All is a flowing dance,
masterful, sublime, pacific.
The wind and sun are music
keeping time with grace.
Feather grass heads
are reminders
of how I might be moving.
We could live.
The dogs barking:
aware
of something greater.
I listen and am warmed
by sunlight on my arms.
I struggle to put
big round thoughts
into flat little phrases.
I will not be understood;
poetry helps.
My mouth is my ear,
speaking.
My ears are open, speaking
silence.
Critiquing the world I live in
gives me wrinkles.
Rather, I will stand beside it,
glow my own way
and dance.
When the black is what I see
I know it is time to drown,
going under,
buried in fertile soil.
I am rich with it,
bursting with new growth;
above and below
are building in me
new meridians.
The birds’ song is tireless
while the sun is warm:
they are happy and they sing,
breaking only to fly.
If a giant were to walk
through the streets
would she trip over
power lines?
If I can
I will dance every day.
My body, my voice,
my hips my lips:
I will learn this new language.
4.13.2009
4.12.2009
meandering forray into spontenaity and causality
So according to Heraclitus, the universe is flux. He says it's fire, which doesn't seem terribly off the mark if we're talking in metaphor. All is matter and energy, matter is animate because it is energetic.
Time is the fourth dimension.
Consciousness is inherant to energetic matter, I think, because plants, animals, and we humans are conscious: it didn't come from no-where.
Where does spontaneity fit into this?
In Hindu thinking, Lila is 'cosmic play'; their way of 'ordering' the universe (We order the universe because we must have a container for understanding to take place within). In Tao-ist thinking, the cosmos is dancing. To me, dance is instinctual movement and abandon within the loose confines of beat-meter and step pattern.
I was driving home and I saw a dad and his little girl. I heard what sounded like my tire kicking out a pebble, and I wondered for a second if it had hit the little girl. I suddenly saw the paranoia of some parents, who make their kids wear helmets. Random accidents happen.
But what is 'random'?
The nature of history suggests to many thinkers that time is cyclical; that is, it is a process that repeats. This idea is substantiated by religious myth somewhat, in 'End-time' stories that describe the end of one age, which inevidably begins a new one. The Norse have a lovely one to counter-act the finality of the Judeo-Christian Rapture. The Hindu have Vishnu and his eye-blink, one blink contains universes created, thriving, then destroyed. How often do we blink? That makes a lot of universes if Vishnu blinks like us.
What about events, in time? What about the meaning of events? What about fate and happenstance? What I'm wondering, is if things happen for a reason, because the nature of reality is so quasi-dream-like, that really what each one of us is experiencing is the collapsing of quatrillions of possibilities into the 'now' by the choices we make.
People have to die. It's biological, time runs out. But when they die, is this the 'right time'? The deaths of those we love shape us; they wound, and we are not the same after. Their deaths shape our lives. What I'm wondering is: is the 'right time' already ordained? I'm not talking about YHWH as the knower of all, I'm talking about what the Greeks describe as the Wheel of Fate. The three Moirai are constantly weaving the lives of humans: spinning, weaving, and cutting that thread. This personification is the container for abstract universal forces. From the Moirai's perspective, there is a definite tapestry taking shape. They know the pattern to weave; or even, are able to weave spontaneously within the confines of the loom.
Sometimes, when a pattern is activated in my life, the things I need fall into my hands. Usually they are the right books; I am quite the reader, and the interface between book-knowledge-I is the fullest way for me to fill up on something I need to know. The force that moves me half conscious to my book shelf, or the force that moves a friend to hand me a particular book out of the blue, the force that drops a person across my path-who tells me a thing that helps me; this force Jung calls synchronicity. It is a harmonizing of time, which can therefore not be thought of as linear. Linear time does not allow paths to cross in any meaningful way. Linear time belongs to two-dimensional reality. Two dimensional reality belongs to Middle and High school algebra class, on graph paper. It is not indicative of Life.
Time is other than linear. It has a modicum of coherance, just as dance has. Dance, unaccompanied by drums or music, still has the the beat of breath and heart to guide. This movement is guided by life process.
My question is thus: do things happen for a reason? We are all dynamic, energetic material. If I get taken out of my place in time, it would send shock waves, in the form of emotion, through the sphere of my acquaintances. The same is so for many living; if a soul dies and no-one mourns, THEN WE ARE SICK. There is more than enough love in the human core to fill the world up, and over.
My question is, when someone dies, is it because they have to? This is a frightening question to me, but taken within the context that we: me, you, dust, dirt, butterflies, penguins, the moon-are all made of vibrating atoms, which are colored by quark-qualities, which are strung together by String (theory), which weaves a Membrane (M theory); we exist because we have to, make meaning because we must, and die because (and when) we do~
do they have to die for themselves, as well as for the rest of the 'web'?
Time is the fourth dimension.
Consciousness is inherant to energetic matter, I think, because plants, animals, and we humans are conscious: it didn't come from no-where.
Where does spontaneity fit into this?
In Hindu thinking, Lila is 'cosmic play'; their way of 'ordering' the universe (We order the universe because we must have a container for understanding to take place within). In Tao-ist thinking, the cosmos is dancing. To me, dance is instinctual movement and abandon within the loose confines of beat-meter and step pattern.
I was driving home and I saw a dad and his little girl. I heard what sounded like my tire kicking out a pebble, and I wondered for a second if it had hit the little girl. I suddenly saw the paranoia of some parents, who make their kids wear helmets. Random accidents happen.
But what is 'random'?
The nature of history suggests to many thinkers that time is cyclical; that is, it is a process that repeats. This idea is substantiated by religious myth somewhat, in 'End-time' stories that describe the end of one age, which inevidably begins a new one. The Norse have a lovely one to counter-act the finality of the Judeo-Christian Rapture. The Hindu have Vishnu and his eye-blink, one blink contains universes created, thriving, then destroyed. How often do we blink? That makes a lot of universes if Vishnu blinks like us.
What about events, in time? What about the meaning of events? What about fate and happenstance? What I'm wondering, is if things happen for a reason, because the nature of reality is so quasi-dream-like, that really what each one of us is experiencing is the collapsing of quatrillions of possibilities into the 'now' by the choices we make.
People have to die. It's biological, time runs out. But when they die, is this the 'right time'? The deaths of those we love shape us; they wound, and we are not the same after. Their deaths shape our lives. What I'm wondering is: is the 'right time' already ordained? I'm not talking about YHWH as the knower of all, I'm talking about what the Greeks describe as the Wheel of Fate. The three Moirai are constantly weaving the lives of humans: spinning, weaving, and cutting that thread. This personification is the container for abstract universal forces. From the Moirai's perspective, there is a definite tapestry taking shape. They know the pattern to weave; or even, are able to weave spontaneously within the confines of the loom.
Sometimes, when a pattern is activated in my life, the things I need fall into my hands. Usually they are the right books; I am quite the reader, and the interface between book-knowledge-I is the fullest way for me to fill up on something I need to know. The force that moves me half conscious to my book shelf, or the force that moves a friend to hand me a particular book out of the blue, the force that drops a person across my path-who tells me a thing that helps me; this force Jung calls synchronicity. It is a harmonizing of time, which can therefore not be thought of as linear. Linear time does not allow paths to cross in any meaningful way. Linear time belongs to two-dimensional reality. Two dimensional reality belongs to Middle and High school algebra class, on graph paper. It is not indicative of Life.
Time is other than linear. It has a modicum of coherance, just as dance has. Dance, unaccompanied by drums or music, still has the the beat of breath and heart to guide. This movement is guided by life process.
My question is thus: do things happen for a reason? We are all dynamic, energetic material. If I get taken out of my place in time, it would send shock waves, in the form of emotion, through the sphere of my acquaintances. The same is so for many living; if a soul dies and no-one mourns, THEN WE ARE SICK. There is more than enough love in the human core to fill the world up, and over.
My question is, when someone dies, is it because they have to? This is a frightening question to me, but taken within the context that we: me, you, dust, dirt, butterflies, penguins, the moon-are all made of vibrating atoms, which are colored by quark-qualities, which are strung together by String (theory), which weaves a Membrane (M theory); we exist because we have to, make meaning because we must, and die because (and when) we do~
do they have to die for themselves, as well as for the rest of the 'web'?
the Choice
It has recently come to my attention that there is no longer any time.
Not that the mechanical tick tock of our clocks has ceased marking off the moments past, but rather globally, those of us who claim the title of 'civilized' may for little longer enjoy the luxury of our life-style.
We live in style; black gold powering horse-power, taking us to the market to CHOOSE what to eat, picked just for us to consume and relish.
Water delivered to our glass and our bath;
gas powering our lights and our stove;
we can do whatever we want, whenever we want~
Except scream in public.
We are free to eat and drink food and water poisoned with fluoride and dioxin;
But don't question this status quo.
We have a fine four walls to our sides, and a tar roof over our heads;
unless you don't work. Nothing is free, therefore how can we be?
Life has a price, a triplicate certificate encompassing birth, union, and death. The trees wittness our style as reams of waste paper shreaded and discarded.
Do we want this?
How much does it cost for me to die? Where will my body be hidden? How long will it remain seperate from the soil before tree roots finally penetrate my vault?
How long until there are no more trees?
A serious question; the archaeological review of the epochs chronicles a diverse array of shapes that nature takes in the long flowing of life through time. Trees are a novelty;
wasted they are dust, and a memory.
Water is a creche of that lovely dance that life does.
At what point did we each agree to renounce our stewardship and rely upon pillaging?
When were we severed from our roots?
It helps to name that insidious feeling of creeping death trembling on the dark fuzzy edges of our consciousness. We are like roses snipped from the mother bush~fragrant for a day, but how quickly we wilt without the wholeness of being rooted deep in the soil.
The winds roar across the desolations, momentous, unchecked; howling and heavy with the weight of so much death, and so little promise of renewal.
Can a metal wind chime truly replace the songs of birds?
Can the luxury of air-flight replace the awe in the sight of a great bird, circling?
Can we ever do enough to slow down, savor, and save?
We CAN.
Second world war:
poverty mentality. victory gardens. recycle everything.
coffee, chocolate, nylons, gasoline: LUXURY.
Save, recycle, reuse, savor.
There can be great joy in having little. The less we have, the more precious it becomes.
We have less life, less time, less bees, less future, less oil, less clean water.
We have fewer children born healthy, fewer freedoms.
We have little sanity;
but GREAT choice.
Do we choose the End, or do we plant the seeds needed for a new Beginning?
Not that the mechanical tick tock of our clocks has ceased marking off the moments past, but rather globally, those of us who claim the title of 'civilized' may for little longer enjoy the luxury of our life-style.
We live in style; black gold powering horse-power, taking us to the market to CHOOSE what to eat, picked just for us to consume and relish.
Water delivered to our glass and our bath;
gas powering our lights and our stove;
we can do whatever we want, whenever we want~
Except scream in public.
We are free to eat and drink food and water poisoned with fluoride and dioxin;
But don't question this status quo.
We have a fine four walls to our sides, and a tar roof over our heads;
unless you don't work. Nothing is free, therefore how can we be?
Life has a price, a triplicate certificate encompassing birth, union, and death. The trees wittness our style as reams of waste paper shreaded and discarded.
Do we want this?
How much does it cost for me to die? Where will my body be hidden? How long will it remain seperate from the soil before tree roots finally penetrate my vault?
How long until there are no more trees?
A serious question; the archaeological review of the epochs chronicles a diverse array of shapes that nature takes in the long flowing of life through time. Trees are a novelty;
wasted they are dust, and a memory.
Water is a creche of that lovely dance that life does.
At what point did we each agree to renounce our stewardship and rely upon pillaging?
When were we severed from our roots?
It helps to name that insidious feeling of creeping death trembling on the dark fuzzy edges of our consciousness. We are like roses snipped from the mother bush~fragrant for a day, but how quickly we wilt without the wholeness of being rooted deep in the soil.
The winds roar across the desolations, momentous, unchecked; howling and heavy with the weight of so much death, and so little promise of renewal.
Can a metal wind chime truly replace the songs of birds?
Can the luxury of air-flight replace the awe in the sight of a great bird, circling?
Can we ever do enough to slow down, savor, and save?
We CAN.
Second world war:
poverty mentality. victory gardens. recycle everything.
coffee, chocolate, nylons, gasoline: LUXURY.
Save, recycle, reuse, savor.
There can be great joy in having little. The less we have, the more precious it becomes.
We have less life, less time, less bees, less future, less oil, less clean water.
We have fewer children born healthy, fewer freedoms.
We have little sanity;
but GREAT choice.
Do we choose the End, or do we plant the seeds needed for a new Beginning?
heading
The legacy has closed.
The ominous chamber surrounded in shadows
Hallows the sickened likeness
Of an effigy of Christ,
Long lost
In an immaculate imitation
Without soul.
The wizard has found the catalyst,
And the healer had brought it to the masses,
But in their ignorance
They found not the promised favor
Of the almighty father
But rather
A sore heart beating in a broken breast.
We are not alone.
But within the shambles
Of the self same place we sought to inhabit
We are rendered to our
Constituents, elementally fundamental lordlings
Parodying the silly pomp of the classes we sought to ostracize.
I was not born to that likeness.
I am a child of god, or a god,
Or maybe merely the universe
A corpuscle of sense
In an intelligent arrangement the cosmos had with the void,
Ever evolving.
Be I a pawn, I am nothing
But as a I child, I contain the infinite
In no small relation to the parables of teachers.
Innocence reminds the intellect
Of the journey that unmakes the animal.
We are a hope and a prayer,
The remainder of sense almost spent
In the grappling for some solid sameness.
We can unravel our arrangement.
We are not simply spirit striving,
We are not only body yearning,
We are love, armed to continue an embrace
That shudders in every sound wave moving matter.
For in black we find all,
And in white we find peace.
But in our rage we find meaning
I cannot make it out
But it is there.
Deliver us from the daily droll headlines
Of sallow prose and hark to the flavor
Of deep remembering.
Challenge your soul to recall what bonds it allowed in compromise for safe passage
And liberate your own dear self.
Our beasts are our treasures,
And the birds are our dreams.
The ominous chamber surrounded in shadows
Hallows the sickened likeness
Of an effigy of Christ,
Long lost
In an immaculate imitation
Without soul.
The wizard has found the catalyst,
And the healer had brought it to the masses,
But in their ignorance
They found not the promised favor
Of the almighty father
But rather
A sore heart beating in a broken breast.
We are not alone.
But within the shambles
Of the self same place we sought to inhabit
We are rendered to our
Constituents, elementally fundamental lordlings
Parodying the silly pomp of the classes we sought to ostracize.
I was not born to that likeness.
I am a child of god, or a god,
Or maybe merely the universe
A corpuscle of sense
In an intelligent arrangement the cosmos had with the void,
Ever evolving.
Be I a pawn, I am nothing
But as a I child, I contain the infinite
In no small relation to the parables of teachers.
Innocence reminds the intellect
Of the journey that unmakes the animal.
We are a hope and a prayer,
The remainder of sense almost spent
In the grappling for some solid sameness.
We can unravel our arrangement.
We are not simply spirit striving,
We are not only body yearning,
We are love, armed to continue an embrace
That shudders in every sound wave moving matter.
For in black we find all,
And in white we find peace.
But in our rage we find meaning
I cannot make it out
But it is there.
Deliver us from the daily droll headlines
Of sallow prose and hark to the flavor
Of deep remembering.
Challenge your soul to recall what bonds it allowed in compromise for safe passage
And liberate your own dear self.
Our beasts are our treasures,
And the birds are our dreams.
the sea
This whole life.
I know it's nothing;
it's small, almost insignificant:
like a ribosome,
I'm just reading the information,
passing it along.
This whole earth;
it's just some cell,
just one little cell
that makes up a whole vast body.
But it's terribly important that I be,
I affect things;
I move others,
and I am moved by them.
We're all just doing our part,
and yet the play,
or the dance,
is so vast and complex
that it could go on just fine
without me:
or us.
Our sweet, beautiful, blue orb:
it could go on,
keep shining,
host to what we are doing
right now.
But--
if we blow it all, well,
the angels in that eternal realm
will sing some horribly moving requiem
to our tragic winking out.
There's no time--
I'm really just space
and my hideous little human drama,
it's just a movement,
it affects--
and it seems so terribly important:
what I am doing,
my soul-building,
my information processing,
the relationships I am forming,
the music and the art
that I am making...
seems very important to the 'grand scheme'...
but the cosmos is so vast and violent
and moves according to its own direction,
that my being alive may not amount
to much more than I existed,
and died,
and others came to be important or moved
by my interacting with them;
and we all died:
a heady swell flaring up
by this bright sun
and then were extinguished,
our mass contributing
to some organ or tissue
the cosmos needed to breathe with,
or digest.
I know it's nothing;
it's small, almost insignificant:
like a ribosome,
I'm just reading the information,
passing it along.
This whole earth;
it's just some cell,
just one little cell
that makes up a whole vast body.
But it's terribly important that I be,
I affect things;
I move others,
and I am moved by them.
We're all just doing our part,
and yet the play,
or the dance,
is so vast and complex
that it could go on just fine
without me:
or us.
Our sweet, beautiful, blue orb:
it could go on,
keep shining,
host to what we are doing
right now.
But--
if we blow it all, well,
the angels in that eternal realm
will sing some horribly moving requiem
to our tragic winking out.
There's no time--
I'm really just space
and my hideous little human drama,
it's just a movement,
it affects--
and it seems so terribly important:
what I am doing,
my soul-building,
my information processing,
the relationships I am forming,
the music and the art
that I am making...
seems very important to the 'grand scheme'...
but the cosmos is so vast and violent
and moves according to its own direction,
that my being alive may not amount
to much more than I existed,
and died,
and others came to be important or moved
by my interacting with them;
and we all died:
a heady swell flaring up
by this bright sun
and then were extinguished,
our mass contributing
to some organ or tissue
the cosmos needed to breathe with,
or digest.
the pearl
Jazz, latin-
emotional emulsion
red and blue lit
swells, conversational.
Martini glasses, pomegranate
Granite laminate
low and in the way
location for a table.
The chrome and gray
accept a splash,
garish, or plain showey
The space fills.
Stools turn, bare,
burns the pit of my stomach.
Black vinyl, demur
jazzy trumpet, optimistic
realistic
door man in black,
conversational,
played over stereo
after hours art festival
sans artistic accompaniment.
Big view screen
deep into the room
Nature scenes
something to connect to.
emotional emulsion
red and blue lit
swells, conversational.
Martini glasses, pomegranate
Granite laminate
low and in the way
location for a table.
The chrome and gray
accept a splash,
garish, or plain showey
The space fills.
Stools turn, bare,
burns the pit of my stomach.
Black vinyl, demur
jazzy trumpet, optimistic
realistic
door man in black,
conversational,
played over stereo
after hours art festival
sans artistic accompaniment.
Big view screen
deep into the room
Nature scenes
something to connect to.
(eternal wilds)
The great sadness with which one half of the universe yearns toward the other half,
and one time for a time beyond its reach,
is a humble and poignant movement based in regrets.
If solace were found in two titanic oceans meeting,
each springing from some opposite pole,
what unconventional face would the world then wear?
She would be ravaged, and the people angry,
and their salty tears would only serve to deepen these tumultuous waters.
Only birds may touch heaven and the blessings of caelestis,
the beings who fit to air and are moved by the embodied winds.
They sing, but lack the heaviness of a heart.
and one time for a time beyond its reach,
is a humble and poignant movement based in regrets.
If solace were found in two titanic oceans meeting,
each springing from some opposite pole,
what unconventional face would the world then wear?
She would be ravaged, and the people angry,
and their salty tears would only serve to deepen these tumultuous waters.
Only birds may touch heaven and the blessings of caelestis,
the beings who fit to air and are moved by the embodied winds.
They sing, but lack the heaviness of a heart.
4.09.2009
4.08.2009
cheddar, beer, & superman
San Fransico is horizontal-verticle concrete, steel, and people. There are some plants. There are a few animals. There is a lot of art.
What we do not express, we shove down into the depths. The unconscious is the stew of both creativity and violence.
A population of deer trapped on an island will breed until there is not enough food to support them. They will then become more violent, kill each other off; and the population will achieve equillibrium thusly. It is the same with mice.
Somehow, our social conventions are supposed to keep us from killing each other off once we have reached our environmental saturation point. We ship in food, we build layer-upon-layer upwards, we increase our din; somehow we attempt to cultivate a peace within.
I need a wide swath of space around me. San Fransico amps me up on adrenaline. I get the urge to shove people out of my way. I do it with my mind instead. It's creepy. Beer helps. A lot of people drink heavily in San Fransico. The shadows of the buildings are cold.
People sleep on the sidewalks, build little shanty-huts. They can actually sleep. If I can sleep scrunched up in coach on an airplane, I think I can sleep anywhere. We are adaptable, we can shove down discomfort: compartmentalize. But it takes a toll. Shadows looming for too long overwhelm: rape, inflation, genocide.
We are ticking, this can't be healthy. But we are adaptable. The connections of the world wide web look like a neural network. We are creative, and what we create is still nature.
National Geographic is blasting melting ice caps and dying polar bears. I don't even care about the presidential race. I'm more concerned with getting myself to not want applewood smoked chedder and gouda with fresh baked bread and whipped hippy butter, with luscious rich red wine. I don't want to want bacon.
Should I learn not to say "I should..." while somehow I still live by compassionate ecological principles? The demarcation is murky between 'being' and 'being unconscious'.
I'd rather be un-conscious, but then I feel like I have fangs. Maybe this is the 'left-hand path'. I think I fluctuate wildly between this and the 'right' way. Black and white have a hard time making red, which is many strong beautiful things. Like strawberries, and courage.
Some days I feel we're all doing wonderfully, doing whatever it is we're doing. What is that, anyway? Is it ocillating, 'being' something so that something can resonate us? The fox gloves and the sun outside my west window are very beautiful, rich, lively. The roses are a riot, and the raspberries are beginning to explode into ripeness. What is it I'm doing ruminating: working things out? For whom, beyond myself, when I'd probably be better off laying on the floor, with my cat, in the sun. I feel a goad: DO!!!! I must do, otherwise I am wasting time. What time? This time, when the world seems to be ending, but people are still joking about it, like it may not happen. There's still a chance that it's salvageable, that we can change our whole human cultural world-view and think in terms of seven future generations; that we can get everyone to live that way in twenty years.
Then, like Superman, we send the nuclear warheads into the sun, thereby saving the world.
What we do not express, we shove down into the depths. The unconscious is the stew of both creativity and violence.
A population of deer trapped on an island will breed until there is not enough food to support them. They will then become more violent, kill each other off; and the population will achieve equillibrium thusly. It is the same with mice.
Somehow, our social conventions are supposed to keep us from killing each other off once we have reached our environmental saturation point. We ship in food, we build layer-upon-layer upwards, we increase our din; somehow we attempt to cultivate a peace within.
I need a wide swath of space around me. San Fransico amps me up on adrenaline. I get the urge to shove people out of my way. I do it with my mind instead. It's creepy. Beer helps. A lot of people drink heavily in San Fransico. The shadows of the buildings are cold.
People sleep on the sidewalks, build little shanty-huts. They can actually sleep. If I can sleep scrunched up in coach on an airplane, I think I can sleep anywhere. We are adaptable, we can shove down discomfort: compartmentalize. But it takes a toll. Shadows looming for too long overwhelm: rape, inflation, genocide.
We are ticking, this can't be healthy. But we are adaptable. The connections of the world wide web look like a neural network. We are creative, and what we create is still nature.
National Geographic is blasting melting ice caps and dying polar bears. I don't even care about the presidential race. I'm more concerned with getting myself to not want applewood smoked chedder and gouda with fresh baked bread and whipped hippy butter, with luscious rich red wine. I don't want to want bacon.
Should I learn not to say "I should..." while somehow I still live by compassionate ecological principles? The demarcation is murky between 'being' and 'being unconscious'.
I'd rather be un-conscious, but then I feel like I have fangs. Maybe this is the 'left-hand path'. I think I fluctuate wildly between this and the 'right' way. Black and white have a hard time making red, which is many strong beautiful things. Like strawberries, and courage.
Some days I feel we're all doing wonderfully, doing whatever it is we're doing. What is that, anyway? Is it ocillating, 'being' something so that something can resonate us? The fox gloves and the sun outside my west window are very beautiful, rich, lively. The roses are a riot, and the raspberries are beginning to explode into ripeness. What is it I'm doing ruminating: working things out? For whom, beyond myself, when I'd probably be better off laying on the floor, with my cat, in the sun. I feel a goad: DO!!!! I must do, otherwise I am wasting time. What time? This time, when the world seems to be ending, but people are still joking about it, like it may not happen. There's still a chance that it's salvageable, that we can change our whole human cultural world-view and think in terms of seven future generations; that we can get everyone to live that way in twenty years.
Then, like Superman, we send the nuclear warheads into the sun, thereby saving the world.
things to consider
strawberries
lime green, turquoise, yellow, and white
'waste'-lands...
infinity
oranges
plum wine
apple blossams
spider webs
silk
floating dust motes
light beams
red on black
freckles
buddha consciousness
basketball
pineapple sage
hummingbirds
ocean horizen
einstein
baklava
entheogenic experiences
the scent of roses
pi
explanations
courage
gods
chickens
brotherhood
wind
the speed of the earth's rotation through space
posture
paintings
feelings
breathing
air
velvet
penguins
untrodden snow
livestock domestication
tree trunks as plant stems
lusty trees
monkies
deep sea creatures
rusty nuclear warheads
teflon
acrobats
status symbols
metaphors
time
genuinity
generosity
nonverbal communication
laughs
annoyances
discipline
punishment
reflection
altruism
river rocks
sand
beach dross
warrior-cultures
unexplainable phenomena
life eats life
gambling
feral humans
war vs. civilian shootings
hatred-fear-violence: it's complex
people
need
love.
lime green, turquoise, yellow, and white
'waste'-lands...
infinity
oranges
plum wine
apple blossams
spider webs
silk
floating dust motes
light beams
red on black
freckles
buddha consciousness
basketball
pineapple sage
hummingbirds
ocean horizen
einstein
baklava
entheogenic experiences
the scent of roses
pi
explanations
courage
gods
chickens
brotherhood
wind
the speed of the earth's rotation through space
posture
paintings
feelings
breathing
air
velvet
penguins
untrodden snow
livestock domestication
tree trunks as plant stems
lusty trees
monkies
deep sea creatures
rusty nuclear warheads
teflon
acrobats
status symbols
metaphors
time
genuinity
generosity
nonverbal communication
laughs
annoyances
discipline
punishment
reflection
altruism
river rocks
sand
beach dross
warrior-cultures
unexplainable phenomena
life eats life
gambling
feral humans
war vs. civilian shootings
hatred-fear-violence: it's complex
people
need
love.
power of names
Words have the ability to create. Specific words evoke moods; meter and sound evoke music. Language enfolds the listener and speaker into fluid feeling.
Words can move, and wound. Rhetoric can build and destroy empire. Propaganda can unify and stultify. Words have power.
That which remains undefineable remains inconceivable, mysterious. It may be approached, but never controlled. But subtlety can delicately poke--
--the ephemera gently evoked may eventually coalesce into some semblance of sense: in the metaphor of the lightbulb popping on, a whole new world becomes available for sensing.
Within this music, language, is the prerequisite~union, between two or more disparate spirits who seek to communicate. It requires both calculation and abandon. It rests upon the razor plane of pleasure and pain. Honesty is an arrow aimed at a place in a person: either in the belly, heart, or brain.
How do we know when to be kind, careful, sane, or sarcastic?
(God) knows.
Words can move, and wound. Rhetoric can build and destroy empire. Propaganda can unify and stultify. Words have power.
That which remains undefineable remains inconceivable, mysterious. It may be approached, but never controlled. But subtlety can delicately poke--
--the ephemera gently evoked may eventually coalesce into some semblance of sense: in the metaphor of the lightbulb popping on, a whole new world becomes available for sensing.
Within this music, language, is the prerequisite~union, between two or more disparate spirits who seek to communicate. It requires both calculation and abandon. It rests upon the razor plane of pleasure and pain. Honesty is an arrow aimed at a place in a person: either in the belly, heart, or brain.
How do we know when to be kind, careful, sane, or sarcastic?
(God) knows.
American Soul?
Amidst the tide of roiling black
suits and gray streets
teeming with the breathlessness
of exhausted tail pipes,
the din of apes' hoots,
stock market drama
and bright, glittering lights
that vehemently demand
purchase
lest you fail to support our progress:
the signs are all around you,
lusty talk of sex and seduction,
the leading practical remedy
for chaste market behavior;
the landscape is vivid with tall order fortune,
the ground is cold,
inhospitable to life and sitting,
the pavement was made for spitting,
a splitting of the walker from the driver,
both heading toward the impossible dream,
the quest for immortality.
See your ephemeral face
in the dark maw
of a tall french roast coffee, black,
rippling a promise of communion.
The gusto of your speech
lasts as long as the pinnacle trembles,
and crashing we fall for another cup.
Roasted beans and speed dreams,
the demands for adrenaline
increases through age and time;
your needs, and mine, are squandered to
eventual heart attacks
in lonely homes
in neighborhoods where nobody knows your name.
Pick pockets and prostitutes
are reminders from the gutters
of where our true aims lie--
and lest I lie to you,
find our religious sentiment
on the green bill we barter our lives for:
'In God we trust'
to sort it all out for us in the end.
While we practice petty royalty,
our kingdoms and feifs our due,
twin lives are at stake:
our present and future.
Longing we, for the darker clutches of comfort without conscience,
our slaves toil supplying
our low-priced merchandise
and our exotic, ripe food-fare:
but what of the soil?
Brown is the color of life,
black speaks the richness of the earth.
Somewhere between our White House
and pale marble monuments
our souls froze and forgot
how to take our shoes off
and test the water for ourselves
with our own big toe.
Smoke and sickness signify
our own land is fast-becoming a war-zone:
displaced propriety and ancient conventions
shunted aside harbinger the tide is turning
to the 'cide of our own genesis.
What, with liquid lavender eyeliner
for 2 bucks--
what a steal!
Close your eyes and obsess about
the omnipotent nature of consumption:
converting beauty into commodity,
manufactured, priced, and discounted,
bargain-binned, blown out, and tossed
into the garbage as worth-less.
It is worth less than a moment of time
to dream and realize
the impoverished integrity of our ability to commune.
We are a people divided, and conquered,
ever competing for resources
and sources of compliment.
Look to the harsh realities of fools
who flout the decent, hard-work ethic of career-retire-and-die:
no legal recourse for them to sleep and eat,
thrown off and away as chaff is from grain.
How can we trust in God to deliver us
from the treachery of our present demise?
God laughs at our prayers for rest and--
demands from us
--something better?
How shall we enrich God's life?
What deeds may we engage
to escape the paradox
of princely slavery?
What beautiful utopian vision may we all hark toward
as the bright temple of our most treasured will?
What is freedom?
Significant advances in the technocratic autocracy
have furthered our understanding
of our inherent capacity
to Love
And yet
we are ingrained with the thirst for blood
by the religion of war we make:
not on the national scale,
(politicians playing games)
the war is present in our
conversational notions of conquering doubt,
winning the argument:
sparring.
A joke can maim, looks can kill-
we are a ruthless race of petty, incompetent
heart squabblers.
Perhaps instead we could rejoice
in the union of shared presence,
school ourselves away from
accumulating points,
listen with reverence,
and applaud the well-said.
These I offer as seeds, only,
for the discriminating gardener in you.
Technically, I love a good fight,
the high, the fire, the battle between wits
evenly matched, neither giving an inch
and hopelessly clenched in the clash:
but I will die trying to be cognizant
of the divine spark in you,
in your dubious 'rightness',
in the fact that we are both blessed to be alive
and meeting in this moment.
A probable reality, my fellows,
is that we will all die if we do not learn
to truly love
for when we love, it is not just a mixing of fluids:
when we love we unify with that
which is divine;
we dissolve and reassemble to our own peculiar essence.
Die to that which is forbidden
and be born again
as a temple of the source of all creation.
So forget the petty observations and smile:
people like it.
suits and gray streets
teeming with the breathlessness
of exhausted tail pipes,
the din of apes' hoots,
stock market drama
and bright, glittering lights
that vehemently demand
purchase
lest you fail to support our progress:
the signs are all around you,
lusty talk of sex and seduction,
the leading practical remedy
for chaste market behavior;
the landscape is vivid with tall order fortune,
the ground is cold,
inhospitable to life and sitting,
the pavement was made for spitting,
a splitting of the walker from the driver,
both heading toward the impossible dream,
the quest for immortality.
See your ephemeral face
in the dark maw
of a tall french roast coffee, black,
rippling a promise of communion.
The gusto of your speech
lasts as long as the pinnacle trembles,
and crashing we fall for another cup.
Roasted beans and speed dreams,
the demands for adrenaline
increases through age and time;
your needs, and mine, are squandered to
eventual heart attacks
in lonely homes
in neighborhoods where nobody knows your name.
Pick pockets and prostitutes
are reminders from the gutters
of where our true aims lie--
and lest I lie to you,
find our religious sentiment
on the green bill we barter our lives for:
'In God we trust'
to sort it all out for us in the end.
While we practice petty royalty,
our kingdoms and feifs our due,
twin lives are at stake:
our present and future.
Longing we, for the darker clutches of comfort without conscience,
our slaves toil supplying
our low-priced merchandise
and our exotic, ripe food-fare:
but what of the soil?
Brown is the color of life,
black speaks the richness of the earth.
Somewhere between our White House
and pale marble monuments
our souls froze and forgot
how to take our shoes off
and test the water for ourselves
with our own big toe.
Smoke and sickness signify
our own land is fast-becoming a war-zone:
displaced propriety and ancient conventions
shunted aside harbinger the tide is turning
to the 'cide of our own genesis.
What, with liquid lavender eyeliner
for 2 bucks--
what a steal!
Close your eyes and obsess about
the omnipotent nature of consumption:
converting beauty into commodity,
manufactured, priced, and discounted,
bargain-binned, blown out, and tossed
into the garbage as worth-less.
It is worth less than a moment of time
to dream and realize
the impoverished integrity of our ability to commune.
We are a people divided, and conquered,
ever competing for resources
and sources of compliment.
Look to the harsh realities of fools
who flout the decent, hard-work ethic of career-retire-and-die:
no legal recourse for them to sleep and eat,
thrown off and away as chaff is from grain.
How can we trust in God to deliver us
from the treachery of our present demise?
God laughs at our prayers for rest and--
demands from us
--something better?
How shall we enrich God's life?
What deeds may we engage
to escape the paradox
of princely slavery?
What beautiful utopian vision may we all hark toward
as the bright temple of our most treasured will?
What is freedom?
Significant advances in the technocratic autocracy
have furthered our understanding
of our inherent capacity
to Love
And yet
we are ingrained with the thirst for blood
by the religion of war we make:
not on the national scale,
(politicians playing games)
the war is present in our
conversational notions of conquering doubt,
winning the argument:
sparring.
A joke can maim, looks can kill-
we are a ruthless race of petty, incompetent
heart squabblers.
Perhaps instead we could rejoice
in the union of shared presence,
school ourselves away from
accumulating points,
listen with reverence,
and applaud the well-said.
These I offer as seeds, only,
for the discriminating gardener in you.
Technically, I love a good fight,
the high, the fire, the battle between wits
evenly matched, neither giving an inch
and hopelessly clenched in the clash:
but I will die trying to be cognizant
of the divine spark in you,
in your dubious 'rightness',
in the fact that we are both blessed to be alive
and meeting in this moment.
A probable reality, my fellows,
is that we will all die if we do not learn
to truly love
for when we love, it is not just a mixing of fluids:
when we love we unify with that
which is divine;
we dissolve and reassemble to our own peculiar essence.
Die to that which is forbidden
and be born again
as a temple of the source of all creation.
So forget the petty observations and smile:
people like it.
The Dancer
The lady moves, wild and sensual,
rhythmic and anticipatory
in the dim lights shrouding
a dance floor.
She has come here to unburden
a pent-up heart and will,
muddied with the moneyed way of living.
She has come to commune with heart beat,
to allow her feet and hips and hands
to appreciate song
and to gesticulate her reply
en motion.
She has come to the night
for release
from grief and screaming,
rage, hatred, disappointment, and frustration.
Her body is the cauldron
and her dancing the transformation
of a thousand mini-deaths
into joy.
She has come to find
in her dancing
her own soul
and its connection back
to the source.
The dance is her religion.
She does not dream
of fucking
when her wings unfurl on the dance floor.
In fact, her mind is so clear
she thinks of nothing,
allowing the music to consume her.
But the dance floor is a public place,
perhaps unsafe
for the remembering of the sacred.
Perhaps the soul needs confining
within the neat wing-clippings
of conformity and institution
to protect tender women from
the predatory natures
of wild, lustful men.
Perhaps this woman sins
when she dances freely.
Perhaps she has no right
to sweat and sway
to laugh and leap
to stalk the wayward beat
upon the jungle that is the dance floor.
But maybe she
is wild as a panther,
wicked as a crow
who snatches what she sees as beautiful.
Maybe she has no recourse but to dance
lest her lover be devoured by her anger.
Maybe her dancing keeps Kali at bay,
and Durga in check:
keeps the Medusa within her
from turning her heart into stone.
Would you kill the bird that sings?
This dancer has wings.
And within her intricate movements
she recounts the breeze trembling the leaves
on trees and the glide of the creek over stone.
She obeys the will of the Mother
whose pulsing heart thrives in life
and keeps the Great Love flowing.
Though she may be plagued
by restless demons
desiring to impede
the fluidity of her spirit:
she remembers the great darkness
that sought to steal the grace and magic
of her mothers.
The dance is her light in the darkness,
her holy and blessed communion
in a world of men gone mad on profanity.
Her dance is her reunion.
rhythmic and anticipatory
in the dim lights shrouding
a dance floor.
She has come here to unburden
a pent-up heart and will,
muddied with the moneyed way of living.
She has come to commune with heart beat,
to allow her feet and hips and hands
to appreciate song
and to gesticulate her reply
en motion.
She has come to the night
for release
from grief and screaming,
rage, hatred, disappointment, and frustration.
Her body is the cauldron
and her dancing the transformation
of a thousand mini-deaths
into joy.
She has come to find
in her dancing
her own soul
and its connection back
to the source.
The dance is her religion.
She does not dream
of fucking
when her wings unfurl on the dance floor.
In fact, her mind is so clear
she thinks of nothing,
allowing the music to consume her.
But the dance floor is a public place,
perhaps unsafe
for the remembering of the sacred.
Perhaps the soul needs confining
within the neat wing-clippings
of conformity and institution
to protect tender women from
the predatory natures
of wild, lustful men.
Perhaps this woman sins
when she dances freely.
Perhaps she has no right
to sweat and sway
to laugh and leap
to stalk the wayward beat
upon the jungle that is the dance floor.
But maybe she
is wild as a panther,
wicked as a crow
who snatches what she sees as beautiful.
Maybe she has no recourse but to dance
lest her lover be devoured by her anger.
Maybe her dancing keeps Kali at bay,
and Durga in check:
keeps the Medusa within her
from turning her heart into stone.
Would you kill the bird that sings?
This dancer has wings.
And within her intricate movements
she recounts the breeze trembling the leaves
on trees and the glide of the creek over stone.
She obeys the will of the Mother
whose pulsing heart thrives in life
and keeps the Great Love flowing.
Though she may be plagued
by restless demons
desiring to impede
the fluidity of her spirit:
she remembers the great darkness
that sought to steal the grace and magic
of her mothers.
The dance is her light in the darkness,
her holy and blessed communion
in a world of men gone mad on profanity.
Her dance is her reunion.
Quote o the Day
"I tell you: one must have chaos in one, to give birth to a dancing star."
"Write with blood: and you will discover that blood is spirit."
"He who writes in blood...does not want to be read, he want to be learned by heart."
"My brother, if you are lucky you will have one virtue and no more: thus you will go more easily over the bridge.
To have many virtues is to be distinguished, but it is a hard fate; and many a man has gone into the desert and killed himself because he was tired of being a battle and battleground of virtues...
"Behold how each of your virtues desires the highest place: it wants your entire spirit, that your spirit many be ITS herald, it wants your entire strength in anger, hate, and love.
Every virtue is jealous of the others, and jealousy is a terrible thing...
He whom the flames of jealousy surround at last turns his poisoned sting against himself, like the scorpion."
"...courage wants to laugh."
"He who climbs upon the highest mountains laughs at all tragedies, real or imaginary.
Untroubled, scornful, outrageous - that is how wisdom wants us to be: she is a woman and never loves anyone but a warrior."
THUS SPOKE ZARATHUSTRA (selections)
~Nietzsche
"Write with blood: and you will discover that blood is spirit."
"He who writes in blood...does not want to be read, he want to be learned by heart."
"My brother, if you are lucky you will have one virtue and no more: thus you will go more easily over the bridge.
To have many virtues is to be distinguished, but it is a hard fate; and many a man has gone into the desert and killed himself because he was tired of being a battle and battleground of virtues...
"Behold how each of your virtues desires the highest place: it wants your entire spirit, that your spirit many be ITS herald, it wants your entire strength in anger, hate, and love.
Every virtue is jealous of the others, and jealousy is a terrible thing...
He whom the flames of jealousy surround at last turns his poisoned sting against himself, like the scorpion."
"...courage wants to laugh."
"He who climbs upon the highest mountains laughs at all tragedies, real or imaginary.
Untroubled, scornful, outrageous - that is how wisdom wants us to be: she is a woman and never loves anyone but a warrior."
THUS SPOKE ZARATHUSTRA (selections)
~Nietzsche
4.07.2009
the green glow
The green glow
is the reflect of the spectrum
sending grow light into the mind's eye.
It is the soul shine, aliveness
in matrix thriving
on love redoubled
by mates, finding.
Each Being has the green
in the deep need to meet, mingle
and reconfigure from material
to mutual synergy;
look to that harmony
and see synchronicity
banishing Time to wave-washing Now.
The core of the moment
is headied by scents of all flowers
that only bloom to the nascent jewel
of the enjoyer's delight to commune.
The Moon gives a green glow
when she's blood red and in tune
with the movement of our own heavenly body.
She too follows the flow
of the ocean that is the universe;
but first, she reaches deep into her womb
to find the beat-pulse
of the wave light,
embodying it in gravid matter,
shaping it like clay
then breathing it into Being.
This is life creation
evident in perpetual motion-
we are in no danger of frozen zero voidness
for this would be a before, and minus soul.
Phoenix spirit is the beginning of any undertaking;
fire the womb fluid feeding
stirring infants striving toward completion,
an aim enmeshed with reason,
in accord with the seasons,
following the revolution
of the cosmos' perpetual eye-blink.
How does this Mind think,
following what seems pre-planned geometry,
spirals, and light-encoding?
How does its heart beat,
bringing green light just in time
for such a vastness to thrive?
Is love too human an affair to ascribe also to the Divine?
Does what I imagine
contain the shape and sight
of the God-eye?
As fleeting yet essential
as a gene expressing my human potential;
one piece of an entirety.
And what of our collective Dream:
minds meeting and hearts beating,
dreaming the multiple weavings
of Reality into its own semblance of Being.
It seems always
there is a series of ever-increasing repeats;
complexity a perspective of the larger holonic architecture.
If we are content to be
the organelle of a cosmic cell
would it be easier then to listen
to the larger voice, whispering
the shape and constellation
particular to our human selves?
Just listen, and breathe;
You will hear what it is you need.
is the reflect of the spectrum
sending grow light into the mind's eye.
It is the soul shine, aliveness
in matrix thriving
on love redoubled
by mates, finding.
Each Being has the green
in the deep need to meet, mingle
and reconfigure from material
to mutual synergy;
look to that harmony
and see synchronicity
banishing Time to wave-washing Now.
The core of the moment
is headied by scents of all flowers
that only bloom to the nascent jewel
of the enjoyer's delight to commune.
The Moon gives a green glow
when she's blood red and in tune
with the movement of our own heavenly body.
She too follows the flow
of the ocean that is the universe;
but first, she reaches deep into her womb
to find the beat-pulse
of the wave light,
embodying it in gravid matter,
shaping it like clay
then breathing it into Being.
This is life creation
evident in perpetual motion-
we are in no danger of frozen zero voidness
for this would be a before, and minus soul.
Phoenix spirit is the beginning of any undertaking;
fire the womb fluid feeding
stirring infants striving toward completion,
an aim enmeshed with reason,
in accord with the seasons,
following the revolution
of the cosmos' perpetual eye-blink.
How does this Mind think,
following what seems pre-planned geometry,
spirals, and light-encoding?
How does its heart beat,
bringing green light just in time
for such a vastness to thrive?
Is love too human an affair to ascribe also to the Divine?
Does what I imagine
contain the shape and sight
of the God-eye?
As fleeting yet essential
as a gene expressing my human potential;
one piece of an entirety.
And what of our collective Dream:
minds meeting and hearts beating,
dreaming the multiple weavings
of Reality into its own semblance of Being.
It seems always
there is a series of ever-increasing repeats;
complexity a perspective of the larger holonic architecture.
If we are content to be
the organelle of a cosmic cell
would it be easier then to listen
to the larger voice, whispering
the shape and constellation
particular to our human selves?
Just listen, and breathe;
You will hear what it is you need.
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