crab nebula  


                                                crystal bullitt  1970-1992


1. 9/19/99

2. 9/19/00

3. 9/19/01

4. 9/19/02

5. fortunes

6. simone weil


september 19th, 1999


the evening is a lovely one, about 40 people over all, some quite serendipitous, like Jenny the lawyer and sometime dancer-with-Crystal at Portland State, and some quite predictable, like Peter Greaver, who brings paintings and balloons as he has every year we've been doing this.

the food people bring, appropriately enough considering Crystal's legendary two-handed culinary gusto, tends towards the hedonistic: root-beer floats, giant perfect cheesecake, blackberry cobbler are the standouts.

the cabaret is small, impromptu, a little more mournful than a cabaret ought to be, but only by a little.


Xandra Panttaja, 4, starts things rolling with 4 short improvisational songs, accompanied by her mom, Dawn, on guitar, who then follows with Texas, a plaintive drinking-song composed by her and the curiously absent (and fellow Francis Farmer Gal) Jeri Ann.

then i read a poem that was dictated to me over the phone from seattle earlier in the day by Leslie Fried, 'I Think of Jesse, Leaving', and it just goes ahead and summons the bent and exuberent shade of the departed poet.

next, Katja Biesanz, zen ballet mistress, in a clingy blue dress, does a spoken-word and dance improv, the emergent theme of which reminds me, in retrospect, of the great 16th century blind czech general Zizka, who repeatedly defeated the superior papal armies through a succession of strategic retreats.

now i read, picking at random, four of the exquisite Lynn Martin elegies from Where the Yellow Field Widened, the ones beginning:

Just beyond the blue-washed sky...

The light itself is a world...

If I could speak about the leaves..

All night long waves announce themselves...

at which point Nancy Murphy announces she has a song. We lived with Nancy at the time of Crystal's birth, and she wrote the song, a sort of hillbilly ballad, back then to honor her music teacher who had killed himself over the Dallas draft board's denial of his conscientious-objector status, and she sings it now a capella in a sweet high hillbilly soprano.

now Lee Read plays some echoey solo elactric guitar, then proceeds to jam in front of Peter Greaver's Claptonesque riffs for a while.

finally, Peter and Tomas, playing wildly divergent styles, work nevertheless into a groove, at which point they're joined by Sara on tambourine, Sherry on piano, and me on auto-less auto-harp.


a lively and poignant gathering.






september 19th, 2000


alex bertulis came first and held the thing down.

wayne and harold showed up with major lasagna

country habits and dueling software.

shantam arrived to help.

crispin rosenkranz drifted in and drifted around.

cyrena and mercedes were here to begin with,

then mimi appeared with their brother keeshawn,

happy and bright.

chris bosch sidled in and stayed in the background.

and pam strolled up the street,

asked what all the commotion was,

yet bore a large basket of food.

as always julia was here, captivating julian in tow.

anna decastro and chris rode their bikes

and talked about cabs and freight-trains.

filbert walked in, in his bare feet.

sara and betty barked at and made everyone feel at home,

not in that order.

michael and noel and jason just caught the tail end,

and mary had to leave before we began.

and that's not including any of the performers.


i guess i was sort of the m.c.


but before things started

ben ellis & tres shannon jammed

on piano and fisher/price xylophone

a medley of family favorites including:

1. Summertime (gershwin)

2. Song for Europe & Virginia Plain (roxy music)

3. God Only Knows (the beach boys)

4. Androgynous (the replacements).

then raquibo warmed into some

intro-type ambient space-jazz.


i tried to start with the short poem kythe heller had e-mailed.

but instead ran up to the attic and down

with the poem she wrote and left for crystal last spring,

Invocation of Fire,

that features the refrain: Rise and Eat!


now ben returned and sang

and played standing at the piano -

our beige vinyl-upholstered upright -

two songs: I Dig the Rain, and

(I'm in Love with a) Telemarketing Girl.


sandy shore, crystal's putative god-father

invited all to join in, then banged his circle-drum



Oh Lucky Dog,  Oh Lucky Dog,  Oh Lucky Dog...


heidi davisson asked the audience for a word.

tres, I believe it was, yelled out "vernacular!"

and heidi made a very aggressive speed-rap

about her vocabulary and sexuality

with misty standing uncertainly beside her

participating, yet not participating.


hallie hargrave twice read lynn martin's


Under the Walnut Tree


When I face what has left my life,

I bow.  I walk outside into the cold,

rain nesting in my hair.

All the houses near me

have their lights on.  Somewhere,

there is a deep listening.

I stand in the dark for a long time

under the walnut tree,  unable

to tell anyone,  not even the night,

what I know.  I feel the darkness

rush towards me,  and I open my arms.


tres now returned with his great, serene

black lab/chesapeake bay retriever, irie,

who stood like a statue next to him as he did a slow perfect

head-stand, and held it for many moments.

on returning to an upright position,

he instructed irie to "roll over".

irie took the opportunity to chase her tail 6 times around

at extremely high velocity, before completing

this admittedly fairly simple task. lastly,

to the accompaniment of absolutely piercing shrieks

from one of the evidently regulation ref's whistles

on a lanyard round his neck,

tres demonstrated some of his favorite sports penalty calls.

(all were stunned by the layers of meaning

interleaving, lasagna-like, this piece.)


here I returned to kythe's


Lullaby after Rilke


Some day if I lose you,

how will you sleep without

me whispering above you

like the linden's branches?


Without me lying here,

awake as words descend, almost

like eyelids, on your breasts,

your limbs, your lids.


Without me closing you

and leaving you alone with what is yours,

like a garden with a drift

of mint-balm and star-anise.


(the second time through was the charm.)


brian jones came up and did two songs

on michael's acoustic guitar:

Friend in the Ground, and

Twinkles (refrain: "I wanted to know you").

he is so passionate,

this was the high-point.


raquibo returned to his delicate noodling

on crystal's pristine saga gladiator,

then peter greaver came in with

his quietly searing solos,

while raquibo brought things home.







september 19th, 2001


a flash flood of children:

Dawn and Jeri-Ann brought Xandra

(who sang for us exactly 2 years ago),

Lori Schreiber brought wee Nova Skye

(and hog farm news and hazel photos)

down from the mountain,

China brought rambunctious Jesse

and sweet little Rose,

Julia brought angelic Julian, and

Melita of course brought

Cyrena - Sadie - Keshawn

in descending order of size,

and self-control.

and they all ran riot.


 Phil & Consuelo took a tour of the bookshelves,

Wayne & Harold brought a friend, Cassie, this year,

and took up residence on the couch,

Su Lin & Dan drifted about the premises,

Peyto arrived with Bonnie and some coloradans,

Chris & Anna show at different times

(it's hard to exactly synchronize cab shifts),

while Shannonbob and her girl STS

came late, dressed to the nines in gentlemen's formal wear.


Sandy burned incense out front, at first,

then sage and driftwood and pinecones

out back at the fire-pit as the evening drew along,

Mike came and stood beaming in his gentle sardonic way, but

- talk about 6 degrees of separation -

managed never to cross paths with Wayne & Harold,

with whom he (and we) lived 30 years ago,

Shantam brought Raquibo's regrets and her usual intrinsic goodness,

Liane also - funny thing - brought goodness,

her own brand, hermetic and lighter-than-air,

Tom Morgan thumped around bumping into things,

which he is allowed to do,

Crispin Rosenkranz came but, I believe, hid the whole time he was here

Lars came too, from around the block, smiling,

and Michael Ismario looked upon all and everyone with wonder.


many showed up with gifts, snacks, and refreshments:

a demijohn of wine, home-made peach plum pie,

juice, chips, home-preserved salsa,

jam, and pear-sauce, balloons, flowers,

a set of tiny dishes for the doll-house,

and a sensational little glass bicycle.

who brought this last remains a mystery.


i'm hustling around like a proverbial chicken,

but the meticulously prepared Peter Greaver

has supplied enlarged xeroxed lyric sheets

of Crystal's favorite bowie songs,

so after a bit of tuning

(remember, or imagine, the horde of shrieking children

sporadically disrupting the assembling audience, and

providing an everpresent background cacophony

from outlying precincts)

he and Dawn - on 2 kinds of guitars -

and Chris providing harmonies

do Ziggy Stardust to start things off.


Jeri-Ann and Dawn turn into the Francis Farmer Gals

and do: Come on, Darlin

             Kisses, Kisses

             All Over Town

in the reverse of that order.

in the middle of the middle song a small child slips onstage

(behind, and unbeknownst to, them)

climbs the piano stool and delivers a few large choice chords.


Cyrena, who's 10, steps up and tickles the keys of

the (ivory vinyl upholstered) upright

doing Bingo, you know,

the one about misspelling an aussie dog,

and i do the backup vocals, very badly.


Now comes Heidi stepping delicately into her dishpan of blood

She couldn't protest the gulf war because she was in it

She has a hard time wiping the blood off, but she does

And comes out to the audience and touches us one by one

Ends up picking Cyrena, who was last, and they dance together

As light and beautiful and elegant as the prelude was grotesque.


Nancy Kincaid is up from ashland

and reads us a poem she wrote today:

invoking happiness as a measure of freedom,

ruing a friend eager to send his son to holy war,

and resolving to gather the strength to speak softly,

in the reverse of that order.


OK here is Brian Jones

he does Curly Mouth

             Save Me


i think Twinkle is a song for Crystal,

he did it last year, too.

the brilliant thing about Brian this year,

is how he so perfectly straddles

the somber and the celebratory.


and then Ben Ellis saves the day, well, night,

ain't havin' none a that there somber stuff no-how, dig:

cole porter's Be Like the Bluebird

(hint: sing your troubles away)

done real blowsy-like, but this is just warm-up

for an epic a capella medley of:

Love Shit

Hound for Love

I Can't Believe.

the scat-singing framework of this marathon

roams far from ella's neighborhood - dog-sniffs, car-honks -

and serves to absolutely crack everybody up.


on the up beat note, it's time for me to read

Jane Galin's luminous The Vine.

its concluding lines:


I saw the force, the grace,

that turned me back.

I saw the spiral ways of growth.


Alicia's piece Tidal stops time, like celan or cage, say.


and i follow - it's tradition by now -

with one of Lynn Martin's elegies from

Where the Yellow Field Widened:


Night teaches us, through its darkness,

to know light. What is out of sight

can be seen for the first time. Once

I was held up by apples. For months,


I would walk out in the orchard,

apples just brushing my shoulders.

There they would gleam like stars,

giving off a little light - explosions


near my skull to show me where I was.

To stay at death's center is to live forever.

Now I am held up by seven magnolia blossoms,

When they ask, say it is the end of summer.


Anna de Castro and Carrie Lewis stomp in a circle, chanting

a prayer to Ganesha (elephant-head god of worldly wisdom -

one who'll bless hindu shopkeeper, wall street wiz or fireman alike),

then gradually the chant turns to song and the stomp to dance,

and while lively, it is also grave, this song. it starts out:


Hoy dia luna, dia pena

Hoy me levantó sín razon

Hoy me levantó yo no quiero

Hoy dia luna, dia pena?


(Rise, Moon, this day of regret and suffering...)


believe me it's quite a bit more cheery than it sounds.

it's from the album Clandestino

by Manuchau of the band Manu Negro.


now, Cyrena and Sadie have been sitting in the same chair together

watching all this raptly - yes, Sadie has been sitting quietly.

and for the last couple of acts, Cyrena has been scribbling out

this suddenly appearing ode to her aunt

called Dreams in the Sky which she

- covering all the bases tonight: music, dance, poetry -

now reads. three redolent lines:


Sometimes they're not really dreams at all...

Crystal floating on a cloud...

What counts is that I know her...


right on time,

Polly de Friez has serendipitously blown in from somewhere

and brings a few old reminiscences of Crystal.

she begins to describe a poem Crystal once read to her

in her charming and dramatic way, and I tell her to stop

dash up to the attic and run all the way back down with it

for her to read:


Wild-flowers by the Highway


We ride smoothly,  whistling down the avenue

             in your burgundy car

You grab my left leg,  as the bridge approaches

Gazing out the open passenger-window,

I take in a sweet deep-breath,

            engulfing the transparent-blueness of the summer sky

Tickled by the sensation of warm clouds

            blowing softly through my hair,  I smile

The shingles on the roof tops burn in the evening sun

My flying thoughts yearn...

You park the car,  to watch red lights glow

             on the lapping water's surface

Then,  as we turn to kiss we collide

Like the clumsy,  still lovely,  geese who swim in pairs


Peter returns and Lee Read comes out, with their electric guitars

and jam a recessional. eventually, they are joined by Brian

with his acoustic, by Carrie with her pure electric voice,

and by Noel with his wind-powered child's accordion

and by the time no-one is left, they are into a soft - but rocking -

cover of John Lennon's Jealous Guy.




september 19th, 2002


Charlie's been moving a lot,

so he didn't get his card until this morning,

in Cave Junction - 300 miles south.

He gets here (he hitch-hiked) a little after four,

the first to arrive. His beard's down to here -

he's a regular ancient mariner.


The order of arrival of everyone else

is lost in a jumble of memory,

but the greatest thing is that Mimi's here early

with Cyrena and Sadie and Keshawn.


The people here tonight represent

all the different eras of Crystal's life;

it makes the evening simultaneously

robust and fragile (like her).


There's a stage we set up at the back of the yard

and about 30 dissimilar chairs.

It's a warm late-summer evening,

between the full moon and the fire-pit,

you can smell the blazing cherry branches.


It's Julia and a tall young man!

Julian, now four, more angelic

than a year ago.


(Julia's favorite moment all evening long

is when Julian and Keeshawn take off their shirts,

and hug)


Denk slouches in.

I wonder if she's got a permit

to carry a concealed persona.


And Heidi's here too,

concealed among the other guests

like a deer in the forest -

a deer with steady eyes.


Tom, timely, wends his way through the garden of people

straight to the stage and sits.


Philbert rapidly confers with some other conspirators

and then, quite possibly, leaves.


Peggy has brought Amy

(almost tears, it's been so long)

who has been a grown-up for some time,

more than a grown-up - a New Yorker.


Wayne arrives with his huge crew -

well, psychicly huge I mean -

Jessi and Cassie and Chris. Chris

is Jessi's, and Jessi is Sunny's sister.

These people are straight up.


Sara is home now thank goodness

from all day at the bike shop

and of course she is still

holding the whole thing together.


Oh, here's Ed. Ed is a judge - ho ho!

I introduce him to Charlie,

the end of whose rap-sheet

dwindles into the distance:

I hear their laughter do likewise

as I whirl away.


Rachel has come with Leana Kocha

and they disappear upstairs

looking for "literature".


And Eli has come with Daniel Fried:

he gravely instructs Sadie and Cyrena

in the juggling arts.


Last year, hordes of kids -

tonight just the four.


Somewhere in the middle

Anna Beauchamp has arrived

after 25 years,

affections and memories

still dangerously sharp.


Anita's got Dominique with her,

news of her sons Aaron and Quillie,

and incomparable sweetness.


Michael and Noel are around somewhere

helping and observing,

not unlike a couple of large birds.


And Nancy, in lieu of a song,

has brought Ryan's dad Michael:

like Wayne and me

(like all of us tonight)

a grieving parent -

but strong and bright,

and I'm sure that's partly why, and how,

the rest of us manage.



Well, even though I tried to dispense with the pot-luck,

about everybody has brought food or drink,

so it's 9 before Corona Hats

leads things off with a set of six songs:


Dream Seamstress

Meet Me in a Dream

All of Us in Wonderland

7 Crystals in the Window

I Wish I was a Pancake




Words of a Feather


Sun descending - candle blow out

Day is ending, but all the stars are out.


Over, under, on the ground,

The circles spin

Sing the song without the sound

And I'll sing with you again


In words of a feather, dark and light.



Barbara Zelano (founder of this Cabaret)

has sent two poems from Arizona,

to where she's finally moved from Oly;

and since she doesn't want to follow Goethe,

I now proceed to deliver this one,

the one that she wrote:


The water ghosts sing of sea spray,

accentuating the high notes of a lingering northwest melancholy.


Brine-soaked memories of black waterweed and oyster shell banquets

fade into Saguaro teeth, crowds of cholla and red dirt paths in Tucson.


I listen.

The desert dogs howl my name.


I tell the story of moss-back rocks, sea foam on crested waves, and

diaphanous mists on shore.


I tell them it was good to be a luminous fish dipping through slippery rocks.

now, my heart is with the wild dogs.


I rest.


Cool blue, and open to the jawbone landscape,

I am coaxed out of sleep by the morning dove's nodding call.



To read Goethe's Selige Sehnsucht, Leana is here:

she tells how we're going to do it - one verse at a time,

and me doing the English in between.

She takes it slow and simply,

and the easy rhythm and the gentle rhyme

belie that it's in German,

though how close to the bone it cuts

leaves no doubt:


Blissful Yearning


Tell no one but the wise

for the crowd will only laugh:

That I want to praise all living things

That long for death by fire.


During those cool nights of love

Where you were conceived and did conceive,

Weren't you overcome with new and strange feelings

In that silent candle's gleam.


No longer can you live entangled

In the darkness and the shadows,

For a new desire rises and carries you

Toward a higher meeting.


No distance would tire you

As you come flying, intent,

And at last lusting for the light,

Perish, moth, in the flame.


As long as you don't have that:

This dying and this becoming!

You are but a poor unhappy guest

upon the darkening earth.



Now I call up Cyrena from the audience

to read this Gertrude Stein that Alicia Cohen has sent us,

Cyrena was so sterling here at last year's,

but she is not stepping up to help, it's sort of unlike her.

So I go into the dark audience to investigate:


She is too torn up to read.


Which of course tears up everybody.



It falls back again to me

to read this awfully short

and positively Steinian verse:


What Do I See


A very little snail,

A medium sized turkey.

A small band of sheep.

A fair orange tree.

All nice waves are like that.

Listen to them from here.


You did not have an answer.





Daniel Fried gets up and launches into a witty patter.

His mom, Leslie, has e-mailed 4 very terse,

inscrutable and personal poems of hers,

and he has undertaken to read them.

His struggles to get them right,

and elude all the filial pitfalls,

are intrinsic to the poems.

Not to mention a welcome comic turn.

Here is one:


What Can Be Done


When I leave this house what will happen to bird?


bird will shriek as I turn the corner

thinking about little bird my feet hurt

when I'm gone what can be done


I have to be loved:

flower at night

eyes closed tight

heart tapping gently,


bird will cry when I'm gone

shrieking like a candle burning low

what can be done; I have to be loved.


Their other three pieces are:


Once was a boy

Skeleton house

Son, I wish



Now I read three Lynn Martin elegies.

In brisk succession

and selected at random,

all three are garden poems:


Tulips - painted parachutes open?


If the eggplant bumps off death?




What lights in my blue hand

is one dry leaf, nothing more,

half-mortal. I keep my palm open

and listen for some inaudible word,


some sign to tell me why I stand

in the splendor of rain and sun

flickering-quick, first off, then on,

while the leaf continues to spiral until


I am holding nothing but falling.

Every so often, I stand under the plum

tree and say leaf. I look at the spilling

of blossoms, those stars, and remember only one.



Someone has alluded to Crystal's funny streak

of unstudied fierceness,

and I'm reminded of this vignette:


It's late at night after a rock show, and she's exiting the Safeway

up by Portland State, when she notices a man,

approaching from across the otherwise deserted parking lot,

redirect the trajectory of his steps towards her person.

She turns smoothly to him, opens her diaphragm, takes aim,

and cuts loose with her deep kung fu yell: "Doh!"

The man turns, and runs away.



Mary Morgan comes up and orates: two strong bathtub meditations.

One, Singing, about how singing in the tub repels the demons,

and the other, Crystals, about how exudations of

immortal sacred crystalline jelly essences

indelibly mark one's passing through this woeful plane.

OK, I know - you had to be there.



Frank Poliat, softly a capella,

with a breezy and poignant intensity

does a signature tune from the artist Dalida:

L'histoire d'un Amour (Almaran & Blanche),

in six verses. The refrain:


C'est l'histoire d'un amour eternel et banal

Qui apporte chaque jour tout le bien tout le mal

Avec l'heure ou on s'enlace

celle ou l'on se dit adieu

Avec les soirees d'angoisse

Et les matins merveilleux.


Afterwards, at the audience' request,

Frank makes a free, slightly halting, and damnably charming

translation into English. The chorus goes something like:


It is the history of a love, eternal and mundane

Which brings every day all good, all evil

The hour when one interlaces, where good-bye is said,

The evenings of anguish, and marvellous mornings.



China Wolf, whose son is named after Crystal - Crystal Billy Rose -

does her touching lament, When We Were Young.

A couple of lines:


Insightful and so delightful - just a rose-bud tightly wound about to bloom...


Crystal! You were so good - I have never understood the depth of your sorrow...



Chris and Anna DeCastro,

Chris on a battered acoustic,

do the Johnny Cash hit:


Sea of Heartbreak (Hampton & David)


The lights in the harbor don't shine for me

I'm like a lost ship adrift on the sea

The sea of heartbreak



Lost love and lonliness - memories of your caress

So divine, how I wish you were mine again, my dear

I'm on this sea of tears - sea of heartbreak.


Oh how did I lose you? Oh where did I fail?

Why did you leave me, always to sail

This sea of heartbreak.




Oh what I'd give just to sail back to shore

Back to your arms once more

Come to my rescue - oh come here to me

Take me and keep me away from the sea

The sea of heartbreak.





Now everyone picks up a (dissimilar) chair

and totes it into the house so Shannonbob can

set down to the piana and do this tune she wrote

called Armadillos, while Keshawn -

now two, y'know - dances a turn

in the little clearing behind her back:


I crawled out of Dallas 2 weeks late, my mother's body.

the August heat kept her awake, that's how I became a southern girl.


sandstone! an unpredicted slip into the whitewall dream

of every neighbor. I made them all watch me.

I made them all strip and ran faster & faster & faster.


to chase armadillos into every black street-lit night.

I never knew I would come back to be this.


you never told me I'd go blind around the corners.

you should have held me first. I let it go. I made it o.k.


headlights crash my little boy eyes. I see the world

go away, I hear the echoes of far away death,

and I knew I'd never make it alive.


to chase armadillos into every black street-lit night.

I never knew I would come back to be this.


I made it o.k.



Peter Greaver always brings presents and balloons,

and often winds up the evening with a guitar recessional,

usually playing Crystal's old Strat. Tonight, he does

one of her songs, David Bowie's Rebel, Rebel,

and one of his, Little Dancer.

Everyone knows how Rebel, Rebel goes.

Here is Little Dancer:


Blue room at the end of the day

Electric guitar that I play

You don't know the things I've seen

A broken heart and a shattered dream


Little dancer

I've got questions with no answer


You've got dreams in your eyes

But the world is cruel and time flies

I hope your dreams come true

A rainbow singing in a sky of blue


Little dancer

I've got questions with no answer


Fairy tales in your head

A candle beside your bed

I'm still awake when you're asleep

Do you fly in dreams so deep?


Little dancer

I've got questions with no answer

What about you little dancer?

Where are you little dancer?



For once, this Cabaret has been all about Crystal,

some of it pretty sombre.

(Though note: nothing like as maudlin

as it reads on the page.)


Always before, references were mostly oblique,

but it's now been ten years,

people are ready to look directly

into the sometimes blinding light of her.


This night was the true nine eleven cabaret:

Last year was too soon,

people gathered out of bewilderment.

This year it is face to face.


The very vulnerable photo of Crystal I sent out just a week ago

has brought out a vulnerable crew

with solemn thoughts and tender gestures,

beside a somehow familiar cheery resignation.



A postscript from Sandy Shore,

writing from 37,000 feet:


Words and dance, english in both senses,

running under very white skin.

The laughter infectious, and deep sense of fun -

she made fun of me in ways I felt respected.


So very uncrystal it is now for us

to drift down into amnestic sleep, no?

The droning low-grade saturation with horror,

the guilt by unwitting association,

the dead guns and

Wedgewood gum shoe sandwiches of dashed hopes -

She did not/would not roll over for this.


Take your chances where you like,

but please take chances




                                                       photo by alan abrams




Crystal saved fortune-cookie fortunes. On display in her apartment:


you find beauty in ordinary things, do not lose this ability

your principles mean more to you than any money or success

you have a natural grace and great consideration for others

your heart is pure, and your mind clear, and your soul devout

you have a yearning for perfection

you are going to have some new clothes


In a large wooden bowl, amid a mystery-gumbo of all manner of tiny objects folded into a thick broth of flower-petals:


you never hesitate to tackle the most difficult problems

someone you meet today will help in the future

don't let friends impose on you, work calmly and silently

the current year will bring you much happiness

smile often, and see what happens

someone special admires you

your pursuit of happiness is an endless trail of good humor and pleasure

accept no substitutes for that which is genuine

my friendship proves as strong for him as his for me

if you think you can, you can

a good time to finish up old tasks

you are the center of every group's attention

good sense is the master of human life

you will be happy socially and in your work

good news will come to you from far away


Found in a suitcase 9/2/02:


you have an active mind and a keen imagination

if you wish to, you will have an opportunity

there is no fear in love, but perfect love casteth out fear

friends long absent are coming back to you

you are original and creative

you will soon gain something you have always wanted

you like participating in competitive sports


There's 30 or 40 more that got gathered up and put in an envelope somewhere.

More than spooky how vividly this bunch of silly homilies brings her to life.



simone weil

Weil resolved not merely to support the military struggle against Hitler in principle, but to take an active role in the fight. Political and spiritual motives lay behind this decision. Convinced that the "consent to die" as an isolated ego is the essence of mystical wisdom and that spiritual truths are empty unless realized through bodily action, Weil came to believe her spiritual quest would find its fulfillment in the ordeal of combat ... Weil aimed both to complete a process of religious purification and to transform herself into a sacrificial symbol, uniting politics, art, and spirituality in the crucible of violence.    ~ from Saints of the Impossible by Alexander Irwin

When a certain class of people has been placed by the spiritual and temporal authorities outside the ranks of those whose life has value, then nothing comes more naturally to men than to kill.    ~  Origo quoting Silone quoting a Weil letter to Georges Bernanos