed on to another you.

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posted by Primessa Espiritu
2:48 pm


Page 66

Wednesday, January 09, 2013


Here appears another heart
With another name
With a different meaning
For the same thing.

This is my tragic romantic poetry.

[ Buy ]

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posted by Primessa Espiritu
10:41 pm



Sunday, January 06, 2013

This piano is wireless. Free of power chords. Free of superficial sap.

This piano has one key, and one key only, repeated for every finger lost. One hit and retreat.

Broken voices built upon broken bones yet nobody knows, nobody knows this note.

Distant desires pulling that one string over and over and under this precious hammer of yours.

Broken voices built upon broken trust yet nobody knows, nobody knows this note.

This piano is full of white empty space, enough for names and questions to disappear.

This piano has one key, and one key only, repeated for every finger crushed. One hit and retreat.

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posted by Primessa Espiritu
12:06 am


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