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i do what i like, and i like what i do
Sean Paul Richards. Eighteen. San Jose, California.
Family. Friends. Love. Dreams. Art. Music.
“I live on Earth at present, and I don’t know what I am.
I know that I am not
a category. I am not
a thing — a noun.
I seem to be a verb, an evolutionary process
- an integral function of
the universe.”
-Buckminster Fuller
"We must break the triangle of self-obsession; we must grow up, or die.
The way we react to people, places, and things:
Negative or Positive
Past: Resentment or Acceptance
Present: Anger or Love
Future: Fear or Faith" -Greg Pierce
"The golden moments in the stream of life rush past us, and we see nothing but sand; the angels come to visit us, and we only know them when they are gone." -George Eliot
Calmly We Walk Through This April's Day
-Delmore Schwartz
Calmly we walk through this April's day,
Metropolitan poetry here and there,
In the park sit pauper and rentier,
The screaming children, the motor-car
Fugitive about us, running away,
Between the worker and the millionaire
Number provides all distances,
It is Nineteen Thirty-Seven now,
Many great dears are taken away,
What will become of you and me
(This is the school in which we learn...)
Besides the photo and the memory?
(...that time is the fire in which we burn.)
(This is the school in which we learn...)
What is the self amid this blaze?
What am I now that I was then
Which I shall suffer and act again,
The theodicy I wrote in my high school days
Restored all life from infancy,
The children shouting are bright as they run
(This is the school in which they learn . . .)
Ravished entirely in their passing play!
(...that time is the fire in which they burn.)
Avid its rush, that reeling blaze!
Where is my father and Eleanor?
Not where are they now, dead seven years,
But what they were then?
No more? No more?
From Nineteen-Fourteen to the present day,
Bert Spira and Rhoda consume, consume
Not where they are now (where are they now?)
But what they were then, both beautiful;
Each minute bursts in the burning room,
The great globe reels in the solar fire,
Spinning the trivial and unique away.
(How all things flash! How all things flare!)
What am I now that I was then?
May memory restore again and again
The smallest color of the smallest day:
Time is the school in which we learn,
Time is the fire in which we burn.