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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477032" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>When You've Averaged Out Your Crucials</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">When you've averaged out your crucials<br>and you've walked in the light and you've walked <br>in the shadows of things your eyes still taste of <br>though you've set a star as the moral compass <br>of your cloudy destination, and it's following you <br>down a long stray thread of a road, the smart money <br>bets on doing some good in the world <br>you may not even be aware of, let alone <br>expect payback for as if you were doing business <br>not gambling on an intuitionally calculated risk<br>its probably better to leave a sweeter cachet to the place <br>for your having been here, chicory by the side of the road, <br>or wild orchids in the marsh, by the addition <br>of one flower more than to desecrate your life <br>with bitterness, resentment, the indifference of ambition <br>when its heart gargles with an inhumane antiseptic <br>to keep from being infected by the human in its bloodstream. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">You don't have to arrange paradigms of shining <br>into some kind of mandalic starmap unless you want to.<br>Giving something up isn't the same as adding yourself to it.<br>Even if you foreknow you're doomed to lose, total eclipse, <br>if you're a real gambler, you lose with flare, like a solar corona. <br>You're intrigued by the unfolding of the road you took, <br>the river you're running, the rapids in the mindstream <br>you're about to shoot down the middle in an inflatable life raft<br>in the spring run off of the waterclock of a reverential northern river.<br>It might be important to seek <br>the eventual forgiveness of the night<br>for what we've done to it, treating it as a reward <br>for breathing our way through another day in the light.<br>But the stars aren't listening to the alibis <br>we're whispering in the dark to our selves. <br>They labour under the cowbells of their own myths of origin. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But you can always do a little good in the world. <br>The whole place is wounded. No shortage of opportunity.<br>You can drive the ambulance back to the hospital. <br>You can be the atom that decides the outcome <br>of a cosmic event, so slight are the actions of the random, <br>chaos in action, it just takes one to light up <br>infinite time and space moment by moment <br>and blow it out just as quickly to enhance the night, <br>the pulsar of a firefly in a lighthouse of dark matter.<br>You ever wonder how many messiahs<br>have come and gone from the world <br>without ever once having heard of themselves? <br>If you don't like to drink spit out of the public fountains <br>of other people's mouths, though they exhale rainbows in the mist <br>maybe it's time to taste your own to see if it's sweet or not. <br>When things are real, not solid, nothing's diminished, <br>nothing's enlarged, because size is no longer relevant <br>in a world of wavelengths that have given up living like particles.<br>And forms are more provisional than cast in bronze. <br>Waifs of the air, maple leaves cast on the mindstream <br>covering their own reflections with the fans and hand mirrors <br>they carry like accessories to their own deathmasks.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hard to make a wax mould of a dream, an emotion, or an insight. <br>The mystery of life isn't an interpretation <br>waiting to be deciphered any way you like, <br>though you're free to do this with the impunity <br>of a crossroad puzzle. Its silence is a deeper eloquence<br>than that, and when it expresses itself it's as immediate <br>as starlight on water. Its spontaneity never hesitates <br>to shock us with the impersonal beauty <br>of a moonrise over the lake in a lunar flood of wonder. <br>Or some small act of love that's denounced by the doer <br>as a foolish way to live against the odds, as soon as it's done. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Everybody's on death row here. No one gets out alive <br>or unwounded. Sparrows and stars and houseflies <br>pass freely through the bars, and the wind at night <br>whistles through them like the vocal cords of a harp.<br>Would it hurt to pass a cigarette through them<br>to someone in front of a firing squad of stars <br>or write a loveletter for someone who can't read it?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=477032" data-title="When You've Averaged Out Your Crucials de Patrick White" data-description="When you've averaged out your crucials
and you've walked in the light and you've walked 
in the shadows of things your eyes still taste of 
though you've set a star as the moral compass 
of your cloudy destination, and it's following you 
down a l..."></div>
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