Tahtib, Intonga, Kalarippayattu, Bataireacht
Reg
location: back to the wilderness
listening to: static
registered: 1999.11.22
posts: 6470
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Funny, so many ways to say...It's a recurring dream I have. I am wandering through this massive
museum. Room after room of stunning works of art. Even the walls of the
museum are beautifully ornate...then I turn a corner and I can hear some
sort of odd pounding sound. I follow the sound and enter a room with a
massive painting hanging above two bloodied men that are swinging wooden
clubs at one another. The huge painting captures a Napoleonic era soldier
slashing the throat of his fallen horse with his sword on a wild
battlefield. The walls are covered with paintings I don't have the time
to take them in. They turn and look at me. One spits blood and says "We're the last." The other smiles at me a bloody mostly toothless grin and drawls in a
truly haunting voice "It's beautiful."I stare at him and as I do the other man smashes his skull open with one
mighty swing spraying blood, brain matter, and bone in all directions.
The body drops convulsing wildly on the floor. Then he rushes toward me screaming raising his club...and I wake up. Sometimes in the dream I have the feeling I have been here before and I
want to turn and go in a different direction...but every time I follow
the sound of that pounding...every time. Hollow men...We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us-if at all-not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men. The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
–--
'The only way to avoid getting crushed by absurdity, is to humbly include the absurd in our calculations.'
'The only way to avoid getting crushed by absurdity, is to humbly include the absurd in our calculations.'
Reg
(view)
Funny, so many ways to say...It's a recurring dream I have. I am wandering through this massive
museum. Room after room of stunning works of art. Even the walls of the
museum are beautifully ornate...then I turn a corner and I can hear some
sort of odd pounding sound. I follow the sound and enter a room with a
massive painting hanging above two bloodied men that are swinging wooden
clubs at one another. The huge painting captures a Napoleonic era soldier
slashing the throat of his fallen horse with his sword on a wild
battlefield. The walls are covered with paintings I don't have the time
to take them in. They turn and look at me. One spits blood and says "We're the last." The other smiles at me a bloody mostly toothless grin and drawls in a
truly haunting voice "It's beautiful."I stare at him and as I do the other man smashes his skull open with one
mighty swing spraying blood, brain matter, and bone in all directions.
The body drops convulsing wildly on the floor. Then he rushes toward me screaming raising his club...and I wake up. Sometimes in the dream I have the feeling I have been here before and I
want to turn and go in a different direction...but every time I follow
the sound of that pounding...every time. Hollow men...We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us-if at all-not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men. The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
–--
'The only way to avoid getting crushed by absurdity, is to humbly include the absurd in our calculations.'
'The only way to avoid getting crushed by absurdity, is to humbly include the absurd in our calculations.'
