hum

… honey

Unplug

Don’t underestimate evil
(”It won’t come to me”).
A water jar fills,
even with water
falling in drops.
With evil — even if
bit
by
bit,
habitually —
the fool fills himself full.

Don’t underestimate merit
(”It won’t come to me”).
A water jar fills,
even with water
falling in drops.
With merit — even if
bit
by
bit,
habitually —
the enlightened one fills himself full.

It’s a dream:
walking (home, perhaps)
when I bump
into Alex James,
the bass player
from Blur. I
say “Hi”, he
says “Hi” - we
shake hands, his
is very light,
mine is quite
electric. I point
out that we
are both wearing
black bottoms and
red tops - he
looks as if
it is not
a coincidence to
cherish. We walk
to a building,
he opens a
garage door and
he invites me
in (to his
studio?). I pretend
to be excited
pretending not to
be excited.
There’s a red
sports car under
a leather cover,
everything suddenly seems
derelict but the
tiny, fastest sports
car. I stay
behind to close
the door - he
smashes a mouse
with his hand
covered by a
towel - I watch
in a mixture
of awe and
repulsion. He goes
(upstairs, I imagine).
I feel a
sharp pain in
my right shin -
I see a
mouse’s teeth stuck
in it - with
a key I
try to remove
the little rodent.
I surrender to
its determined grip.
I think, smile
and say “Ouch”

Italian with Flora

The Social Organ

Composed, performed and produced by Flora

 06:00 am: Play Now | Play in Popup

And one day, when the wound burned violently, Siddhartha ferried across the river, driven by a yearning, got off the boat and was willing to go to the city and to look for his son. The river flowed softly and quietly, it was the dry season, but its voice sounded strange: it laughed! It laughed clearly. The river laughed, it laughed brightly and clearly at the old ferryman. Siddhartha stopped, he bent over the water, in order to hear even better, and he saw his face reflected in the quietly moving waters, and in this reflected face there was something, which reminded him, something he had forgotten, and as he thought about it, he found it: this face resembled another face, which he used to know and love and also fear. It resembled his father’s face, the Brahman. And he remembered how he, a long time ago, as a young man, had forced his father to let him go to the penitents, how he had bed his farewell to him, how he had gone and had never come back. Had his father not also suffered the same pain for him, which he now suffered for his son? Had his father not long since died, alone, without having seen his son again? Did he not have to expect the same fate for himself? Was it not a comedy, a strange and stupid matter, this repetition, this running around in a fateful circle?

The river laughed. Yes, so it was, everything came back, which had not been suffered and solved up to its end, the same pain was suffered over and over again. But Siddhartha went back into the boat (…) tending towards despair, and not less tending towards laughing along at himself and the entire world.

Alas, the wound was not blossoming yet, his heart was still fighting his fate, cheerfulness and victory were not yet shining from his suffering. Nevertheless, he felt hope (…)

Composed, performed and produced by Flora

 FATHERHOOD: Play Now | Play in Popup

Meditate

I’m just trying
to be a
little bit better
I’m just trying
to be a
little bit better
I’m just trying
to be maybe
a little bit
better I’m just
trying to be

Composed, performed and produced by Flora

 BETTER: Play Now | Play in Popup

Rest in peace

Composed, performed and produced by Flora

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