For the weak, force is "power" --or if not force, intransigence.
For the strong, power is: the willingness to learn, to co-operate,
to become involved, to admit vulnerability...but to a significant degree,
these things don't "work" against either force or intransigence. Then
one must resort to superior cleverness. One is not yet strong
enough if unwilling to admit the limits of (even true) power--to admit
that this is not a moral world in which good intentions are acts in
themselves, but a place where guile is often a necessary defense--as
some of the old fairy tales imply (pre-Humanist)... Just as a person
who won't put on a coat & hat in winter is trying to create an impossible
endurance--out of another kind of intransigence. And so is
total truthfulness; wanting to help everyone you meet; caring
about all pain, sickness & injustice in the world (the "world"
doesn't exist--to human measures); & expecting yourself to make the
best use of love, every time. Let me call that the most difficult art,
till i respect at last the subtleties i so much want to rush past the
learning of; let me find in these stupid miscommunications a reason
for my studying, ever more deeply, the ways of the human heart--that
will never be probed with a flashlight.

'You think i'm a control-freak,' i wanted to say, 'but my life-work's a
study of the uses & conditions for self-surrender.' --Isn't that, though,
much the same thing?

It might help to put things in perspective to realize that, although
the amount of work done by a capable group is many times greater
than the work of its isolate members, that too is insufficient
for the need of this age. So the choice comes down to: do what
you can by yourself & with a few others, or waste your time (completely)
trying to assemble a group suitable for your personal aims...

I have explanations for everything & solutions for nothing.

Overcast sky, no clouds--then the clouds move & i have stars
again: as if that sight alone were a moral imperative. To grow
tall enough to reach them? But no, i'm more like those lungfish whose
gills had become pretty useless...moved by a lack, more than a vision.
So why talk about "change" to another lungfish? --Hypochondria!

Mallarmé: Ses purs ongles très haut dédiant leur onyx

Her chaste nails so highly dedicating their onyx,
  Anguish, this midnight torchbearer, saves
  many an evening's reverie burned with the phoenix
  otherwise bound for no crematory vase.
On the sideboards, in the empty parlor: ptyxless,
  gewgaw-banned resounding banality
  for the Boss is gone to dip tears from the Styx,
  only that--and Nothing will thus be honored...
Near the northerly vacant casement, gilt
  convulses as per perhaps the setting
  from unicorns bucking fire against an elf;
  she, late nude of the mirror, however,
  into the vacuum by those edges held
  abides among twinklings presently the Seven.

Listening to: Pizzicato Five.