To give in to the tiredness....
Such monotonous afternoons like this with dull looking trees looming over wet, idle grass make me want to just lounge in the porch and anticipate sleep. These giants, the trees, standing there with their strong limbs stretched out to the heavens, welcoming a cool shower from these fat celestial cottons. The sun's retirement has just began and I am loving it. The summer heat, for me, triggers momentary annoyance over everything.
I was reading Plath's unabridged collection of journals (1950-1962) and chanced upon Appendix 10 where Syl wrote about St. Therese of the Child Jesus (a.k.a. Little Flower, named Doctor of Church by Pope JP II in 1997). Odd, these saints. Their stoic, ascetic selves wallowing euphorically in the black hole of displeasure like the madmen of India having the soles of their feet bruised and burned by treading beds of burning coals and shards of glass.
to see the stoic squirm...

(Saint Therese, the Ascetic.....)
dark blood. six inch nails. whips with teeth of blade biting on the warmness of a thickly clothed back. thorns clawed deep into bluish skin. stigmata. the joy of pain. enduring. holding on through it all. death, eventually. blindness. blindness...
I wonder if you can equate spiritual stoicness/asceticness with masochism. Caterina of Cardona wore iron chains which cut through her flesh and would engage in self-flagellation which would usually last for three hours. Such acts, many spirituals believe, would subject them to mystical ecstacies and visions of heavenly grace.
bleh.
I don't understand how having the body in exquisite pain and tortured state will make one establish a union with that Someone whose ego surpasses all other egos. Is God a masochist who delights in mortals who engage in flaggelations and self-torture?
Sick. And I am blasphemous.
All I can argue is no one can figure out God. Because He's virtually distant and unknown to mortals of little minds who know nothing of Him.
blahness. All these are but a clear indication of my swelling boredom.
Such monotonous afternoons like this with dull looking trees looming over wet, idle grass make me want to just lounge in the porch and anticipate sleep. These giants, the trees, standing there with their strong limbs stretched out to the heavens, welcoming a cool shower from these fat celestial cottons. The sun's retirement has just began and I am loving it. The summer heat, for me, triggers momentary annoyance over everything.
I was reading Plath's unabridged collection of journals (1950-1962) and chanced upon Appendix 10 where Syl wrote about St. Therese of the Child Jesus (a.k.a. Little Flower, named Doctor of Church by Pope JP II in 1997). Odd, these saints. Their stoic, ascetic selves wallowing euphorically in the black hole of displeasure like the madmen of India having the soles of their feet bruised and burned by treading beds of burning coals and shards of glass.
to see the stoic squirm...


(Saint Therese, the Ascetic.....)
dark blood. six inch nails. whips with teeth of blade biting on the warmness of a thickly clothed back. thorns clawed deep into bluish skin. stigmata. the joy of pain. enduring. holding on through it all. death, eventually. blindness. blindness...
I wonder if you can equate spiritual stoicness/asceticness with masochism. Caterina of Cardona wore iron chains which cut through her flesh and would engage in self-flagellation which would usually last for three hours. Such acts, many spirituals believe, would subject them to mystical ecstacies and visions of heavenly grace.
bleh.
I don't understand how having the body in exquisite pain and tortured state will make one establish a union with that Someone whose ego surpasses all other egos. Is God a masochist who delights in mortals who engage in flaggelations and self-torture?
Sick. And I am blasphemous.
All I can argue is no one can figure out God. Because He's virtually distant and unknown to mortals of little minds who know nothing of Him.
blahness. All these are but a clear indication of my swelling boredom.