[Image: “La Otra Navidad (The Other Christmas),” by Oiluj Samall Zeid; found on Flickr and used here under a Creative Commons license. The site is a mausoleum in León, Spain, commemorating Republicans killed in the Spanish Civil War. Each nameplate represents one victim.]
From whiskey river (italicized portion):
[Interviewer Terry] Gross: I’d like you to read another poem from your book “Book of Longing.” And this is called “Titles.” Would you tell us when you wrote this?
[Leonard] Cohen: I’ve been writing it for a while. But I finished it last winter in Montreal. It’s a poem called “Titles.”
(Reading) I had the title Poet. And maybe I was one for a while. Also, the title Singer was kindly accorded me even though I could barely carry a tune. For many years, I was known as a Monk. I shaved my head and wore robes and got up very early. I hated everyone. But I acted generously. And no one found me out. My reputation as a Ladies’ Man was a joke. It caused me to laugh bitterly through the 10,000 nights I spent alone. From a third-story window above the Parc du Portugal, I’ve watched the snow come down all day.
As usual, there’s no one here. There never is. Mercifully, the inner conversation is canceled by the white noise of winter. I am neither the mind, the intellect nor the silent voice within. That’s also canceled. And now, gentle reader, in what name — in whose name — do you come to idle with me in this luxurious and dwindling realms of aimless privacy?
(Leonard Cohen [source])
…and:
The secrets to living are these:
First, the past cannot be improved upon.
Acknowledge what was and move on.
Next, the future cannot be molded.
Then, why bother?
Last, nothing can ultimately be controlled;
Not the past, nor the future, nor the present.
Accept this moment as it is.
Honoring these three,
One lives without shackles.
(Wu Hsin [source])
Not from whiskey river:
Too much time is squandered on
What was and
What might be
Leaving only table scraps for
What-Is.This mystery of which Wu Hsin speaks:
It is unperceivable, yet
It is the very root of perception.
Although unfelt,
It causes all feeling.
The father of thought,
The mother of being,
It is the immovable background upon which
All motion occurs.
To name it is to
Diminish it.
Wu Hsin references it as
That from which all emerges and
All returns.
Saying even this is
A movement away from it.
(Wu Hsin [ibid.])
…and:
Trying to Name What Doesn’t Change
Roselva says the only thing that doesn’t change
is train tracks. She’s sure of it.
The train changes, or the weeds that grow up spidery
by the side, but not the tracks.
I’ve watched one for three years, she says,
and it doesn’t curve, doesn’t break, doesn’t grow.Peter isn’t sure. He saw an abandoned track
near Sabinas, Mexico, and says a track without a train
is a changed track. The metal wasn’t shiny anymore.
The wood was split and some of the ties were gone.Every Tuesday on Morales Street
butchers crack the necks of a hundred hens.
The widow in the tilted house
spices her soup with cinnamon.
Ask her what doesn’t change.Stars explode.
The rose curls up as if there is fire in the petals.
The cat who knew me is buried under the bush.The train whistle still wails its ancient sound
but when it goes away, shrinking back
from the walls of the brain,
it takes something different with it every time.
{Naomi Shihab Nye [source])
…and (young Josh has just witnessed a murder, and is about to encounter the title character of The Stupidest Angel):
[Josh] debated calling 911 or praying, and decided to go with the prayer. Like calling 911, you weren’t supposed to pray for just anything. For instance, God didn’t care whether or not you got your bandicoot through the fire level on PlayStation, and if you asked for help there, there was a good chance that he wold ignore you when you really needed help, like for a spelling test or if your mom got cancer. Josh reckoned it was sort of like cell-phone minutes, but this seemed like a real emergency.
“Our Heavenly Father,” Josh began. You never used God’s first name—that was like a commandment or something. “This is Josh Barker, six-seventy-one Worchester Street, Pine Cove, California nine-three-seven-five-four. I saw Santa tonight, which was great, and thank you for that, but then, right after I saw him, he got killed with a shovel, and so, I’m afraid there’s not going to be any Christmas and I’ve been good, which I’m sure you’ll see if you check Santa’s list, so if you don’t mind, could you please make Santa come back to life and make everything okay for Christmas?” No, no, no, that sounded really selfish. Quickly he added: “And a Happy Hanukkah to you and all the Jewish people like Sam and his family. Mazel tov.” There. Perfect. He felt a lot better.
The microwave beeped and Josh ran to the kitchen, right into the legs of a really tall man in a long black coat who was standing by the counter. Josh screamed and the man took him by the arms, picked him up, and looked him over like he was a gemstone or a really tasty dessert. Josh kicked and squirmed, but the blond man held him fast.
“You’re a child,” said the blond man.
Josh stopped kicking for a second and looked into the impossibly blue eyes of the stranger, who was now studying him in much the same way a bear might examine a portable television while wondering how to get all those tasty little people out of it.
“Well, duh,” said Josh.
(Christopher Moore [source])
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