Other is I

Scroll – Down: In which palate waves splatter paint,
a whirlpool in an ocean,
a sea gull in a fire,
a page turned libertine
Canvas: particle accelerator
The positive dares hope.
golden rule: all is junk
time zones in memory like mediums in expression
genetics of genetics: conception
history of creation: myth, like the metaphysical & pseudo personal tracing of the central nervous system
(outlet for outlet as access)
= plug in
{object of object – aimless; form of form – domain of passion
language as activism of that which goes “unsaid”, a dormant volcano
like materialism, but spiritually epic;
need, like “friend” or “food stamp”, where form & object meet
context as formless
form of formless – semantics?
absolute positivism: indifference of specialists
difference between need and addiction – difference between truth and violence
difference between verbal and non verbal – inexpressible
cue –
connection of disconnection – interpretation?
representation of desire, like the sensation of sensation or resentment: lost in time or found in loss. like a sailor’s hope, but sober as a star.
poem petit: words on a page resemble the creases of a crumpled sheet of paper. such is the geometry of fiction.
state of being, whether in book form or body, as poetry
poetry of poetry: conversion
fear of fear: scare or be scared
my self: identity of light (over-look my incoherence)
sign as synergy
sign of sign as signal
signal as a form of recognition (the familiar, being the most common & pervasive)
irony as death of paradox … a re-birth?
limit of speech: “speaker”
of of of: a stutter; like progress, but
evolving: the process of re- tracing our origins
the recovering-reporter as one who may transform the gravity of crisis and its shock value into the gravity of gravity – a social science.
( is where good and story intersect – freedom or merely an expression?)
if the living memory is as language, is the “spoken” the memory of the living dead?
language of language as l-imitation:
language is to time as mortality is to the self: these are concepts of reality that define the intervals by which we transform. transformation is like change, but personal as “a first kiss.” Awww. it is keeping track of what is gone. the records are obituaries. the obituaries are copy cats.
language as metaphor for itself and thus, prone to animating identity theft (like language, but linear) – a false prophet between the realm of the senses and the rules of physics, a salesman between memory and time, a character actor between real and thing, a resistance between the artificial and the assimilating…barely there…but everywhere…
in saying so, I become said.
its’ revelation constitutes in realizing the angel is a mercenary, wall street is broke, otherisi, & that this is that. the choir sings the laughter of madness.
“art: that’s the problem with art” (Joshua Clover, an artist)
is the critic-victim an exploited poet or a cry baby? is it forced to choose between belonging and non being?
soul as the wounded being between story and sound byte…(like the chick flick stuck between pretense and flux?)
now that language knows what it knows, will it shut up or speak out? to whom it may concern, it will make a difference to no one.
ersatz: the distance between me and you. like gender, but universal as the assigned? (note the tension at the tip of the tongue of the past)
if consciousness is the awareness of change and what it reflects is the projection of its’ inner state, then the life it lives, over time, is a language, like the spectrum of emotions, of selflessness (caught in a current of stream lines?)
deletion as a record of decay… and the erasure of deletion as identity (oppositional and left out, inimitable as a fingerprint, guided by belief, like editing or building up)?
(difference between the irreversible and ignorance: difference between forgetting and the forbidden)
limit of limit as identity; always temporary
identity of identity: isolation
isolation of isolation as ironic negentropy: like advantage, but hopeless; like criticism, but useless; like recycling, but wasted; like resurrection, but self destructive…
Definition; In a formation of forming (as in a creative work, an unfollowed example, a missed chance, a dream in “reverse”, or a mirror – solidified as it is shattered) aesthetics, as an overall consistency (constant as the habit of habit or “life is beautiful”) links the absence of the creator with the presence of the inexpressible or the absence of an author with the presence of a creator TO the progression of the elusive or the illusion of progress BY the production of an use-less object?! In retrospect, it resembles a lattice of lost time, a peril-less parallel whose power(lesness) is in building a mate for ethics? Like, wishful thinking? Like generosity, but selfish; like a villain, but masked; like a limit, but accepted. In real-time (city of wind), aesthetics, or rather – Beauty, is distortion.
if visibility is to aesthetics as speech is to language; is publicity the market-medium in which one imitates the other?
{if wishes were beggars, horses would ride:
speech, when copied
speech, when copied
speech, when copied
becomes spoken
though spoken, speech, when copied, is not heard by listening}
language as the appearance of knowledge, really-illusory as the possession of desire, a wave of sound
is the expectation of expectation – impulse? like wisdom, but common as nonsense.
Who governs our relations./?
a stampede of hooves: Can it be said that the identity of matter is speed in movement and that identity is the movement of matter?
“God was momentum then, stamping times blanks with its own image.”
(movement of (matter) of matter) is speed in movement,
& the (reflective) derivative of the origin, once distributed, is a delay in time?
story ~ multipli-city, a system of belief bridging the gap between here and gone, like the metaphor of performance straddles memory and tool
is the only-every character the story-teller ?
capital city as the only hypothetical scenario
the art of losing: letting go of what you don’t have. oh, but what joy & woe!
A clumsy but compelling grasp:…..it’s as if the compromise of compromise is performance…I’m thinkingvaguely of wave-particle duality and wave-function collapse (as a model for example)…if the act of measurement determines the observed and the observer determines the act of measurement, a way to link an endless regression (a la Cartesian theatre) and an essentially elusive reality with practical considerations (suspension of contradiction & facticity for tea time), action with actor/ who-what)) is by the metaphor of performance – which like a universal of universal or anticipation of anticipation (“event”) – maintains balance by allowing displacements in time to exist simultaneously…an opportunity to re-discover, empathize, and experience directly? (in addition to the junction or adjacently: performance art challenges the limits of acceptance while insincerity between persons makes daily life insecure & accidental)
the creative act as the only living thing
metaphor of performance as a disappearing of absence, a seeking to look away from myself (?)..a nearing silence….
intimacy – a looking away from myself
voice: technique of echoes, rendering the dance of veils between self (ineffable), performer(the ability to anticipate), and actor (time-state line/ form of expectation/impression of relief/fixed-fluid/imitable phenomenon)
literally speaking: “politics” as world stage; politics as entertainment
identity as vehicle of mobility (& engine of change?)
theatre of competition, business of enlightenment, unfeeling of envy & insecurity; like repetition, but neighboring? like cause and effect, but coinciding? like species, but engendering? like belonging, but towering?
(instant) expectation: add urgency to isolation/ like insult to injury, client to company, command to customer, conspiracy to paranoia, costume to identity, chaos to habit/ “doyougetit?” / like authority, but pressured / like a formula, but EdGy as a QuIcK fIx
{history in retrospect: what is saved. not hope, but its’ predecessor} (like a phantasm of authority? like ancestor aspiration?)
consciousness (a process of transcription?), which (in order to imitate continuity? (like hope’s predecessor?)) blurs the line it erects between sacred and taboo, hunger and drug, nature and identity, now and not/right now…like back firing, but certified…like a subject, but reflexive…like a butterfly, but effective…like a tattoo, but branded by the incredible…like the future, but fatalistic?
the continuous is identical to the repetitive; when one represents the other, what is created is an imitation
can an “imitation” (in the context of the abstract implicit (like the shared-personal, a hoax or a concrete evocation)) be conceptualized as a “stillborn” (album cover: I tell you nothing new….is that o.k.?)
the conversation as a memorization of transcription / “establishment of a speaker”/ like fraud, but official; like code, but redundant.
pretense of pretense: publicity
remembering of remembering: memory
remembering of memory as raw material, like the awareness of an impetus that precedes an action – a stake in its’ history, its’ chance, its’ culture, its’ revolution…
choice: double entendre of reason; to dream
choice of choice: an education?
what is valuable is instantly lost; what is fleeting is almost as
is the difference between replacement and release a repetition mistaken for a constant?
link between insecurity & the fear of forgetting: the consciousness of uncertainty, like drawing a blank
Now, what is privacy? A form of trust X Not a secret
society is “realistic”; by appealing to the underdog, it undermines the idealist. it persists by pitting like against like. culture is the stepchild of the imaginary difference – a rebel sell with storytime at its’ fireplace
(+) gender as a celebration of form (is art sexy as god?)
one way = direction
identity of identity as role
direction is predestined in that its’ beginning and end are identical. direction of direction: circular? direction – like a land mark – a neutral & common ground between motive and intent, between aggression and conviction, between language and deception…
is the true feeling of a thought – freedom?
is the director “superfluous” (a stream of consciousness like a word ((where does one begin & the other end) or a formation of forming)
imagination as role play for the living
the ability to imagine… (not the opposite but the) multi-directional – is a/the miracle.
the way to cope with abundance is to share
I can’t pine for totality without creating it in my own image.
is the energy of energy, like the face of ecstasy, a mirror which lives, a release that prays for vitality, a dream that befriends a deceased being? is it the re-moval of my self? darkness and light, a guru?
{telling: “self absorption”
The absorption of a toxin is death.
It’s objectification is hope’s end}
isolation is very, very different from loneliness. loneliness, wet with pathos and fleeting, makes up for its’ blues with its’ novelty. like getting caught in the rain, it’s something that happens, an occasion for a story. isolation is a tragedy that never gets told. is racism the color we give to that estrangement?
temptation of temptation: telling a secret
secret: “unspeakable”
Distrust mistrust
Suspect guilt
in text, metaphor is the performer of meaning. it lends an elasticity in time to allow the reader to catch up with the spoken (as when the actor-empath rolls film to fill the gap between process and articulation). in a way, it is a reversal of the metaphor of performance (a traveling theatre?) in which the spoken allows time to catch up to what is recorded.
also, the roles of work and inspiration are ironic in that their reputations obscure their occupation. work repeats wishful thinking whereas inspiration manifests it. is this the meaning of play? sweat and amusement? like the class conflict of a learning curve?
tragedy as a literary tradition, a flirtation with disaster. like novelty, but serious.
in reading, words replace each other. between reading and reading out loud, a world of difference. namely – sequence, reaching for re-union.
artificial order: sequence; natural order: chaotic; drug of drug: delusion (of fellowsheep?); delusion of delusion:
hallucination or a shared masterpiece
dejavu: variation repeats
time is rhythmic: trustworthy as betrayal. like surprise, always on cue
what is attractive about the readymade is the raw; what is repulsive is the inevitable. is this law?
Can I tell the difference between affirmation and agreement? one is specific and related & the other is general and “relative”? is it close to the difference and resemblance between the optimism of the hopeful and the complacency of the hopeless?
if the economy is one of desire and the state of the body is the self, is the desire of the “economy” like that of the double bind: impossible as temporal dislocation?
would desire, by any other name, rob as blind?
~ * ~
Accountability enables the sharing of freedom.
(is the dark side of accountability the “bad economy”?)
an analogous ratio of proportions (in that they act upon one another?) between the way experience/the relative bias of an ideal (almost synonymous) precisely distorts (by exact inversion or geometry?) reality and the way the economy (whether of anxiety or time management, but either way focused on the constant-immediate needs of the household/physical body) distorts (by re-placement) experience/the relative bias of an ideal… so, what is made? a deception of deception? a fleeting gone? a recognition of a sun stone?!
“a great man is gone” E.E. cummings
relief of relief as an artifact of interest to an archeologist, like a rich man’s tomb to a common thief
making purposeful the involuntary (i.e.: breathing/yogic pranayama) reveals or betrays the line between the conscious and the unconscious as a program. the finer the line, the more gaping the gap between vigilance and insidiousness. like currency, but unquestioned.
the urge to tell a story, like the desire to free a bird from a cage, though it belongs to someone else, the hand reaches out from the heart like a child’s tender scare, an abnormal growth in the puritan’s spectacle and a bucking stang in the oppurtunist’s reigns, a freakish lore, a birth mark that outlives its’ heirs…
Pretty Soon:
Memory is neither singular nor localized. What the poets enter naked as emperors and what the brain scientists hunt to pinpoint is the mystery of remembering- which is not a process so much as the experience of encountering memory at its’ least restrained – the place, cerebral and ethereal, where it seems to radiate so brilliantly that it resembles both source and spring. Away from this site of profound relief, we toss and turn in movie houses and class rooms like the golden dreams of the sun as it sleeps. Aside from a hunger kin to alchemy or perhaps due to, memory is as varied as the anatomy that utilizes it to chart a course through the uncharted.
Craving a specific food, the way the muscles move, scent’s arousal- all these are examples, postures on a carousel that is always twirling out of our hands, a fluttering blur of slides and colors…
A dove with ruffled feathers, a stream of water, a cooing sound in the early dawn, a city- heavy and resting in drowsy grays and pinks, a view from a rooftop, the jagged beatitude of solitude – all these are examples, opportunities for letting go. Our secrecy, like our doubt, is neither rational nor heresy; it is a displacement that transforms from glittering weapon to prayer to art.
the artist as the alienable individual
Where do construction and creativity meet? At aesthetics? like progress, but bewildered?
guilt as selfabsorbed? blame as something to hold on to. to keep the knowledge of ignorance at bay? like, fighting war with swords with arms?
like the pacing of the conscience, the frustration of desire is a dynamic tension, not a dark side
without the knowledge of enlightenment, are we animals in need of rescue? and, with? humane? can the knowledge of enlightenment be described – as chance and lived – as planned? I know this much: when expressed, it becomes inane-profound.
is a deadline what you get when you connect all the dots?
intelligence of intelligence as a sensitivity to resistance…and this writing, as a dutiful examination of the cavities. like a receptor – but petrified in the act of play, like a posture – but posed by delay, a maze I mage?
that which repeats before it arrives leaves a record…
fineline between aesthetic and artifice, one enlightens, the other, toobright tubelight, dulls. art, which embraces its namesake and emerges from its shadow, walks that fine line, re creating it by the hopes and errors of its pilgrimage. like integrity, but imitative. like practice, but preached. like intoxication, but refined. At its’ height, a dashing plan for rescue – like Rapunzel’s braid dangling out of the solitary tower or a budget which gives priority to the hungry and the suffering over the war-mongering and emotionally infantile.
context is natural marketing; marketing is artificial context
What is the difference between generative and imitative – a public sphere? like reflection, but mirrored? or, is it deeper? at the core of the creative element? like origin, but rendered?
theatre as the art of encountering the eternal/perpetual return/recurrence; perfect example: “No Exit”
action-potential as a “metaphor for performance” for the reversible-irreversible membrane; the process is tried; the outcome is tested. (etymology of crucible: melting pot for metals)(etymology of metal: to seek)(etymology of etymology: smart ass)
strain: the moment of dependence coincides with the moment of transition from useful to burdensome
story: existence is the pursuit of sequence
character: the life-less a story takes of its’ own
system of belief: if expectation is groove and rhythm is repetition, automation is sameness, permission is freedom, and variation is the novelty-necessity dance of intrigue between disguise and relief.
in the mind of mind (like god, but impotent) associations become relations and relations become attachments…
inspiration as a precision that spurs movement. like applause, but performative…
what is created as inspiration
family of family as racist ape; evolution of evolution as human potential?
excerpt from my journal: “came body to mind with my own shadow – its gravitational pull – a part of my perception like the angles of the uprooted ground, an intuition like a relation to light, ingrained as the third eye or the circadian rhythm, what it writes – a boundary with two sides – is one ‘mine’ while the other is mortality? A question-mark. As an image, visible but metaphysical, surreal but influential – is it mesmerizing because it is a possession that belongs to no one?”
rimbaud- whose writing reads: why, yes/ why, yes/ why, yes…and so on…
what is the antidote to propaganda? is it intuition? like connective tissue, but conflicted by interest. intuition as a proximity to personal experience that differentiates between the sacred and the profane.
aesthetics as the art of art.
aesthetics as the knowledge of the intuition of other. example: I know that, though estranged and superficial, there is a validity to the impressions I make upon those who observe me as a separate and unified being. It is a quasi objectivity that is useful at times, if only to counter and balance the tissued obscurity of the subjective. as hopeful as an audience, is it a means to financial freedom, a technical quest? or & also: we are equally exposed.
under the heading: Art of Hunger – aesthetic as a signal of satiety
grammar of grammar as a period
the opposite of calligraphy is bullshit.
“In a computer, time is not a continuous flow but a fixed sequence of transitions between states.” ~Pattern on a stone
Henri Bergson believed that time was neither a real homogeneous medium nor a mental construct, but possesses what he referred to as Duration. Duration, in Bergson’s view, was creativity and memory as an essential component of reality.
As if the transcription of duration re-produced an anomaly rather than preserved a refreshing modernity….
perspective of perspective as observer
In duration, calculation, though creative, systematic, and consistent, is not isolated as it is in the disciplines devoted to it like cults to temples but plays a part of service & even, harmony – a hybrid of closeness (temporality in which it obstructs & represents the perspective of perspective) and distance (in which its identity, relative, is most apparent). Can this be called the free will of a player of chance? Like a radio, but inspired. Like a revolution, but counter intuitive and constant.
injustice system of the prisoner between bars & waiting for bail: guilt as the hopelessness of hope, desire as judge, and what happened as a crime of passion
history of philosophy as the losing battle of self defense or “why, me?” not a judgment – but a disappointment. like a monarchy – but illegitimate.
Is the creative act suspended, like a missing memory, between sacrifice and resurrection? Is its’ by-product – hope? and its’ process – self- evident? An attachment in retrospect, an aspiration in reflection, an inspiration in fact. Like love making, but undone.
On encountering a moving niche in the avant-garde:
Is the lovechild and Madonna of flarf and conceptualism – a personality of a popularity contest? a careless caricature of control? consensual rape? an impossibility, all too well understood?
these stories, like blood on my hands. ourness – whale blubber. I mean it. like vengeance or vagueness – a negative chosen by a missing, like the simultaneous and agonizing desire to disappear and be seen. Point in case: I have feelings. seepings. An imitative tendency – permissive, repetitive, dead on arrival. Please. Don’t be so flippant. Being young means neither immortality, immaturity, nor childishness. Not necessarily.
Abortion of an Unfertilized Egg:
“Dear Sherazade”
double entendre of a letter of endearment,
like I, but other,
self fulfilling prophecy – were you a priestess or an anti-feminist?
isn’t it against someone’s rules to fall in love with the tyrant-king?
were you a story-teller or a story-told?
belief is like a storm in which choice becomes surrender.
cynicism checks the facts.
a thousand and one nights- who has such stamina, these days?
such lust?
ever-appropriated, I don’t mean you, but the voice inside that has lost its way.
threatened by guilt and insulted by its guests, I am sure it was different back then, cooler, somehow.
I can’t help but hope that creative potential isn’t about right or wrong.
or even – redemption.
I imagine you – a child dressed in rags, crouched in the darkness of doubt, dreaming of riches.
is it denial or appeal?
only natural, I want to transform.
trapped in history, is it justified? as the none-one, did you owe your gratitude to suffering and did suffering owe its revelation to your memory?
is it mercy or mockery? is it still there?
non-stop and twisted, word on the street is, “the things she can do with her tongue!”
the kindest way to treat shame may yet be to romanticize its existence, exaggerate its humility, take its heavy hands in yours…
its’ moonlit mass, a great suspense.
The Egyptian:
(subtitle: mystic aesthetic, ghost of ghost; like a yard, but grave; like a medium, but channeled)
As self, I am the rope tied around the waist of a man
sent to swim in the deepest of wells, its depth- unknown.
As body, I am dung beetle, destined to enliven filth
and, in due course, as priest, I am called to summon, within my discomfort and squalor, spirit:
the resemblance to heaven and sun, their will,
their volition, their rolling together like cinema lovers towards the future,
incestuous, corrupt, and beautiful as a golden adverb or moonlight
painting the garden silver as a mirage.
As eye catching, I am as sensitive as the stalking, spying, bristling judgment of a cat,
being touched by every sound and second.
Student and teacher, lore and
lure, pomp and civilization, question of survival…
Answer, inspired, I am the opportunist stroke
of a naked arm, dipped in water, like pen in ink, braiding reed, deed,
and fellow like dark does night.
I fear not, for my gods
are by my side. My brother is an actor and my mother, kneeling by the bank – growing, shrinking, large and
distant, cowering graceful in her position – queen of the curved shell –
she is mine like the bite I take.
For me, she steals from her own mouth. And later,
in revenge, she trades me for a jewel like a ration card.
what came before will come after.
My fate, I engineer like my death I elaborate. My concealment is a kind of preparation, though, in my soul,
that empty seasonal chamber, neither miser nor lush,
I expect nothing but the suffocation of cobwebs and perhaps, one last dream.
My feud is
with the earth, the soil, the hunger that like root, plants me
by my stomach to my feet, by my infant grip to my growing hand, by the paper of papyrus I make
to the stars I chart to keep. Look at my limbs; they are a hallucination of reach.
You ask me, “How is it to be lost?”
I always understood
the language of the animals.
Kin disowned by possession.
Still, I heard and silently learned:
the spiders thin scrawl or the dumb genius of the hog’s stamp.
Now, I speak it pure, and in between forms, I roam as grainy as chewed up cinnamon or
sand caught, like desert sequin, in the sweat between toes….
Jung: “My thesis then, is as follows: in addition to our immediate consciousness, which is of a thoroughly personal nature and which we believe to be the only empirical psyche (even if we tack on the personal unconscious as an appendix), there exists a second psychic system of a collective, universal, and impersonal nature which is identical in all individuals. This collective unconscious does not develop individually but is inherited. It consists of pre-existent forms, the archetypes, which can only become conscious secondarily and which give definite form to certain psychic contents.”
Players: like recordings, but ambitious
culture’s chaotic methods – popularity of proof, fickleness of passion, pretense of socializing, characterizations illustrated by contrast, & security marked, measured and orchestrated by envy
…the popular as the dependence on initial conditions of chaotic systems or a measure of nothing at its’ peak…in relation to the relative – its’ standard and its’ catalyst… or kin to experience: that which is consuming…
the collective unconscious as a singularity, a sleepwalking giant determined statistically. nowhere to be seen and probably nonexistent. an expression, in individuals, of the desire to belong, equated with the relationship to the popular or ‘relative peak.’ recognizable as nostalgia, greed, or the competitive drive. characteristic of a cynic, it ironically seeks to be convinced. is it symmetrical, identical, or a representation of the consciousness of consciousness? like information, but disembodied. ideally, it is made self-aware as historical as oblivion. (progress?)
(consciousness of consciousness: like identity, but personal as oneself)
{who is the unknown.
like the face of fear or the mask of love,
the unknown is the who.
heroic, tyrannical, & limitless
as potential, he is not the propaganda machine of the common man,
but the sunken mountain of lust
and the flame beast of hunger,
the heartbeat of the poet
and the scourge of the complacent.}
{the melody of drama as the attraction of beauty}
the collective conscious as waste management – trash talk or a ritual of purification – theatre or catharsis – cancerous lymph or hormonal harmony – soul & self expression…
waste as ‘forced to use’; wasteful as ‘used to force’
if vanity is the grey area between vice and virtue, beauty is a forfeited prize fighter between vulnerability and defense. it strikes like lightning or dumb luck, depending on where you’re standing.
“When the sky of transcendence comes
to be emptied, a fatal rhetoric fills
the void, and this is the fetishism of
drug addiction.”
word: sound of a voice voice of a sound: word; sound of a voice: name
what is the poem? : Analogous to Einstein’s Equivalence Principle, Faith inspires hope.
The Loneliness of Literacy or Apocalyptic Text:
(subtitle: tax of extensive reading on the physique)
a sameness, like dark matter, that separates
an inertia, like anti matter, that fuels the seeking that defers
a fear of fear, like a public panic in a life sized room, that uses a key to lock the door
Is it paranoia or safety?
word of word: a restoration of appropriation. like quota, but unfulfilled. always like. never of. a mouthful.
and, said out loud: “what good would crying do?”
what is the difference between isolation and company? is it a corporation or indifference? is it belief or representation? united, we divide. is it madness or genius?
competition of competition: in the event of an opportunity…
is it advantage or exploitation?
post modern as premature
Idea for a story called “Full Moon”: a man who kidnaps an other (an employee- like a mailman or an elevator repairman or an illegal immigrant, delivering fast food while struggling with a language barrier), takes him somewhere clandestine (a warehouse), ties him up, takes his money, and makes him listen to his story. was the kidnapper a failed poet or a flailing novelist or a jilted lover? someone – fired, rejected, failed? a story with the pace of a car chase, running on empty. drugs? yes.
schema: not really fantastic…realistic enough so that the surreal is amplified & resonates….
as for the drugs – perhaps the kidnapper is on some kind of amphetamines whereas in contrast, the kidnapped is under the influence of the former’s violence, a lens through which the events of his daily life are both clarified and distorted. the memories return to serve a savage master. the fragment of something said by an authority on telepathy on television, a grey haired bloke, an irritating encounter with his niece, his anticipation of a breakfast of fried eggs, the precise way in which he prepared them, the absent minded way in which he consumed them…what did it all mean? was he truly alive or only pretending? how important it had seemed…to fulfill the expectations he had formed…how alone he remained in his mind…
key: the kidnapper is running like hell from his awareness of himself while maintaining the delusion and fiction that he is living fully. the cost of this absolute deception, with all its flying colors and explicit remarks, is a naked, desperate root. like the cost of fixating on a lack, it is addiction.
not so much the case that the narrator is stressing the narrative element in human events (exaggerating characteristics at expense of likelihood, romanticizing crime & human sacrifice) as the entry of the private man who has suddenly become a victim, in his shock and fatigue and terror, into a psychic state which expands his mind to include and entertain possibilities that seem useless or whimsical to the conscious mind but are perhaps closer to the compassionate workings of social trajectories, when witnessed in all their glory. (a chance to write a dream sequence in which the angels and the demons dance with the farm animals until all that is left of convention’s concoctions is the brilliance of a chair, one in particular – ‘where he was currently bound by the dirty rags of a stranger’s nightmare’)
“for all its horror, it was so damn beautiful”
And why was it horrifying? had the routines which assured his livelihood also villianized his vitality as forceful and irrational? when had the divide sprung up? had he strayed so far in his seeking assurance that he could no longer recognize the strange from the familiar? the self from the imposter? the natural from the grotesque? the social from the foreboding? and this mad man, had he conjured him?
The anguish of the neurotic individual is the same as that of the saint. The neurotic, the saint are engaged in the same battle. Their blood flows from similar wounds. But the first one gasps and the other one gives.
Georges Bataille
“If we choose to act on Dr. Rony Brauman’s assertion that human beings were not made to suffer, we must paradoxically assume a willingness to suffer ourselves. That strikes me as fairly self evident.” Garret Keizer, in Help – the original human dilemma
*essentially, a tale of crossing a threshold…a constant occurrence whose intensity is dramatized & relived (enacted) in formal acknowledgement or publicity – a two headed beast (the elusive nature of the self & the sacredness of its’ pursuit; where We meet) (WE: west & east?)
It is the privilege of a story in the domain of telling that different worlds can exist in the same frame…and the privilege of a consciousness within a narrative (or a character) that he can straddle different worlds. Is this because the story and the character, when isolated, belong nowhere? Is this comparable to the measure of measurement being kin to the isolation of our togetherness? Like the much needed forest that must sprout all at once, the mark of change is always already missing.
what causes the suppression of the involuntary? is it the villianization of the vacuum? in short, the scapegoat?
shadow of shadow as public image
progression of personality: outlier, leader, follower
the edge exaggerates the difference
cosmic personality: principle of incarnation
memorandum: storage Is recycling
Under the heading: Art of Hunger:
abundance of abundance: wealth
wealth of wealth: poverty
abundance of emptiness ~ emptiness of abundance
reward of reward: anticipation
taste is literal. buds hoarde tales of hunger’s travels from touch to passage.
{allowing digestion requires self discipline requires self restraint requires self deprecation requires pretense requires feeding requires selflessness}
“Poverty is the inability to renounce anything. To live in poverty is to exist in a permanent ‘Yes’ relationship to the world. When you have nothing, you must say yes to everything.” Garrett Keizer, Help – the original human dilemma
the china shop of the private which seeks refuge from life’s bullying… would it recognize its’ reflection in the commercial – a public, so finely crafted, its’ rhyme smothers its pulse….?
attachment of attachment: matter of time
inspiration of inspiration: spontaneity
{of that which decomposes: a chain of attachments, like a period of withdrawal or possibility’s backward flow. what if, why not,
sound waves, “hello, goodbye.”}
{language does not create. it is created to preserve creation. does preservation, then, under the credible guise of the secure & the inane surveillance of the default, technically de-compose?}
“I want to reinforce the realization that when speaking of a ‘work of art’ – I believe it is more helpful to consider it as a form of activism (the action equivalent of blissful ignorance. like redemption, but absurd, unconditional, and secular.) and discuss its’ inspiration and mission or gently address the community of issues which perpetuate its’ self consciousness rather than hem and haw over its’ body as a valuable, fetishized object, or false totality. The closest approximation of its’ material being is that of an artifact of that which decomposes, a tissue of a scar, an autograph of a star, or the riddle of a regret that (as the disposed & generic apple core of an unraveling) nullifies the possibility of a future. (for clarification, reference Hephaestus’ Negative or consider the losing chance) Somewhere between a composition and a deconstruction while disobeying both, it is the affirmation of a negative, a validation of a handicap, a space of absence, a relief of release over-looked. Like an allergic reaction or an outburst of emotion, let’s assume responsibility, investigate, and ask, “What is it responding to?””
{when the function of function is form and judgment cites hindsight, but too late, then the jury is out until it’s in on whether the verdict can be sentenced at all or nothing.
play on words: the difference between an idealist and a pragmatist may lie in self reliance}
“ignorance is bliss:
The original is a wistful contemplation of the innocence of youth by the poet Thomas Gray in his Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College (1747), lines 98-100: ‘Thought would destroy their paradise! / No more; where ignorance is bliss / ‘Tis folly to be wise.’ Ignorance here does not carry, as it now often does, a sense of impoliteness; it simply means ‘lack of [adult] knowledge’.”
I hope you understand.
words like coca leaves or nose bleeds, high elevations’ land marks tempting to mean more than meaning itself: like possession, but refusing…
science as a neutrality, positive in relation to the negative and knowledgeable in relation to a lover’s technique. superior to history and inferior to superiority. a servant of and/or to measurement. like gratitude, but economical. within the realm of expectation (a closed system?) until experimental (an engagement of chaos theory?)
can gratitude end unnecessary suffering for good? can purpose free us from the meaning of meaninglessness? can truth survive violence without becoming ugly? can only time tell? can time only tell because it can do little else?
the ironic fate of the salvation of the self – a romance between potential (the poignancy at which dualism is transcended) and the impossible (the pointlessness at which dualism is destructive) like the tension between twins – an acceptance incidentally hindered by including exclusion. within the limits of without, a personal jesus is always also the anti-christ. like sacrifice, but politically correct. a risk of endless regression. like the theme of narcissus echoed through too many ears to be recognized as anything but annoyingly upbeat or naggingly didactic, black or white.
what does it mean to become Christ? to forgive the failed sacrifice? to redeem the crucified savior?
music of music as instrument
delay of delay as … interruption
subjective reality, gross & subtle, as the hunger of the imaginary barrier to break free
conception of conception as birth control, sexual frigidity, or self actualization…
beauty of beauty: self same symmetry? like music, but blinding? like medusa, but in reverse.
art of surfeit: the confusing thing is that to create concepts, one must be well fed. hear me out, this is a personal epiphany and may also help decipher the frustration of artists who struggle with stagnation or forced epiphany. the body must feel a sense of abundance to create creativity (a graceful waste – like the imitation of disgrace, but transformed into a prize by the courtship of romance(?)); however, the actual act of drawing connections, efficient as it is, consumes very little energy. thus, it must be limited to periods of inspiration. as a livelihood, it is either an unrealistic pressure or inexpressible.
business advice: if invention gives birth to itself and when nominated as useful, fathers, by crediting, necessity as its’ mother, and motherhood is a debt to a misnomer that takes over the household like a tornado or time table, then production, capable of make-believing change as constant and hope as work-tobe-done, can be called the parent of pressure. the object of its’ affection is an unrequited devotion.
waste is to production as distraction is to inspiration & urgency is to peace. accidental, intentional, or random…? immaterial? is the remainder – programming?
pressure of pressure as separation and/or merger anxiety. like intimacy, but alien.
on the surface of the dream there was a ring of prostitutes and an insecure hopeful (not I, but a reoccuring acquaintance). they lived in a future of high rises and spacious malls. there was a hollowness and a hardness. like strange gasps, the fresh air came in bursts of commute. their passion was like the colorful colors of the flag of a country with much culture and much suffering. their shame was a wound of desire that, untreated, festered like a prison cell. on the surface of the dream, the power of sex did more than flirted with the sex of power without taking any responsibility for its’ off spring – a beauty so lonely, it wept or became hysteric even as it learned the art it was taught by the ruler who already knew how to mix torture and pleasure. on the surface of the dream, luck seduced me. the ice clinked in the glass of whiskey, and material’s humiliation of mind passed the final sentence: a judgment on imagination’s failure to grasp the sickness of the real neither by sacrifice nor crusade nor cure & reality’s indifference to imagination’s offering of empty bounty. what am I talking about? what is this sickness of the real? is it slander? cursed slander. what is imagination’s offering of empty bounty? is it anything like the hunt I’m on? it sounds complicated and morbid, wasted and fanciful, elitist and exclusive. I don’t know what all these words mean. Am I trying to say that once love is lost, it’s always too late? too late for regret? too late for anything but regret? is it momentum or time pass? is it sped up or backwards? like addiction, I think, when we lose touch with the ideal or contract it into a distant vision of a trophy or something that can be ‘possessed’, we advertise, like dirt does laundry, the profanity of the vacuum which consumes until it, too, is consumed. it is like realization, but miscarried. can it be said that the vacuum of a vacuum is a return to transit, a place which is a passage to itself, a function like a suction? is it an ethical tragedy mourned by oppression or a theoretical anomaly? is it edible, insatiable, or merely appetizing? is it a base or lowly? is it actual or performative? does my uncertainty credit & belie its’ sensational virtuality?
what does it mean to transcend medium?
transcendence organizes duality.
work in progress; like a holy book of faces, but disquieting, digesting, dementional, distracting, and directional as the splintered picture frame of a painting or the black eye of a mug shot – the irreality of subjectivity and the physique of objectivity, between mind and body, where dualism confronts its alter ego – the observance of a fluid phenomenon like the geometric manifold of me and you – not a melting pot, but a violent blender of meaning: like music, but commercial – like an address, but homeless as an airow or missed connection – faint, vague, and persuasive as verbal diarrhea or the last word of the road to loving the otherwise indifferent imagery and detaching from the attachment to suffering: there are no personalities, only perspectives of a mirror. there are no genders, only voice modulations. be like love, they says. there is no final destination, only detours along the way. there are no customers and salesmen, only advertisements with alarming watches and eyes like insomniac street lights. there is no state budget, there are only expensive defenses. there are no gurus, only inner voices. there is no single voice, there are only word banks borrowing from each other’s you know whats. there are no expectations, only becoming beings. there are no monologues, only hormonal imbalances. there is no climax, only a range of peaks. there is neither elixir nor guilty conscience, only temptations, toxins, and dark rooms developing reliefs turned turning transparent in each others’ presences like sleepers dreaming of nodding off. there is no sentiment, there is only the commitment of sanity. there are no impurities, only squeamish energies grooming the marble shavings of the sculptor’s masterpiece like the dance of broom and dust pan. there are no three course meals, only the survival of roaches and crumbs and the gone mad poet with the gun. there are no hidden messages, only anal rays of sun rises. there are no casualties, only surface piercings. there are no threats, only tough bluffs. there are no rules, only runes and ruins, stirred by the whistling of the wind through the heartstrings of the moors. there are no premiums, living trusts, or dead ones, only ears, trained to perk. there are no writers, only word addicts. there are no originals, only imitations and mockeries. there are no celebrities, only famous names like cookie cutter fortunes. there is no to be continued, there are only the needful altars of schizophrenic heritage. there are no murders, only killings of time. there is no news, there are only excitements, momentarily inflated with self importance. there is no advice, there are only small businesses. there are no mistakes, only misunderstood accidents. there are no innocent bystanders, only victims waiting for a chance to strike. there are no misers, only ungenerous charities. there is no audience, only a recoil. there is no organized religion, only faith in chaos. there are no absolutes, only dictations. there are no exceptions, only personal betrayals. there is no clue, only mysteries. there are no constants, only those kind enough to be consistent. there are no relationships, only intimacies like those of doors and hinges. there are no judgments, only desensitized empathies. there are no indubitable planes of existence, only legends of cartographers. there are no certainties, only iron clad contracts like the tyrant of labyrinths. there is no authority, only babies born to outcry. there are no coincidences, only popular past times. there is no projected retrospect, there are only clogged arteries. there are no true deceptions, only overly reviewed performances. there are no frauds, only character artists. there is no order, there are only arrangements of ethics. there is no before and after, there are only lost causes. there is no paradise, only awakenings, ecstasies, and intoxicated comas. there is no theatre, only dramas of blood pressure. there is no reward, there are only gratuities. there is no cost, there are only compensations. there is no margin of loss, there are only spinal columns. there are no face-offs, only vain fishing for compliments. there are no inferiors or superiors, only positions of isolation. there are no insides and outsides, only revolutions. there are no reasons, only side effects. there are no ages, only quantum leaps. there are no impressions, only place holders for absence. there are no disappointments, only high hopes. there is no irony, there are only seasons in hell. there are no optimists, only revisionists. there are no nihilists, only record breaks. there are no repetitions, only x’s who “told you so…onomatopoeia”
pencil sharpening:
precision approximates the actual. in the language game, this means that words pretend to know what they’re talking about.
flow exacts the actual. its’ preservation preserves like solution suspends problems & futures hinge on high expectations. “Tomorrow will be just like yesterday.”
Is the point at which awareness becomes linguistic (literate, vocal, civilized) the beginning and the end of an individual consciousness? As for the death wish, an attraction to repulsion, is it merely the expression of what the non-living, by being, suppresses? So, the death wish is always either the frontier that has already been colonized or its’ embodiment, which is a kind of modern disconnection…an identifying with identity…as if by default…
Is this nihilism or the last hope?
“Who am I?” asks no one…
Is it the terrorist that replies or is it the exhibitionist?
Might it be the playwright?
abrainy day blue:
the perfectionist is lazy. the miser is wasteful. the puritan is anal. & the psychic is unreliable, expensive, and habit forming. ‘so, what is left to one?’ order or else?
a brief history of everything:
the edge as the instrument of manifestation
the edge of the edge as the expectation of form
this is as far as the seeker can go before transforming into the sought, seeking anew.
surrounded by shadows,
light, alone,
falls apart.
the difference between an absolute and a measurement:
what is rewarding?
anticipation or possession?
what is possession?
having or expecting?
what is expectation?
is it past or present?
is it deserving?
what is deserving?
a right or a wrong?
what is wrong?
is it false or hope?
what is this?
is it familiar or fraud?
like pressure, but promising…
is it time or a tight rope?
is it tension or the fall?
like forgetting, but waiting for…
is it closure or opening?
is it deferral or relative?
is it a flat screen or just
more more?
is it trust or taken for granted that it’s the
same as before?
is it truth or deceit?
is it guilt or liberty?
is it one and only?
artificial, real, or corny?
Please, give me an answer;
I don’t know.
How much is too much?
all I possess is the conviction of my uncertainty and the common sense of my conviction.
like taste, but hungry, is emotion just passion, subject to interpretation?
literature, glamorous and deceptive, ironically advertised authenticity as beautiful. was this hypocrisy or tradition? sacred or elitist?
Our imaginary friends don’t get along very well. Yes, I’ve been meaning to say this for some time now. I’ll try to clarify, elaborate, and embellish because that shine that comes from reflective surfaces freshly polished is like waiting for a one eyed stranger to wink. It is fantastic as the poise of deprecation. What I mean is that the people we are not are the only way we have to meet as separate beings. The only way we have to transform into evolution is by meeting as separate beings. It is like reversal, but backwards. It is like karma, but guiltless. It is like scripture, but unfeasible. It is like freedom, but limited. It is like limitation, but allegorical. It is like allegory, but its’ sanctity is undermined by its’ probability and its’ probability is a budget balanced by chance. This is the architecture of archetypes. It is like a free ride, but fractured by structure. When we talk, it is in the language of the missing piece or the practice of chores or the excitement of novel teases. As the meetings stack like paperwork, the people we are not become familiar as the things we carry. Sometimes, the people we are not become the people we must be and sometimes, the people we are not become secrets we seek to share with a special somebody. Sometimes, the people we are not get married and make more people we are not. They call them their children. These children grow up and so on and so forth. Sometimes, the people we are not even become the only ones we are allowed to and/or can be. Like the narrative arc of honeymoon & divorce, imagination’s rainbow has a strange tendency of illuminating the nonexistent and integrating the real until it is unrecognizable. The integration is like the sameness of textiles for the machines that mass produce them. The illumination is like that of light looking through the looking glass or the character housing the book shelf. It is almost like hope, or at least full of it – the way in which is stands out while blending in, like the silver that’s supposedly used to coat mirrors in the modern world or the sinking sensation of spying subs. Like all jewels, it thrives in absence, paranoia, and intrigue. “How rare. How valuable.” the hushed tones deliver. Descriptive and prescribed, I could touch it, this dream of mine. Is it a miracle or a mirage? Alas, its’ self destructive creativity strikes when it strikes like the shock of theft. For one, it is a bargain. For another, it is a crime. For the philosopher’s gift of time, it is Promethean as it is prosaic. I want to find a way to work in the glint that history is a hemophiliac murderer. The blood on its’ hands better be someone else’s. Does this make sense? Here, kindly link the blame game to the fault of ignorance and role play to the lust of hearsay. If one is too attached to here-gones best thrown away or conquests of mythic lands, like the greatest hits of the past decade or fictional races, then when vitality wakes, numbness feels like the drug of grief. With a heartwrenching cry, it mistakes its’ liberty for sorrow. These days, who can tell the difference? Not I.
Season’s shrine:
when an opportunity is placed in the past, it becomes a regret.
regret turns the present inside out, as if looking for a lost key or warning a friend of uncertainty and its’….
when form is shared, it feels like flow.
flow, when felt, undoes the knowledge of the bones, which say
“every one dies alone.”
when flow is seemed to be shared, it forms
pressure, which when formed, feels like force.
hope, when held up high, dis-appoints
here, it rains flame-hued leaves.
like the sound of water, gutter, drain,
their beauty, beyond belief, is immediately forgotten.
Mirror, Mirrored: like catch phrases, but nothing. like autobiography, but fateless. like action, but speechless. like justification, but ambiguous as Houdinni. like the abyss, but voiced. like hypocrisy, but absurd. like a talking box, but shut up. like a punching bag, but harmless. like a criticism, but uncalled for & calloused. like work ethic, but hopeless. like consciousness, but helpless. like a conversation, but choked up. like a virus, but vestigial. like a wave, but frequent. like a movie star, but ordinary as the unreal.
{pain as paradise
compared to numbness
and life as nothingness
compared to nothing…
is limbo, then, the lost ground
of the profound?}
{the human story as oxymoron, disbelief as proof of existence, & belonging as the sweet prelude to possession…}
{force of force as the impressionable will}
{in-formation: look elsewhere. you are not here.}
{becoming : a missed connection}
{The Messiah as one who wants to save what cannot be saved and is turned against one’s knowledge by the position of ownership…
The Betrayer as one who, out of ignorance, damns an other for the sake of self-preservation.
The seeming opposites are antagonists in a conspiracy to kill time. like before and after, but tragic. like entanglement, but simply complex.
Heed Heart to Heart: Sacrifice is forgiveness. Letting go of what’s gone is a release of toxins.}
Word of Mouth:
The pen scratched at the paper with the sad diligence of a lover at a shut door. Romance was one thing. Desperation was another. Make it short and sweet. There was nothing left.
The penmanship posed pretty as a picture. It was finished before it started. Thank god for convenience.
The preconscious repeated itself. Pardon the deception, but the alternative is…
The truth was like wind in the gut. A body could become an instrument to its’ demand. A body could become a monster to its’ sainthood. Give it enough time, gas could become a fashion and myopia, a generational statement like a single eye ball.
Seeker beware: creating is like the cat and the mouse, a friendship of subterfuge, a language of escape. Just when you think things will never change,…
the speechless, like the gifted, like the unforgivable, like the living, like the dead, survives the society of sounds.
November 25, 2010
Close to the present, here, the pen represents an instrument of torture and torture represents the decoy of recollection, a relative of love. The pen is also an anachronism and a source of pleasure. Like beauty. But, this is just me saying so. Words collect together by magnets that defy all but the meaning of meaning, itself. Its’ bulge is like the planet earth or the shackle of patriarchy. But, this is just poetic musing, a pretense of hearsay, a removal of a removal, a vision of the invisible, a disappearance of the unknown. Like beauty. But, this is just me saying so. So, there is a window to my right. I used it earlier in passing, in speech, to make a point about belief. I was lecturing my mother, and she was almost being patient. Did that really happen? This season of genealogy is like a sequence of dreams in which what was perfectly natural during its’ duration seems incredibly irrational in the displacement of its’ … transition? Yes, she stood in front of me as I elaborated on my interpretation of belief and bemoaned its’ baggage while advertising an updated theory. Then, she sat down on my bed. I guess it must have seemed as if I wasn’t going to shut up any time soon. This morning, I’ve also been asking myself “what is violence?” Is it funny? Is it neighbor to the impossible? Is it urgent enough to force? Is it a waste of efficiency? Last night, I had narrowed human opposition down to the sexual urge. I felt like a bloody genius. This morning, I woke up and wished I looked like someone else. A guru frowned. A guru judged judgment and was fired faster than a false god. This cycle of light and dark, like modernist art, is experienced as the fleeting but momentum bearing psyche of a mayan amusement park in which libido is the ticket and the cost. Attachment is the ice cream cone that becomes an atom bomb in jihad or the retirement fund that doubles as a personal grace. ‘Well, there’s at least that which moves with the irony of a speed limit,’ one might say. Sometimes, I just want so bad… Are you in my way? As long as what is mine must not be yours and what is yours cannot be mine… Is it inalienable commentary or a red flag confused for a party favor? The spaces in which I am alone and the spaces in which I am in the company of strangers, the interiors of cars or the intersections of public transportation for example, are grounds for breeding cognitive dissonance like the commandments of ye olde history perpetuate the preservation of an authority of authority in the bad faith of the sinner’s innocence. But, if falsehood is as clear as coming unstuck and coming unstuck is as simple as choosing to refuse the double bind by virtue of human rights, why is Tibet still under the thumb of power for power’s sake? There’s also emotional dysfunction & time management like the careless tango of hormones & ignorance. There is church, state, and gay marriage. But, you try to convince someone to eat their vegetables and take deep breaths when their minds are racing for Paul’s pearly gates. They look at you like a lunatic who thinks she’s the saint for cynics or a pot calling the kettle white. Shouldn’t she be locked up in a monastery or zoo, where she can be humored or studied by those who know? Souvenir or trophy, the prize of the object is the trailer trash of the intangible, or would be anyways, if the two were comparable. If passion is abundance and discipline is transcendence, is destruction like the straw that broke the camel’s back? When all this becomes one more, is the solo that’s sung a lonesome chord?
what is the criticism of criticism? is it a self condemning prophecy or bad publicity?
forgetting appears like nostalgia
and remembering vanishes appearance.
memory, object, is perpetual loss.
its’ traces are there in the insomnia of nihilists and the immolations of selves.
uncarved into trees, like the hopelessness of dreams, lists of to-dos, don’ts, and done-butwhatfor’s?
mock the weary traveler whose friendlessness is a forest, dark as a shadow, and who’s delusion
is a damned piece of cheap craft & luck, like truth, but drunk, like trash, but treasured, like lies, but hallowed
as a heavenly grave.
what is the difference between imitation and replication? is it the fantastic limitlessness of the improbable or the indifference of the id, ego, and superhero?
The difference between the automatic and the organic is hope. Hope is pizza hut on speed dial. Mmm, pizza. Hope is the currency of the current. It is the banker with the reversible buck of credit and debt and the reversible debt of guilt and blame. It is lady luck and losing touch. In the world of rhyme, it is an authority of insecurity. In the mental asylum, it is a refuge from the insane. Like infrastructure but timed to self destruct, hope is the context of the vacuum. A salesman, hope is “man’s best friend,” hoping the welcome mat is literal. Figurative, hope is unfinished business displaced and projected into the poetic fantasy of an eternal character, an immortal blaze, attractive as a box of red hair dye or the mystique of resurrection to the wide-eyed. Hope is a little white lie that imagines itself harmless to get what it wants. Hope is only guilty when proven innocent. Hope is the immediate, extended past expiration. Hope is the focus of distraction and the regret of redemption. Hope is the dead end of the transcendence game. In the gender wars, hope is the baby blue promise of romance. In the grocery story, hope is an identity crisis, desperate to consume. Hope is the faith in a placebo long after the element of surprise has been used to its’ advantage. Hope is the wind, held on to. It is the climax of climax, a catharsis preserved to impotence. Hope is the money back guarantee and the immaturity of growth. A dead ringer for the singular sequence, hope is the creator of creation and old fashioned as apple pie…..
Belief (and believer?) is born with the first bite.
is the moral of the story – the lack of a substitute for experience?
is the difference between god and authority – the desire to punish? what is the difference between a seeker and a slave – the fear of being judged? what is the difference between a hero and a character? is it the hope of reward? or the obligation of worship?
the difference that develops between the economy and the environment, like the overlap of the strange and the familiar or the futuristic and the fatal, is a Frankenstein proportion.
intuition as the meeting place of imagination and reality…
writing of writing: the unwritten
final product: waste
why do I feel so claustrophobic online? is the atmosphere pure peer pressure and the volume – an endless flow of enclosed hopes & enchanted woes? like the stimulation of sensory deprivation or sniffing glue, it exaggerates the surreal until its’ nature is familiar as the forgotten way of life. “we’re all in it together.” does it threaten or imply? the uncertainty wreaks havoc as its’ conviction, the stubbornness of a prisoner, speculates on the origin of loss. the sentence is like regret but endured by the present, “where did go wrong…” “is it time, yet, to belong?” delay upon delay, like optimism with a nose bleed, I don’t mean to be negative, but the forwards I’ve been sent by members of a family who’s legitimacy is in question strike me as further distractions from a pointlessness procrastinated until its’ presence seems pessimistic or worse…
to be open, an ideal of the convenience driven and a false freedom of the famous exhibition, would mean, in loved reality, the right to ask, “what does this all mean?” with no response necessary. in the light of a language that’s gone underground to be intimate with waste and a limit whose spectrum of negative dramatics passes for action by the eater and the eaten alike, I can neither pray nor tell whether the solace of my species is a poetic slaughter or merely the horror of a slasher flick’s suspenseful and darting gaze. is it surveillance by an outside source or a voluntary, if unconscious, broadcast?
the imaginary point, extended line, and/or nonexistent limit at which possession becomes generous, waste becomes gratitude, and permission becomes freedom: a lowest common denominator, objectified in the subject, projected onto the ideal, and sanctified in the valuable. like art, but scarred. like beauty, but bought. like trump, but misunderstood. like obsession, but outdated. like a priority, but neglected. like memory, but terminal. like expectation, but aggressive. like force, but weak. like addiction, but state funded. like fun, but dutiful. like economy, but irrational. like type setting, but literal. like literature, but ironic. like irony, but “you get the idea…”
H. Rackham’s 1914 translation (with major source of Lorem Ipsum highlighted):[2]
[32] But I must explain to you how all this mistaken idea of denouncing pleasure and praising pain was born and I will give you a complete account of the system, and expound the actual teachings of the great explorer of the truth, the master-builder of human happiness. No one rejects, dislikes, or avoids pleasure itself, because it is pleasure, but because those who do not know how to pursue pleasure rationally encounter consequences that are extremely painful. Nor again is there anyone who loves or pursues or desires to obtain pain of itself, because it is pain, but occasionally circumstances occur in which toil and pain can procure him some great pleasure. To take a trivial example, which of us ever undertakes laborious physical exercise, except to obtain some advantage from it? But who has any right to find fault with a man who chooses to enjoy a pleasure that has no annoying consequences, or one who avoids a pain that produces no resultant pleasure?
[33] On the other hand, we denounce with righteous indignation and dislike men who are so beguiled and demoralized by the charms of pleasure of the moment, so blinded by desire, that they cannot foresee the pain and trouble that are bound to ensue; and equal blame belongs to those who fail in their duty through weakness of will, which is the same as saying through shrinking from toil and pain. These cases are perfectly simple and easy to distinguish. In a free hour, when our power of choice is untrammelled and when nothing prevents our being able to do what we like best, every pleasure is to be welcomed and every pain avoided. But in certain circumstances and owing to the claims of duty or the obligations of business it will frequently occur that pleasures have to be repudiated and annoyances accepted. The wise man therefore always holds in these matters to this principle of selection: he rejects pleasures to secure other greater pleasures, or else he endures pains to avoid worse pains.
the model as the loss of perspective. the peak as the fall. the height as the flight. the rise as the record, re-inserted to connect actor with act. key: it doesn’t fit.
the hacker as the personification of a programmer…a cool operator & short cut
when you confuse yourself with your reflection, you become heartless.
scientifically speaking, in the competition between stars, is the only winner the supernova and the only loser – the surviving dispersion and production of heavy elements (in particular, oxygen)?
swan song or why are we having this conversation in the first place?:
relationship as the personality of a shape
language as impulse, automatic, and natural only in relation to the artificial in a false duality (i.e.: script)
the original as spontaneous; the imitation as uncertain
“it doesn’t take personality to be a person; it takes character.”
the rule as arbitrary and decisive
the coaxistence of silence and sound as speech
the coaxistence of pressure and volume as conversation
like a record, but renewable.
like a conscience. but irreverent.
like law, but reversible.
like expression, but suppressed.
like suppression, but expressed.
like production, but saved.
like salvation, but preserved.
like savings, but especially costly.
like harvest, but trashed.
like oil, but virgin.
like a receipt, but ungrateful.
what is, but isn’t.
the rules of force like the games of chance,
tangled in time like webs in prey
attraction and repulsion are not absolutes,
though they may be opposites
A fatal fear of mortality,
like the upcoming end of the world,
a cinematic debut, a shock,
& double
bind, a scandal –
its’ form, to be, desires undoing.
misconstrued, its’ becoming desires form
when witnessed by truth, it is full of lies –
a body of artful deceiving and decoying decay
enviable as the woe be gones and controlled
by the defensive and the vulnerable alike,
its’ beloved image betrays its’ transparency, as if
by clan or clever mistake
poem in-law:
doom, gloom, and bliss
so shadow gives shade
and shade carries a child like chill
as if in shackles to motherhood,
a season of being outcast
the limit of love
a changeling
there is something in the air
like addiction, it reeks of despair
but advertises as desire
my personal paranoia, like a vestigial
organ of my untraceable resentment
not a heart, but a rotten vegetable.
its’ blood, like ketchup.
difference between code and content: is it intention or animation?
intention of intention: like taking out the trash? or refusing irresponsibility?
what is the judgement of forgiveness? is it sacrifice?
and if sacrifice is what is lost, then what is left?
is it the limitation?
this surrounding jungle – like now, but removed from memory & represented by absence (similar to how emotion is suppressed by sentiment and sentiment is suppressed by analysis?)
time: the sharing of ownership
if expectation is a reason to sleep, then inspiration is a reason to dream. And against all reason, what is real resembles what is different…as if giving reason to the absurd, absurdity to the rational, & cause to the conscious.
the tendency of identity to monopolize experience…the tendency of monopoly to standardize experience…the tendency of standards to limit possibility by acting as an authority. to limit possibility: an impossibility? impossibility: fundament of isolation
what is the difference between consistency & continuity? text-ure? like censor, but slandered? or a record? like a pattern, but figurative. like speed, but racing.
what is the difference between a reaction & a response? is it integrity? or a lone?
what is the difference between an honest exchange & a power struggle? is it a system of belief or bad faith?
is there enough time to tell?
*where guilt and freewill meet: the beginning of the record – which (technically speaking) is also the end as differentiated from the timelessness of the recording which is the network of intelligence or the attention paid*
A human in a man made trap is an uncertain creature sure of her imprisonment. This is more than an optical illusion or a bouquet of flowers. This is reality at its’ form most. Her entitlement, her expectation, her charge… What she possesses is but a mirror image of her self, a graph of chance & a speed of such technical prowess that it stumps the measuring of the instrument & the sensitivity of the intellect. “What hope…?”, she quotes her moment of naked drama even as she feels the scorn, the scorn, the scorn. Where forth this scorn, but from the knowledge of the gone? Is a tree that which this comes from? this incredible fruit. this taste of passion. this bud of poison. this ingrate. this ungod. this weak mind. this radar. this karma. this… that…languageless child…this motherless tongue…rule of none….king of all. An expression, like the touch that blooms between the surfaces of the finger and thumb or the dead space in gas exchange, is indefinable as feeling numb. The distance between body and mind is abyss, not that which is written down. Like a gift, like a curse, what is held on to clings with the static of the spoken to the vocal node. In the same way, what is fought over fights back with the resistance of the forced. Like fraud but sanctioned; like permission, but forbidden; like suspicion, but lawful; it is an eclipse scheduled for dawn.
facing the fear of death:
It’s not so much a boiling point or the sharp blade of the imagined edge as it is a fellow human being in need of help. It’s not so much a superstition surrounding a haunted house or a glaring error in judgment as it is an arbitrary prejudice, looming like a silk worm in rhapsody. It’s not so much a family curse or a precious secret as it is a barren treasury. It’s not so much the love for big brother or the rebellion of rivalry’s sibling which remains in orbit even as it revolves towards-away as it is a terror of waking up one day and then, dreaming it away. It’s not so much the logistics of word play as it is naming the “unspeakable” in preparation for the unknown. It’s not so much the impulse behind multi-tasking or the remorse over regret as it is the stale mate of the dead beat muse. It’s not so much the distraction or the pursuit of as much as it is the acceptance of nothing at all. It’s not so much the sound of the positive as it is heard in emptiness by the abandonment of other by one. It’s not so much the drama of greed or deprivation as it is the idea of capital. It’s not so much the belief in ownership’s bravery in battle as it is a reclining hero. It’s not so much the broadcast of the world’s moment of peril as it is the accumulation of film. It’s not so much a final forgetting as it is a retention breath between remembering and letting go.
“We always meet at the market,” says one time traveler to another.
“You still fancy words.”
This shuts him up for some time, though his thoughts are never far from what to say.
“It’s the sugar and melancholy,” he decides, though the decision is hardly his.
“If attraction is the attachment to beauty…”the other begins.
“Let’s not dress ourselves in weariness.”
“Over there, something shines.”
“Don’t touch it; it’s the history of the past.”
“Why did we ever doubt our deserving?”
“Don’t ask; the answer is “it won’t be the last time.””
“Like memory, but current, can we sell our character sketches for bread?”
“We must.”
“If attraction is the attachment to beauty, is beauty the attraction to attachment, subjective and universal as an isolated symmetry, a secret script, a revealed space, a mirrored image, a dreaming sleep?”
“Is it romance or war?”
“love of love.”
beauty as the link between deferral & meaning; a missing link whose claim to fame is balanced by its’ mourning…
beauty as the context of passion. like guerrilla warfare, but natural as tree bark. like camouflage, but attractive as allusion. like imagination, but lustful. like the deferral of desire, but powerful as the channeled source. like progeny, but motivated by a backwards force. like efficiency, but graceful.
difference between vanity and intimacy as the ability to love
difference between a saint and a martyr: popularity
weather 75006:
if the system is karmic and the conscience is justice, are east and west the two faces of a cosmic mask? if the meaning is movement and the direction is momentum, are the absolutes the bodies spout like touching stones, an awkward dance? if the nation’s language is imprisoned spontaneity, are the laughter and tears of experience’s prescription, the true confessions of the living runes? if the currency is insecurity’s baselessness, is the economy a paradox & crisis of koans? if society is representative and representation is half baked, is the self, as known, a repeating firebrand? if realistically speaking, the scientific revelation of the modern age boils down to body heat, is poetry the sweat of someone else or the chill of distant stars? if the ego is listening, are the ears plugged with beeswax? if the stanza is sitting & transcendence is looming, is the neurology knitting a circle with thorny crowns? if attraction is electromagnetic & fashion is passé, is devotion to the fleeting, a setting trend? if questions are asking and answers are rising, is it time for bed yet? if the story is telling and the faith is keeping, is sleep the awareness of nonsense elevated to the status of dreams? if dreams are paraphernalia and drugs are a fetish, is art a high priest? if a hormone is impulse and memory is left behind, is the urge to look back, a pillar of salt? if the fable is factual and fact is overrated, is myth the unbreakable bond between the human animal & state of grace? if the customer is always right, is the search engine the bias of referring to deferral? if inertia is televised, is work ethic paid programming? if expectations are flaring and desires are undoing, is life, as we show it, collapsing?
What is the link between karma and gender? is it the confusion between competing and cooperating? can it be healed by striving towards societal equity?
the difference between the fear of death and the fear of murder is the difference between identity and indifference? to overcome one is to overcome the other? the way is the karma of love?
the difference between destroyer and destroyed is not a choice but a fatality
like verse, but rehearsed; like nudity, but dressed
if speed is multidirectional and matter is like urgency, but emergent, am I – interrupter & interpreter of thirst and hunger, tension of bow and archer, ambassador of the imaginary number, score keeper of phenomenon and geography of one, language censor and friend of none – a lie in disguise, an invitation to dance, a conspiracy in times of scarcity, & novel news for the misunderstood?
Follow the leader:
language of language as the ink of the social contract –
social contract as a forged document
the “human” as “artificial, derived, crafted, grounded, inessential, & useful”
{consciousness, in terms of time, as history, since it is
always already
history, in terms of reality which has a mind of its’ own,
as language, in terms of itself,
as allegory, in terms of terms,
as code, physically speaking,
the skin deep migration of lymph?}
(lymph as the other side of that which flows; like identity, but exchanged)
(thymus as the sacred heart)
(biology: body of body as form, a fleeting phantom between flow and shape)
(tradition as an anachronism)
form as the moment of becoming, destroyed upon being, created upon destruction, preserved in harmony…
the oral fixation between the mouth and the Adam’s apple as the narcissistic reflection/gross counterpart to the psychic connection between pineal and pituitary gland
if an organ is gross & a gland is subtle, is the hormone causal?
“A unified mind means that the four basic components of ahamkara (self-awareness), chitta (remembering), buddhi (discrimination) and manas (thinking process) are all active, balanced and in their correct perspective. The guru has transcended the mind, has jumped over it into a higher state of consciousness, but to do this he had to make his limited mind a stable base from which to jump. This requires years of work and training. He now holds his old mind in the palm of his hand. The pressure and heat generated by the kundalini shakti are so intense that the unformed, uncut mind is compressed like coal into a multifaceted diamond so that it shines with its own inner light.”
technology (ex: GPS system; like belief, but idolized. like convenience, but expired. like the economy, but draining.)
love (like the observation of observation; a meeting of eyes)
knowledge (facing the unknown)
,and work (the animal cost of time).
*ecstasy is not a physical sensation; it is a spiritual experience. the potential for exalts the human-being
*the artist as one who dwells in possibility; the creator as possibility in the flesh, “so to speak.”
When dreams and waking overlap with such frequency, chatter appears profound as violated sanctity. Hieronymus Bosch knew, it seems, the absurd manner in which morals and anatomy criss cross as lovers and enemies chase fool’s gold. We grow up in places without realizing their true names; we consume identities without recognizing their unique destinies. We surf the frothing tide of chance frontiers without ever realizing the intricate design of dumb luck. Clarity is no pot of gold. Rather, it is what remains after the fire has purified. The interpretation of impatience is the sound of loss. Sound, though source less, is spoken by someone. Loss, though bygone, is a phoenix mistaken for a mound of ashes to ashes… We all fall down.
history of history as forgetting
karma of gender as the inequality of the sexes & a character of gross imbalance. love of language as the hopelessness of time and the end of romance. revelation as the creative endeavor & surrender of control.
A Tragic Triangle of Karma, Gender, & The Love of Language:
“Destiny is one’s intimate relationship with the events in life.” ~ Swami Satyananda Sarasvati
“Nirvana is not the blowing out of the candle. It is the extinguishing of the flame because day is come.” ~Rabindranath Tagore
“There is a trenchcoat hanging by a thread and a rented bedpost with chipped brass paint. There is the lingering perfume of a broken hearted prostitute and the noble ugliness of the destitute romance. There is a chill that defies and exaggerates this season of winter that follows fall. The frost on the windows seems to have appeared as if by miracle or lawlessness. Is it a century of the past? There is a horse’s mouth nearby, but the transmission is indirect. My position is infamous for losing track of convention’s pocket watch. I cannot even claim the game of the gambler; I have not lost for winning. I have lost for losing; I have lost for good. My investment in chance is passionless, not blissful, but sorrowfully numb. I pay my debt but feel no relief. I resign myself to the inevitable but feel no devotion. I wonder weakly of my oppression, but I do not have the strength to struggle. Sabotaged through desire, I am wasting away. My voice has been hoarse for days. There’s a smell I don’t notice anymore, but I’m told that it reeks. Is it wretchedness or despair? The hoarseness in my voice is from the groaning in my soul. I drag my body to the curb that’s been chipped at by traffic’s kicks and curses. Can you spare some change? It’s cold enough that I don’t have to fight with myself over whether to fake a cough. At this point, it is curious that conscience remains. But, I assure you; conscience is here. The misery of it, perhaps, is that it is the only resident. It is my companion, condemned to roam the earth. My condition is chronically plagued by remorse which is too late. Welcome, poor thing, to the squalor of my solitude, the pit of my neglected entrails, the restlessness of my stagnation, and the tyranny of my heroism. Like the place in which one waits to be called upon, its’ proportions are distorted as a face torn between hope and despair. From different perspectives, one encounters different visions. These visions, when they aren’t worms, are bait of the most captivating sort. Luminous beyond belief, they pose as pedestals, saints, shrines, elixirs, or the endless burning of a single flame. The last one is my favorite; its’ splendor puts daylight to shame. To a free being, an outside observer, this location would seem only as it is – a hole. Stranded in time and space, it is like charity, but pitiful. It is ignorance seeking a forgiveness that by its’ black eye ties together annihilation and salvation. It’s nothing to be embarrassed of, but tell that to the man hiding from his own shadow… if you dare.”
“She lives against the limit. It is a border town, run wild by the passions of goons, gangsters, and psychopaths. It gives birth but takes love. She lives against the limit. Its’ violence is so well known, it is overlooked. It gives form but begets ruin. She lives against the limit. She is my motherland, engendered by the death of. Where fires burn for days, fueled by slander, and sinners revel in repentance, but redeem only themselves, resistance is futile. At her ravaged shore, my body beats. Blind to time, I feel the force she feels. It pushes me out and away without my consent. The threshold of our parting, like a pain staking shaking between greed and generosity, between all and nothing, my very birth is a crisis in which her womb is turned inside out. Hysteric, our connection is so intrinsic that to witness its’ reenactment is to record with the instrument of torture. Organ of reproduction, it is abused by function, but functions by use. It circles like the graffiti of the insane. Irrational, when paired with logic by the megalomaniac, it becomes a weapon. Informative, it spans the globe, spreading its’ news like a wail of veils, starving the lonely, lashing the sensitive with delusion, deluding the mass with false motivation, and cleansing the path of the enlightened with suffering. Officially, it bonds change to aim by an arrow of time and repulses as it attracts as it eludes. Open armed, it is the mouth of the abyss, the seduction of medusa, & the siren of the endangered. Refused, it is nearly unbearable but for the outlet of keeping suppressed. Key to my bondage and barren treasury of my miserly hermitage, it is her demon possessed primordial spirit I dream of in the dark night of my soul.”
“I chose to be human. This much is made clear by my disguise. Veil and transparence, I dress myself in love. Who told the first story? Was it the last word or the beginner of the book? Where did loneliness come from? Did it speak or was it spoken to? Sex and currency, I spend and save the economy. They call it language, this lump sum. Technically speaking, my debt is default and my surface is a burial of depth. Culture is what I have in common with bacteria. As for prose, it’s time to tell the truth. Finite spell, I circle heaven and hell until my voice resembles an echo of sound. Like a repetition, but unraveling doubles. Like a tunnel in time, but shapeless. Like Satan, but misunderstood, I plot suspense and escape pursuit. Like a poet, but illiterate, I spin a web so persuasive; I initiate ceremony and spawn ritual. Like myth, but immortal, once, I was many. Like movement, but momentous, I am who I am not. Like an actor, but performing, I experience rebirth without ever dying and embody death without ever breathing.”
‘incarn,’ root of incarnation: to cause to heal
scars heal themselves; like the repeating instruments of god: is the antidote to negative programming the revelation of form(less-ness)?; “revelation of formlessness” as the indigestion of irony
opposition to the positive as the negative; opposition to the negative as resistance; transcendence of opposites: old as a world profane to speech and sacred as a language that rose up to save the masses …
informant: like consciousness, but personal. like addiction, but subtle. like time, but sped up. like money, but really imaginary. like relation, but current. like currency, but worthless. like force, but powerless.
information : commodity of truth
commodity: what-works
to sum up:
gross economy: that of object (how much
subtle economy: that of self esteem (is good enough
causal economy: that of desire (for you)
commodity: to serve ice
gross communication: marketing (imitation or repression?)
subtle communication: subliminal messaging (herd instinct or mobility?)
causal communication: synergy
commodity: a product of language and timing
bobbing for apples:
like sex, but engendered
like desire, but literal
like literature, but realistic
like reality, but romantic
like romance, but lonely
like loneliness, but temporary
like time, but mythic
like myth, but proportional
like proportion, but distorted
like distortion, but revelatory
like revelation, but believed in
by the scientific-community
like community, but mis-conceived
by a tradition of tradition
like a tribal war ship, but with the potential
for self-recognition.
language as the movement of truth.
voice as what is gone.
controlling = letting go?
letting go = holding on?
if language is born by an incest of the senses and slain by immaculate conception manifested like a reversal of fortunes or the empathy of vanity’s reflection, is the body we share, like the gospel we dramatize, that of bread & wine?
is the difference between order and imagination, music or error?
if a koan is a form of self promotion, is it irony or the esteem of wisdom?
if speculation obscures reality, is it reciprocal or antagonistic?
if all words are one, is our individual consciousness plagued by a contextual back bend?
if experience is contingent, is “the meaning of life” the magnetic pull of unlikely possibility, the vehicle of a career, and/or the racism of a random god? like a dream, but unconscious? like a default, but indebted? like an inner world, but authoritative?
if the emergence of patterns is synchronized with the exchange of information, is the projection that perpetuates, like a pseudo performance of players or a procrastinated impulse, a fourth dimension?
if the distance between the economy and money is analogous to the distance between the word and the language it’s said to represent, is the speed limit needed to make ends meet a hopeless hope, a present expectation, a delayed response, a famous name?
if the capitalist economy is the principle of self organization, is its’ currency a measure of its’ disorder? dependence of its’ autonomy? illusion of its’ ethic? rule of its’ allowance? stinginess of greed? lost cause of its’ romance? is it life saving or suspect?
self consciousness as an oxymoron. (like empty space) oxymoron as the technology of programming. programming as the essence of technology. essence as instrumental. instrument as musical.
word: individual consciousness is formed when a sound is heard
grammar: collective consciousness is formed when a sound is remembered
capitalization: is memory splintered by time to appear in-formative as reading inbetween the lines…?
is English, this history, the language of forgetting or the speaking of tongues? like a body, but ignorant as the knowledgeable.
meeting place of economy and language as the famous wasteland…like speech, but unspeakable….like history, but recording….like culture, but visceral.
somewhere between tangible and intangible, touch facilitates a commerce of pain and pleasure…does it feel empowered or disenfranchised? like ownership, but torn between deserving and entitlement….
if space is emptiness and time is the creative principle, am I not an immaculate conception?
matter: indifferent quantity
energy: empathetic quality
transcendence: astral body, reflection of a mirror, cancellation of a debt
transcendence of transcendence: ego, attachment to en-lightenment, symbol of astral body and potential disguise of an actual sign
freedom from rebirth as the realization of having multiple secret lives; realization of karma as the realization of judgment’s partiality
deferral as the signification of desire
deferral of deferral as a dream
chakra as the flow of electrical impulses between the motor nerves and the sensory nerves via the dorsal & ventral horns of the spinal cord by way of mixed spinal nerves (dorsal & ventral roots)
synapse as the social networking of neurons; neurotransmitters as the lubricant, analogous to music, food, and alcohol
consciousness as a medium for multitasking, a screening device, and a systematic way of sharing information…(like physics, but divine)(like duality, but free)(like war, but playful)
Brahma as memory, Vishnu as language, Shiva as the creative act or when bound by time : destruction or living-thing…
“The concept of Shakti and Shiva is by no means confined to India. In Plato’s ‘Phaedrus’, a book of the ancient Greeks, he states “What is on earth is merely the resemblance and shadow of something that is in a higher sphere, a resplendent thing which remains in an unchangeable condition.” The ancient Gnostics were really a European tantric sect which interpreted Christianity in the light of higher experience. One of the Gnostic mystics, Simon the Magus, is reputed to have said, “The universal eons consist of two branches, without beginning or end, which spring from one root………the invisible power and the unknowable silence. One of these branches is manifested from above and is the universal consciousness ordering all things and is designated male. The other branch is female and is the producer of all things.” ~ Swami Nischalananda Saraswati
time, language, memory;
link between action and light?
like energy, but blocked by night?
If the structure of female genitalia mirror the vocal folds and spiritual life sublimates sexuality, is language an expression of the generative impulse? Moreso, is the expression of the generative impulse a modeling device in which, by default, gender is designed to oppose nature by imitating duality? And, what does this have to do with anything but the presence of rage, furious with reality’s futility to blame, and feeling, infamed by speed? Is it suspicion, accusation, or the quarreling of brain and mind like the disagreement of an organ of information and its’ network of users? I watch, a witness indentured to the role play. I want to say, “You are not puppets, but hands stuffed in socks! Your confusion is obvious, but your ignorance is preventable!” My lament, short for my tongue, is delayed, redirected, impossible at the time of… I realize, wth horror, shock, and serenity, that the words I speak, read, and/or write do not exist in a state of solitude or even sovereignty, but as part of a circuit – inclusive, exclusive, and unfinished. How strange to think that I do not belong to myself any more than existence interrupts itself. If the woman is an enigma and the man is a man is a man no matter what, is the tolerance of prejudice, like the surprise at contradiction, a biological necessity that doubt has outgrown?
(mind of mind as brain child)
“In the mirror of art, you who are familiar with the rituals of decorum and bloodshed before which you are
silence and submission
while within stone
the mind writhes
contemplate, as if a refrain were wisdom, the glistening
intoxication of bronze and will and circumstance in the mirror of art.”
~Frank Bidart
the mirror as a three dimensional idea…
capitalism as an expression of human identity. like contingency, but invested.
investment: like attachment, but distant
capitalism of capitalism, like the pricing of information: competition, like comparison, but impossible
envy: like ambition, but reversed. like experience, but inverted. (?)
use: like helplessness, but outdated
I want to write about memory. It is triggered by the senses, but transcends the satori of their animal amusement & their love of the present tense. It is more than my personal diary because though I lose touch with the divinity of the comedy, I still believe that I am much more than myself and that my body is much more than the compliance of this outline. While driving and reminiscing, I had the expression I’d like to identify with nearly perfected. Note to self: “Write down: Memory is the way by which everything remains in a state of potential.” There. Now, what? A dynamic restlessness has begun to emerge. What is this relationship between memory and rememberer? Is it anything like the intriguing affair between ghost and the tangible spook that keeps the living out of the graveyard? It’s just that the majority of experience seems to fall into a grey area of death, laughter, and physics. Am I feeling weighed down by the gravity-defying luminosity? The minority either reveals, for a noble moment, the intimate vastness, or becomes an expensive play thing. Is that the see-saw of unlike opposites? Like duality, but not quiet? Then, there’s the prearranged time that is merely said to grow older as it approaches closer and the white hairs that stress really sprouts. My voice, like the quantity of volume, tells me nothing. Perspective, like the Tibetan camel, appears to be merely an idiosyncrasy of history.
from network culture, as reviewed by The Voice Imitator
Terranova argues, “information is neither simply a physical domain nor a social construction, nor the content of a communication act, nor an immaterial entity set to take over the real, but a specific reorientation of forms of power and modes of resistance.”
She extracts three different definitions of information from Claude Shannon’s information theory and examines their “other interesting considerations or corollaries on informational culture.” These three definitions are: “information is defined by the relation of signal to noise; information is a statistical measure of the uncertainty or entropy of a system; information implies a nonlinear and nondeterministic relationship between the microscopic and the macroscopic levels of a physical system.”
She briefly dives into the work of Gilbert Simondon to speculate that it might be better to consider “the conditions of turbulence and metastability that define information as a kind of active line marking a quantic process of individuation.”
de profundis of psychosis:
echo of echo: voice
its’ disbelief: speech
reality of illusion: language
and what does this have to do with the light that is neither out nor in?
(voice of voice: essence of nada)
hope and fear: like repetition, but different. is the embodiment of this state – the projection of the ego? like a lover, but vain? like pain, but pleasurable? like ignorance, but opportune? like an after life, but inbetween?
Liberation Through Hearing During the Intermediate State: like the gospel, but ironic
hell realms: confrontation
hungry ghost realm: disillusionment (like revelation, but cynical)
animal realm: suppression
human realm: avoidance
jealous god realm: manipulation
god realm: equanimity
religion is a form of worship
worship is a form of god
god is a form of the goddess
who is the formlessness of god,
which, like the form of form, is finally
body as the difference between memory and dream; emphemereal & historic
language as the structure of time. like a Cheshire smile or a dead line. quick sand. intelligent design: belief is the absence of faith & dogma – its’ restraint.
a self destruction mechanism is built into history, like a code that reveals its’ short sightedness, like the potential of hindsight to allude to the space of time, like a coy naivete, like a direct transmission in an interconnected consciousness…
“to realize the collective mind in operation is called manomani” (hatha yoga pradipika)
if language is organic, is the censorship of grammar a pesticide?
is sound of sound, like the vibration of speed, the seed of creation?
(& while i’m shooting in the dark, is there a connection between the vibration of vibration & a gravitational wave? like subtlety, but massive?)
the spirit as the infinite moment, experienced simultaneously by all life…or the purity of the light that guides…
money as a resource of waste; economy as metaphysical & “profane”; time as chance (opportunity & creator)…
spirituality as the process of healing the damage of “negative” information…?(ex: brain wave vibration)(or possible connection to yogic practices transforming the fits and starts of hormonal feedback into a steady immortal flow)
spirituality as sustainance of/for the soul…& a salve to the toxicity of our superficial relationships
spirituality as the transforming of the latent hostility of inside/outside worlds into awareness of the cosmic womb…
(death of death: when the record realizes itself, it sings like resurrection from a virgin womb…o live o live o live, pop eye…)
“spiritual unfoldment is the process of evolution.” (h.y.p.)
literally speaking: “one who speaks about spiritual knowledge but has not activated sushuma, steadied his bindu or achieved spontaneous meditation, utters false words.” (h.y.p.)
if shiva is the record, is shakti the pen that is mightier than the sword?
spirituality as the unmasking of reality…(like the reality of reality, but really alive.)
the overlap of inner & outer sounds, like that of proximity & distance, form a source of distortion…? like time, but during. like potential, but creative. like direction, but misleading. like money, but made freely…
the citizens of the 21st century are scrambling to create meaningful relationships. with the traditional family in an irreparable crisis of faith, it seems that either a truly revolutionary and peace loving neohumanism will emerge or new tribes will form, based on…? rules as arbitrary as incest? or the luck of a lawless land? like friends, but lonely…
the record as automatic; automation as repeated until irrelevant; record of record as shadow self & public-image (like fraud, but framed); convention as the form of form; matter as elsewhere…
if the singularity of society perceieved by the illusion of the separate self is synonymous & analogous to the disconnect between body and mind, then is the relationship between the two a default whose cost is that of ignorance? like suffering, but profitable?
“Time is the working out of a cosmic intelligence” ~ Dr. David Frawley
“Tara is the power of sound, corresponding to Kali as the power of time & transformation. The Word is the consciousness of time, whereas time is the movement of the Word. The Word is the intelligence of time, whereas time is the body of the Word. The creative vibration or the divine word is the underlying energy of time” ~ Dr. David Frawley
is divinity absolute in the way judgement is inevitable, death is personal, & personality is incarnate?
violent speech as creative guilt
guilt as living death, a state of personifying an object; object as personification of an individual; individual as the principle of emergence
tragedy of literature as the art of the performer
the arts as a defense against defense…(attraction &/or camoflauge)
causal body as the physical reality (paradox)
gross body as form
subtle body as form of form…
(on the three knots/granthis: speech as sex appeal, emotion as circulation, and thought as digestion)
the repeated impulse as the sexual urge..not that which is consumed but that which is produced…
metaphor as like & unlike
yantra as a pattern that transcends time. mantra as its’ manifestation. mandala as its’ sweet good bye.
what is the relationship between faith and imagination? does one survive the other? like gold and money? or are they two sides of the same coin?
“Evolution of early reproductive proteins and enzymes is attributed in modern models of evolutionary theory to ultraviolet light. UVB light causes thymine base pairs next to each other in genetic sequences to bond together into thymine dimers, a disruption in the strand that reproductive enzymes cannot copy (see picture above). This leads to frameshifting during genetic replication and protein synthesis, usually killing the organism. As early prokaryotes began to approach the surface of the ancient oceans, before the protective ozone layer had formed, blocking out most wavelengths of UV light, they almost invariably died out. The few that survived had developed enzymes that verified the genetic material and broke up thymine dimer bonds, known as base excision repair enzymes. Many enzymes and proteins involved in modern mitosis and meiosis are similar to excision repair enzymes, and are believed to be evolved modifications of the enzymes originally used to overcome UV light.[54]”
(If vitamin D is a hormone and the skin is a gland, is the communication of communication between bodies an economy of essentials like an evolution of light?)
if death, like history, is the unit of change, partnered, like perfect timing, by the un-wind-ing of life in an infinite & continuous spectrum
& a gamma ray, like ethics, represents a metaphysical core,
an x ray, like an embodied trace, represents a microcosmic core,
an ultra violet ray represents a molarity of substance (like a commodity, but kept secret; like a sacred cow, but eaten),
a visible ray represents a lover of reality,
and infrared, microwave, and radio represent representation in a chorus of emerging vibrations,
is the electromagnetic force (like the color of fire?) the belief of seeing or the vision of revelation?
modernity as consumer of hunger & use of each other (like tax, but duty free?)
words as perpetuators of a past
physical-record as the meeting-parting place of consciousness and the self (analogous to the digital?)
chastity belt:
if power is masculine attention & the sisterhood is a virgin priestess meant to embody the libido but remain celibate, are my expectations those of tradition or transcendence? That which is unspeakable is the nature of sound. That which is absolutely dual is independent, free, and bound as an alchemist to his art. His- a form of organization supported by convenience & limited by time. If I can’t take no for an answer, am I a grudge, a grievance, or a mistaken identity? Who am I, if not this continuation of rhyme & consumer of life? A stone’s throw away from handy work, my suspended hunger burns like light for oil. if symbols are interchangeable but obscured by their own symmetry, am I the gate keeper or the craving for more? if the female voice advertises the phase of a cycle and the listener is as silent as physical ripeness & decay, is the season of the middle man a woman split in half? if species is soul is syntax and body is possession is hopeless, is man – the ability to rape & sew? if, in the Nordic languages, fate & gonads are the same word, is that money in my pocket or are you just happy to see me?
“In meditation, sense ultimately gives rise to perfect nonsense.” ~Tarot Psychology
if the desire for desire is the object of the subject and the economy is the relationship to the self, is the commodity not false hope? if the ability to imagine is the impetus behind action, is consumerism a signal, like the color green, to go? if one is almost gone, but not quiet, is the unasked question that of, “where?” if insecurity is a chain reaction, like a franchise or indigestion, am I not as alone as when I feel left out? if greed is a defense mechanism, is hoarding – the fight and flight of civilized beings? if shame is an excess of relief and pride is a relief of shame, are my vanity and my feebleness lifeless as the drowned corpse washing up on shore? if I have two of everything I could possibly need but peace of mind, am I not an unstable element with more locked safes than working keys? if passion is the potential for love and/or hate, is my wavering between the two, a volatile mantra or an infertile seed of karma? if I repeat my hostility like a panic stricken child, abandoned by nature and abused by use, is the surface area of my bottom line a suspicion rewarded by the unknown? If fear is a form of violence, then is being scared the victim of itself? if pain is inevitable, but suffering is a choice, is martyrdom a star crossed romance between vengance and redemption? is it helpless until confronted by its’ own conscience? is it guilty until proven, by innocence, to be its’ own jury, judge, trial, and law? is it absolute until transcended by time? is it relative until threatened by survival? does it survive past extinction, as a shell of its’ non being?
if hunger is a form of desire whose body is food and the mind is a form of desire whose face is the riddle of the fool, is intuition the middle road of the attachment as it devolves? if the process is three fold and transition, ( like a circle, but incalculable), is time, (like a baby formula), the cause of its’ singular wail? if language is the overgrown ape, are the senses the hand of an animal, grasping for touch that holds? if experience is the friendship of the soul, is knowledge the curse of articulation that soils the earth? ‘Music like dirt,’ the poet said, as if acknowledging that shit was short for fertility and ‘sacred,’ too long for the tongue of tongues that flamed at the center only to collapse inwards- ( like history, but misunderstood.) if the universe is holographic, is technology, (like a form of self realization), a vehicle for travel? if the rules of rules fall-fell apart like a fragile egg shell, is our freedom, now, dependent on the love we’re willing to show ourselves? if love is, was, and always, what reason remains…?
if the mother is a mirror of nature and duality opposes itself only in a magic theatre, is the balancing act between relative and absolute – a marvel prone to self-delusion? if, in each isolated person, a complex develops, of expression and suppression, is our resistance, turbulence, and inertia – an effort to maintain a mystical cult of other or a conveyer belt of anti-production? if force is used, is time misplaced or only pressured to form? if synchronicity, for the layman, is luck, is the author-ity at the mercy of intimacy’s distance? Like fortune, but someone else’s, is it greed, detachment, or profound? Like contradiction, but baffling wisdom, is anticipation – lust or caution? Divine animal, is to be human to ask and receive an echo, which though it springs from the depths like a fountain, manifests creatively as thirst?
“glass bead game” as the commodification of revelation…evolution of light…language of language…words as spheres of music…like notes, but sentient as the senile
bouts of spontaneous meditation…so indescribable, but immediately recognized by experience as such…like waking sleep…
recognized the bhardo of dreams this morning, the “dreamer” as a concentration, illusion, & higher reality
ojas…bindu…like the drops of sugar that feed the brain-mind…recognition of which…essence of essence…ideal as good nutrition?
Oil magnet:
is it the space between me and you or is it the space between my ears? like a home away from home, the coordination of my hand and eye make a game like a cat’s cradle. meow, meow, meow. so much of the stuff we make is so so so sex sex sexy. making love, on the other hand, is largely a matter of self esteem. “Says she.” where is it that you are headed? is it for or against? in the direction of – ? you advertise an empty lot & neglect abundance until it overflows. use – full with (almost) nothing to lose, is this the business side of desire? move it or lose it, but aim to please. do you know what you want? haphazard & enviable, an “open” sign is still a dead end.
form is one. consciousness is 0. center is attention. body is prana. the word is alive. language is my self, a network of beings, an ongoing dharma.
false sense of urgency obscures its’ other half…(is it uncertainty?)
why did the ugly spirit have such a feminine nature? is it because form limits potential as it repeats itself…
if the subtle illuminates the gross,
if oil is the desire to drive,
if desire fuels history like the “other half” or an expiration date, and oil is the desire to drive, is a certain percentage of what moves our movement, a resource, both dwindling & exploited?
whats the connection between imitation & magnetism? is it scientific or ludicrous? is it fundamental or interactive? like polarity, but pervasive, is it the trinity of human, animal, and divine or the holiness of the language that sacrifices itself? if the blood brain barrier marks a mutual exclusion, is a central agency of intelligence actually a decoy? if there is an electric fence between object and subject, are relationships the risks we take of trespass?
language lies between the figurative and the literal…
if all we ever talk about is food and all we ever think about is talk, are we bound to eating our own words? if the instant is endless and the end is incessant, is time a jailer we mean to kill? if the losses are counted and the wins are flaunted, are feud & dishonor – king and queen? if chivalry is pretense and pretense is sage, is this modern era, like the impossibility of an ideal state, a crude disappointment & blind age?
Yes is the Only Living Thing:
If the upper body is sphinx-like and the rest is history, are the sands of time the awareness of the transience which flows like music from the drum of digestion? If confidence is priceless and authority is questionable, am I the only one who can answer myself? If affirmation, when compressed by transmission, sounds like the hiss of a serpentine and subtle escape, is the difference between the courage it takes to embrace uncertainty and the hunt for a guarantee the difference between a tomato and ketchup? Is it an important degree of determination or heedless as innovation’s inevitability? And if it doesn’t matter, is the desire of language, like that of the suspended animation, for silence, silence, silence? Like return, but sourceless, the life of this program, like the decay of the deceased, repeats until haunting & irrelevant.
If the relationship of relationship is a status symbol, is isolation the company of the social climber or the pointless tower of Rapunzel’s solitary confinement? If imagination is what transforms a space into a place, is a window – the mystifying difference, like spell bound follicles, between here and there?
Is the multitasking tangle of command, delay, & relay the culprit in this split pulpit?
if language is the body of sound and speech is the language of the body, is the difference between belonging and rejection – the spoken word? like a vote, but politically incorrect, it spans the globe. like the power to purchase, but immaterial, it is passed from ear to ear.
possession as a form of belonging
distortion as the beauty of form
economy as the value of the safety net; so silent it can hear a pin drop
is the only sin – unhappiness?
if the speed it takes to stop time is the face of a goddess is comparable to a geodesic to those who believe in gravity…
if the relationship between the tool and transcendence is a symbol of the astral body, and repetition is how it meets its’ end, are the home videos we make productions of patterns of default? like the collective consciousness, but isolated in no man’s land, do the stories we tell of news, business, and weather all border on peril? if the difference between knowledge and ignorance is the danger posed, is bliss the experience of interconnectedness?
if language, “as we know it”, perpetuates attachments to unsustainaible models, and the attachment to unsustainaible models retards progress, is organic, universal expression – the freedom of speech in all its’ forms of formlessness? (like anticipation, but fulfilling)
if higher reality is the actual, is language, a l-imitation of the “human-being,” the link and/or disconnect between the sacred and the profane?
if love is all we need, is the economy the cost of the axiom?
pattern of speech ~ habit of thought ~ action of impulse
if the overlap of imagination and reality create something new entirely, is the duration of this treaty a mirage or a rotten egg? if a woman’s cycle colors her view of the world, and the world, itself, revolves around revolution in an orbit with the moon, is the matriarchy an invoice of a being who defies gender? if defiance boils down to the same thing as submission, is an esoteric order, one who awakens from the slumber of ancient history to play with time as though re-born?
if competition is a debate between poetry and protest, and symbolism is the end of meaning, is the creation of a product equivalent to the production of a creator?
On solitude:
Neither here nor there, neither myself nor even other, it is a fractal that blooms. With or without sanction, sloppy or refined, it is a state of its’ own. Senseless and friendless, it is the togetherness that remains apart. Irrational as friction, fluid as romance, it is a fiction that defines as precise as pursuit. Alchemist in its’ study, infinite in its’ hour, it’s rhythm reigns sovereign in a singular land. Though inundated by experience’s threshold for passion, it remains, nonetheless, an idiom that credits a secret language of hope.
(the trap of temptation is not the risk of giving in but the ingenious rigging that reverses the order of opposites)
if light and sound intersect at listening, is speech an optical illusion or is it vice versa?
Self defense & self sacrifice guard and surrender the two poles of the spoken tongue, the fabled serpent, & the structure of falling apart that holds us together. Circulation, parting & coming together, is not just blood, but also relation. Words aren’t only meaning, but also vibration. In the form of sound, speaker and listener anticipate each other. In the spaces between, the negative of a negative, they forget their separation & merge into one.
smooth muscle is responsible for the contractability of hollow organs. like the inherent throbbing discernable by rhythm and rhyme…dream within a dream…
if the intestines are the missing link between the model citizen and the microcosmic formation, am I “what I eat” or is the “consumer” an identification with the substance of form? if the substance of form is an emptiness that bridges a gap, is the representation of such double talk a split personality?
luther & faith…
if scarcity is the inspiration for the economy and more is instantly & simultaneously already & less, is desire embodied and the body perpetually displaced?
(an analogous ratio of proportions (in that they act upon one another?) between the way experience/the relative bias of an ideal (almost synonymous) precisely distorts (by exact inversion or geometry?) reality and the way the economy (whether of anxiety or time management, but either way focused on the constant-immediate needs of the household/physical body) distorts (by re-placement) experience/the relative bias of an ideal… so, what is made? a deception of deception? a fleeting gone? a recognition of a sun stone?!
“a great man is gone” E.E. cummings
relief of relief as an artifact of interest to an archeologist, like a rich man’s tomb to a common thief
making purposeful the involuntary (i.e.: breathing/yogic pranayama) reveals or betrays the line between the conscious and the unconscious as a program. the finer the line, the more gaping the gap between vigilance and insidiousness. like currency, but unquestioned. )
if memory is a single celled organism with endless creative potential…
if language is worn by the body like the nakedness of the emperor and “crowd mentality & false pride” can be dismissed as interchangeable by a reader on the go, is the location of words, in relation to each other, a map of a lost world? if a lost world is already gone, is the announcement that remains – a phantom limb of the homonuclus?
if language is just another word for identity and identity is as artificial as what it represents is “inexpressible,” is irony the tender period of duration between time & timelessness? (like uncertainty, but vital.)
if the con$umer is made to choo$e between indifference & an emotional re$ponse, is the economy bound to lo$e? if letting go is not $omething one doe$ but $omething that happen$, is the mindfulne$$ of zen a politic$ of reality? if quantity is an inherent quality and quality is a mathematical art, is the co$t of counting, like the zodiac of a$tronomy, where the alphabet inter$ects with the number? if value is a$$igned, is the formula a fragment that function$ as a $ub$titute for the whole?
(i$ money a di$traction or a necce$ity? i$ the di$stance between the 2, like the $ymboli$m of $ymboli$m or a decoy of form, all too literal?) (like $yntax, but threatening?)
if memory is a single cell organism with endless creative potential, is knowledge a body of minds? if the embodiment of form is living in the past, is the soul – the eternal present? if the wrath of time, torn between before & after, covers all its’ bases with the thorough short sightedness of a paranoid schizophrenic, is the social order the same thing as a chaotic system and madness the same nothing as revelation? if I know, but no one knows that I know, am I information or up to date?
if the economy is the cost of sacrifice and technology, like pavlov’s pet puppy, is the pay off of programming, is dis comfort the familiarity of a stranger?
If my subject is isolation and my inspiration is writer’s block, am I outspoken or speechless? If my medium is a defense mechanism, am I a virus or a victim? If my animus is an automaton in disguise, am I heroic or quixotic? If my trap is a mouth bit by its’ own teeth like a hand that hungers to self destruct, am I tragic or ridiculous? If I believe in someone who doesn’t really exist, am I a romantic or a prelude to a scapegoat? If every other word is missing, am I obscure or blameless? If the truth is kept secret, is initiation the acknowledgment of what can’t be but is, if only, in the business of the bargain of the devil? A loophole? or a classic? If my inability to connect is a character profile, am I ingenious or cheating myself? If I must put down what goes unsaid, am I a lie detector or the opposite of the spontaneous? If there is no problem, why is the solution presented as the next-best-thing to being outrightly accused? If I can only shut up by carefully choosing my words, will I finally value language or lose interest? Worse than going with-out, am I really alone in an infernal paradise the color of which is enough to make my eyes bleed? If I have disappointed you, is it my fault or an antigen’s? If resistance is intelligent, intelligence is mysterious, and mystery is my own nature, radiant in its’ matchlessness, is my recognition of my shortcoming, humble or job-less? If god without a prayer is a broke soul, is a writer without a reader – a statement of gross redress? If no one gets my jokes but an elite, distraught few, am I a court jester or an anachronism with enough resentment to amuse herself? If I’d like to end on a more hopeful note, is that enough to cheer me up? If memes mutate at the speed of senselessness, is generosity most necessary, valuable, & unfortunately elegiac in times of utter scarcity?
if the liver is diseased, is the speaker unemployed or working overtime?
Correlation of Chakras with Institutions:
(like channeling the energy of cartwheels for transport)
(like time, but ethereal)
(like the present, but traditional)
(like the past, but treasured)
(like loss, but transformed):
Muladhara: The Body
Swadhistana: The Family
Manipura: The Individual
Anahata: The Relationship (like a word, but exchanged between speaker & listener)
Vishuddha: The Language (like a relationship, but singular)
Ajna: The School
Sahasrara: The Deity
(god as the knowledge of the known)
art of art as the expression of emotion
if the economy is the status quo of an intolerable condition, is it a coping mechanism or original sin?
If the source of emotion is the immortality of mortality, is the recognition of its’ sourcelessness – a beginning or an end? If the actor emerges out of an indifference to time, is the play on words – imagination or bad faith? If faith is disloyal as an element of change, is morality – the spirit of disbelief or a cry for help? If the true nature of deception is only revealed in reflection, is my misconception – judgment, compassion, or bondage?
link between impulse and movement: form… the way in which hormones coordinate to create emotion, precision sequences to read our mind, & the truths we hold self evident express themselves…
Checks & Balances:
If an in-essential metaphysical in-security has me hoarding time like a nervous gambler with a hand full of dice, is the pressure I feel a musical trance or a mutually exclusive dance? if I have to persuade you to listen to me, is my disbelief a limit of speech or my high hope that you will do as I say? if the proportions of real and representational are neither equal nor drawn to scale but the rift may be likened to the likening opposition between the action of the ongoing and the script of the departed, is their difference a flashy image of ignorance or an ironic ode to nothing at all? if a genuine connection takes peace of heart and mind, is my relationship with my own body the archetype for how I treat and am treated under the umbrella (it’s raining out as I wrote this) of the golden rule?
if the attention I pay gets in the way of my knowing better than my predecessor(s), is the memory lane I’m forced to commemorate – paranoia or jurisdiction? if my ability to respond is a function of what I’ve learned, is my teacher – the past tense or the wounded healer? if the fragility of my brilliance represents the uselessness of thought turned audible, does my anatomy serve an unconditional master? if my love of play turns into war, do I lose my right to protect myself against my latent sabotage? And if so and so twists and shouts, does the return of peace require a forgiveness that can be conceived only as a divine being?
if the meaning of loss is an exchange of words, is holding on to what is gone a monologue of one? if civilization is pretense, are barbarians the original hypocrites or the spin of the pointed finger? if the openness I feel when we speak can save a life, is it worth trying to get to the bottom of the cognitive dissonance of what I do & do not disclose? if I am starved for attention or feel watched all the time, am I less likely to have or make good nutritional choices? if the truth of the matter is that we can no longer communicate what we need to give face to face, does the going underground of our desire to be heard deserve to be echoed, honored, and transformed from the sound of noise to the cause of the voiceless?
& if all is well, is the part of me that participates in the industry of secrets – the one who is left out even when included?
if a dream is the sleep of the body, is a neglect of the senses a stereotype of awakening? like enlightenment, but damned, is this remix of mantras, like a prescription for complex compounds, a quick fix rather than “the austerity of letting be?” is it psychosis or time passing? is it comedic or mean? is it sharp as an executioner’s blade or caring as a hippocratic training? is it story time or lie telling?
(love as stupefying)
(the economy as the history of the present)(the economy as the measure of duration)(the economy as scapegoat)
(stream of consciousness as divine perception)
(if the part of me that goes on to survive is the part of me that was never alive, is the part that recognizes this fact of life – an absolute authority or a “slave to the money” under the law of music dancing clumsy?)
if the modern economy is a waste of time, is it worth transforming into a graceful demise? if the age of material attachments is coming to an end, will what follows become a relationship of harmony? if idealism is the blindspot of the present, is acknowledging a livelihood of hope – a practical step towards the unknown?
spirituality as the art of healing
speech as mnemonic device
greed as the stinginess of hoarding
industry of secrets as the end of the world
the keeper as the kept (hostage)
thought of thought as choice of words; like openness but without.
stuff as shit. stuff of stuff as the meaning of…the circular…wheel…like innovation, but used by the suffering to seek…
expression of expression as human face
places in consciousness, like substances in nature…
if oil & water don’t mix, is their being forced together an impossibility or a close call?
if the cost of distance is estrangement, is intimacy the responsibility that comes with freedom?
spirituality begans with humiliation, resumes with patience, & thrives in the discipline of solitude.
if history is a death threat
if society is rejection
if digestion is the hardest work imaginable
if reality, either by fear, awe, or uncertainty, is always kept at bay
if the separation of matter and consciousness, self and divinity is hell
if no human being can free another
if isolation is an intensity akin to terror & amounting to alarm
if personality is penance
if the economy is an unknown paradise whose cost of ignorance is suffering
is my inspiration – imagination or reality’s implication to a fleeting observer?
if getting our stories straight means the survival of our immortality…
if identifying with characters is what makes a writer, is identifying with a writer what makes…
if the trinity of sugar, shit, and baby is too good to resist, am I a gut feeling or a sucker for guilt?
if life as we know it is sublimated sexual energy is the “opposite sex”, is a celebration of form – not gender, but making love?
if synchronizing truth and fiction is a habit of time, is the personality a common identification?
if history is potential & potential is fulfillment, is karma the attachment that drives the cycle of death and rebirth?
if the chest is a cage and the belly is the call of the wild, is breath the beast that tries to balance faith and training? if experience is the infinite & abundant link between subject & context, is relating- the fleeting sensation of permanence? if such a thing is really possible, is it a crescendo worth hoping for or a sustainance of falsehood? if memory is a counterfeit life & a currency of time, is the present moment – “lost in translation,” found in sharing, or a body, shackled by its’ evolutionary promise?
if my genius is unrecognized as what is expressed is unspeakable, is the need to want – a trick of the light or a confession of sin? if guilt is the one size fits all in the games people play, is it the last frontier of knowledge to be crossed by the expiring phoenix? if transformation is secret only in the sense that everyone un-knows it, is home – the haiku or the moon that could only be seen once the barn burnt down?
return to chaos: form emerges from rhythm and sound emerges out of form. out of sound emerges a concrete evocation, a being of dharma (time bound to timelessness)
if spirituality is the sublimation of sexuality and service is the sublimation of self expression, is sublimation- an element of alchemy or a lost art?
is post-modern synonymous with “lost art?”
is a lost art – like civilization, but gross rather than refined? like connection, but monopolized? like attention, but deficit? like life, but constipated? like truth, but auctioned?
what is manufacturing? Is it the preparation of an intent, forming the unknown, or the encounter of anticipation?
if the economy sets the rules for the double standards, is chaos the mouthpiece of a state of mistrust?
“I felt like I was trapped between the personality and the divine.”
So began the confessions of the psychic. As an interloper between realms, a cosmic joke of sorts, it only seems fitting that I would be chosen to deliver the tale of the one who channeled channels & spoke for saints.
if the form of divinity takes on a life of its’ own, am I god or is god an old memory of itself?
Looking back, it was an inability to express myself that led to this lost way.
do I have a soul or is this another trick question?
these are words on a page like breakthroughs in real time. do they remind you of familiar imitations like husband and wife or object and prize?
is this tradition or the sacredness of culture? sound of noise, it tunes the flowing to the language of rhyme.
in short. it appears as seen & distorts as seer & spectacle collide.
is it narcissism or revelation?
how can I tell?
is it the self or destruction? is it spiritual or a drug?
if the speaker is an illusion of ignorance, which like the knowledge of judgement, is super-imposed as the film of passing, is it optimism or madness to hope for hope? On repeat, even the impossible becomes a disguise for relief.
if form is beautiful as the marriage of novelty & nostalgia, is adaptation – a gift or a way of keeping feeling at bay? if retrospect is a free for all, is hindsight – an expression of repression?
if the senses are insatiable as the emotions are monotonous, is the visible economy a melodrama of the dependent & the helpless?
if the economy is a force of nature, control is a form of power, and belief is a kind of currency, is the tree that fell in the forest – an industry of paper or the language place for the unlike and the identical?
if courage is in short supply, is embarrassment plentiful? if greed is demand, is the glowing gem in the gut taken too literally?
if the limit between the finite and the infinite is a physical body, is time the representation of movement in the realm of the fleeting?
if a consumer is the politics of hunger,
if speech marks time and the speaker is the distance between sound and listening, is the writer the one who expresses a repetition, represses an expression, repeats variation, or the anticipation of dialogue?
if contentment and acquisition are at odds, is memory a stake holder or a way back home?
if the limit of the opportunist is possibility, is there a chance of surviving alone? if surviving alone is an unwell paradox, is said opportunist – a winner if lucky and lucky if a loser?
if nature and technology are both automatic, is the difference between humans and machines – an animal-rhythm?
prana of prana as performance
performance channels emotional energy
samskara as circumstantial evidence; circumstantial evidence as the love of fate or the affinity for affinity
if the separation between matter and consciousness is the risk of isolation, is it the magnetism of the untouchable, the imitation of work, or the dissolution of surrender?
if consciousness is a record of evolution and evolution is a science of spirit, is language the presence of the moment or the absence of god?
if space & time are divided, is the rift – a stage for semantics?
Some fragments & a puppet show:
slicing of genetic code into alleles as the differentiation of astral bodies…?
if the patenting of memory is a trademark,
if the value of an image is in the eye of the beholder,
on world history?:
? if the personality is an organ recruited by the forces that be to advertise their creation, destruction, & preservation, is desire prone to being hijacked by the status quo or serving the end of the world? if time is a serpent that swallows its’ own tail, is generation a form that flows in reverse?
Whose body?
righteous as a bolt of lightning:
(sexuality : spirituality (like surrender, but all mighty)
self expression : service
emotion: passion)
if money is free information, the cost of which is its’ disconnect & confusion of value, is inflammation a symptom of the common cold or the blind & repetitive rage of friendly fire? if the relationship between currency and history is a celebration of tragedy, was Nietzsche an economist? if pace and timing complement each other, do nonsense & meaning meet at the mistake of flattery? if depth is profound and dimension is an image of an image, is the hunger for digestion – where the consumer becomes an appetite? if process and product depend on each other, is the privilege of one at the expense of both sound & reason – an element of discord? if my stomach growls to get my attention but gets my voice mail instead, am I missing in action or AWOL?
if our physical viruses double as metaphysical entities
if advertisement is the body’s way of preparing for change
if our lineage is life-threatening
if extinction is the breath of history
if identifying with illness creates either a wounded healer or an archetype as negative as an unspeakable crime
if life is a meditation on death
if junk dna is the stuff of life
if liberty is essentially ironic
if the cost of peanuts is an expression of a sense of humor (unique to humans)
if the consumer is a politics of hunger and the speaker is a politics of voice, is vibration a politics of rhythm or are politics, like a psychic field, a form of force?
if performance is the product of the name game and talk is the theater of language, are the double acts of comedy and tragedy – deceptive or cathartic?
if a mask protects us from what we fear and what we forget is as familiar as the knowledge of the known, is the randomization of movement, like the retaliation of violence & violence of retaliation, equivalent to the meaninglessness of melodrama & the extreme apathy of escapism?
if sight circulates images, touch circulates feeling, smell circulates scents, taste circulates multiples of itself, and hearing circulates sound, is circulation a sixth sense or an emotional relative?
beautiful gratitude:
if multiple personalities are used to cope with hypocrisy like natural catastrophes are used to unveil vulnerabilities & marketing campaigns are meant to preserve reputations, is the tool maker a socially phobic god or are thunder and lightning representative of elements rebalancing?
if sound is somehow the link between illusion & reality, is believing everything you hear the meaning of being, the fellowship of listening, the warmth of the cold, &/or the difference of individuality?
if a dream of dreamer is the persuasion of synchronicity like the tug towards letting go of what goes on in the day time, then, is the attention paid – a debt to the incredible or the spectacular transition from opposite to absolute?
if improvisation is the heart of performance and default is the foresight of imagination, am I a parallel universe or a center-less spiral?
if the speaker seals his fate by opening his lips, is every “written” thing – a recognition of that which is irreversible?
if envy fuels acquisition, acquisition disappoints, disappointments expect too much, expectations turn relationships into relatives, and relativity blurs the line between materialism and spirit, is an alternative to vicious cycles an age-old wisdom of learning to breathe naturally?
special effect:
if commercials and programming conspire to create harmony between the rhythm of life and the repetition of signs, is my attachment to my own voice – a calling card or ironic graffiti – bridging time and space like breath ties body and mind & grace directs distance into the depth of intimacy – but never really visible, except as the still traveling light of a dead star….?
tidal wave:
if breath is a cure for boredom and mantra is a cure for cure, is pranayama the guru in a yuga whose language is too general for words?
if the moon is a revolutionary and the sun is a reactionary, is astrology the gender of the cosmic causality?
if Prana is memory in action, ranging from fear to forgetting, is the voice – the time lost between the record and recording?
if the consumer is the relationship between hunger and food, is the commodification of the body – an economy of the dead?
if the brain is a black hole and the body is a bolt of lightning, is the mind – the universal fabric of free energy?
if modernity is the record that misleads and music is the guidance that confuses loss & bliss, is the language we speak a singular device or the shadow of where we are not…?
if the expression of the microorganism is cosmic and the expression of the macrocosmic is the human condition, is my body – the womb of wombs?
if the relationship between speechless things and telepathic beings is the purity of the ignorant and the unknown, is imagination a taste of beauty or a waste of pursuit?
if the future is where science and fiction intersect, is the sex symbol who survives to imagine the inevitable – a romance of intelligence & artifice?
if the present is an attachment to time, is the aspiration of escape – fantasy or real-ism?
consumer ~ indigestion
if the advertising budget of the economy is playing hard to get,
if the forest can’t be seen for the busy overlooking of trees, am I the sound of an idiomatic outcast or an isolated listener?
if nature, dreams, and technology are all automatic, is art the convention of misinterpretation or the identity of the artist?
if the serpent is the knowledge factor and form is the makeup of reality, is the cosmic mind – an actuality of inversion or molecular biology?
if the language of mathematics is the cost of beauty, is this otherness – proof of belief or “poof!” of time? is it a clear signal or the personification of a caring guide?
if the record is the emergent property, is it a displacement of time or a measurement of itself?
if the romance between reality and representation is the separation of matter and consciousness, are pain & pleasure – symbols of perception?
if the relationship between reality and representation is the opportunity for self-realization, is the spiritual seeker, like the writer-to-be, another face in the mask of many names?
if the sense of sense is an organ of relation, is the health of an abstraction qualified by the equanimity of its’ expression & the frequency of its’ wavelength?
if prana is the weight of light and sound is the relative of the personality, is language – an experiment or the use of technology to predict the future?
if we are each others’ greatest resource and limitation is a figment of our imagination as real as the bile that runs through the liver, is the intimacy with white noise – an imitation of a sacrament & higher power?
if the consumer is the label of “food” and insatiable as the nonexistent, is indigestion the price we pay for possessing hunger?
if time is money and the spending of one equals imagining the other , is the feeling of waste – an anticipation of guilt?
if the consumer is the cosmic joke, is the spirit of transcendence – rising above the pettiness of philosophy?
if the material world is the record of the metaphysical, is the record of the material world – a Madonna of many races or simultaneously distorted feedback?
if the cynical fantasy of world domination is at the heart of the heartless, is the unspeakable – the secret kept from the keeper of the crypt?
if the language of logos is the physical sensation of the energy body, is it man’s best friend or an animal self?
if language is the link between the mind and sound, is the link- the lightness of matter?
if the consumer is the transformative work of hunger & its’ incredible catchphrase, is it a revolution of sight or a friendship of stress and excess?
if perceptions of value are as varied as the spectrum of natural causes, are the capital sins, from guilt to bearing false witness, the by-products of a memory bank that confuses sound for a saying?
if the mind points to the brain and the brain vegetates, is to meditate – to sense the sentience of decay?
if the business of bliss is in the marriage of the raw and the preservative, is the sharing of sharing – a race to the beginning or a regifting of the wrapping?
“We move as one.”
if the sound of light is the trademark of an impulse to create, is the sexual innuendo of creation – statistically speaking – the overpopulation of the planet?
if I could make people listen to the conversion of talk into action by means of dubious information, would they be more sensitive to what words mean or would I only be timing my own subjectivity?
if everything is relative but that which is not, is the certainty of self doubt – a mechanism of reversal or the proverbial dawning of a new age?
if propaganda is the proliferation of unrealistic statements, and the positive thinking of the cynic is the use of force, does the essential traffic, in a world of illusion, as a man of no means or a being possession-less?
logarithm of the ungrounded:
if the economy is the cost of our freedom and freedom is the right to move, is the measure of our movement – a displacement of our gravitational pull?
if consciousness is the point at which matter separates from itself, is the state of ignorance – an attachment to suffering?
if paranoia is the heightened awareness of insecurity, is it safe to say, “the structure of falling apart is a chance to re-group.”
if security is technically a readiness to die, is the status of the western world – an unjustified superiority complex?
if culture fills a vacuum and welfare strains a budget, is the growth of the human being – a symbol or parasitic?
if drama is the performance of performance and imbalance is acting out, is the pressure to be positive – a handicap of privilege?
if space is timeless and time is spaceless, is the attention paid to one at the expense of another – a distraction from the sourcelessness?
if hope is a projection that distorts, is it false or lovely as a spirit’s longing for intimacy with the divine? Is it also a recording device?
if time is the compression of the spine and energy is a flow of charged particles, is the nature of life – artificial or divine? if the congregation of bodies is a manifesto in the middle of the wildnerness, is god – a Robocop or a pagan rite? if becoming is inconceivable and expression is identifying, is knowledge – learning and growth – organic? if isolation is the other side of the popular, is contagion – the witness of the plague? if what is taken for granted is a kind of falling asleep, is the limbo between lucidity and dreaming – an artist’s insomnia? if the nightmare the paintbrush wields points to a creator trapped in an elegy, is this a crisis or an intensity of feeling? if emotion is the collective chipping in for flowers for the funeral and the dead are nowhere to be found though the roots of the daisies come close to imitating such nothingness, are the pleasantries I exchange all day long – the currency of the morbid? if words are as beautiful as they are long gone, are the fragments of our love – figments of my fear or just poetic measure?
if the rift that creates the “inner and outer worlds” is the break between action and speech, is rhythm the gift of reuniting?
if the real is the other side of the record and one is a negative of the other, am I the actual or the imitation? if there is no difference between the two but the barrier of borders, am I security or prisoner? if my split personality is the intolerance of hypocrisy’s circumstance, is judgment short sighted or myopic? if my cleverness will not set me free from my imaginary problems or my reality, is what is left for me the chance to connect?
if ideology is an excuse to get together is sexual, spiritual, and soulful, and language is a sum of words, is the creativity of the human race – a wave of waves? if the tide is associated with the moon is feminine, is form – a goddess or a disguise? if the bitch is just a confusion of the human and the animal, is the ego – the body’s way of marking territory? if personal space is repetitive, is the separation between consciousness and cosmic mind, the thought of foresight?
if the ear is the direction of sound, direction is the identity of movement, and the identity of movement is the shadow of light, am I hearing things or are talking – beings?
if our relationship with stuff is possessive and possession is blinding, is our sense of self- all too literal?
if the geography of history is a race of nations and a race is a family of humans, is the state of time – an hour of need or a surveillance of feed?
if our dependence on each other is an industry of appetite, is the threat of extinction – the limit of closeness or the birth of distance?
“Gravity is Matter’s Memory it Once was Light”
if a name is what we use to tell a face apart from the crowd, and a mask is what we use to cover up a face, is the disguise of difference – matter or energy?
if personal freedom is independence from dependence, is addiction – the self expression of irony?
if guilt and free will are both products of a repressive economy, is taking responsibility – going beyond money to meet the maker?
There are two kinds of people in this world: those who believe in destiny and those who don’t. The former make up the old world and the latter make up the new world. They meet in the ocean where the waves are witnessed by men as a salute to perfect solitude. Apart from this glorious beauty, the courtship and pursuit of which has driven many men stark, raving mad, the attention gravitates towards a phenomenon that can poetically be described as a stage and immediately experienced as a growing crowd of physical parts and intangible feeling, of awkward elbows and empty mouths, of heat and fluid, of cramps and flows, of visceral crassness and foolish chivalry, of intelligent potential and animal waste. Like pigeons monitor the earth’s magnetic field by lifting a feather and fish predict earthquakes by sacrificing their scales, the hole of human emotion hopes and despairs according to a great and shallow tide. At the time of this tale, quantity had overtaken quality in an ironic twist of fate and triggered a reflex that caused the loss of much life. There was a natural disaster and a man made melt down.
There was a question of choice that boiled down to pressure and volume. Breath, under Boyle’s Law, obeyed no one but itself unless tyrannized by the singular story of will and surrender. In the battle of the sexes, the heart became a jaded gem & a traded pawn, and circulation became a fortress & a storm. On one hand, when there was an imbalance of excess volume, that which united all of creation in rhythm became a lost voice, looking for home. On the other, when there was an imbalance of excess pressure, that which united all of creation in rhythm became an inexpressible frequency, silently self destructing.
(In)Security has always been at the root, but when a stream is mistaken for a seed is mistaken for a power plant, the seasons are distorted into a bored ruler’s house of brightly painted & feverishly guarded cards. Perhaps, an allegory can illuminate.
Imagine an Indian in a Native American casino. Name him Haikai. Haikai is invested in the wheel of fortune that’s been around as long as mirrors and mines. He is invested in a way in which winning brings him an electrifying joy and losing brings him a panicky agony. This ravaged cycle of up and down drags his physical body into an unsustainable condition. The unsustainable condition, then, is sustained by self-deception. Self-deception fuels addictive behavior like homelessness contributes to crime.
Haikai has a friend named Gilbert. Gilbert has a mother he loves and a healthy curiosity for the unknown. Gilbert witnesses Haikai’s situation. Is it glamorous? Is it hellish? Is it indicative of the forces that animate fate? ‘If it could happened to Haikai, it could happened to him,’ Gilbert reaches a fearful reason.
Gilbert opens a bank. It is like charity, but it wears a poker face.
A romance with risk drives the two men like a resolve to defy death. It is like inspiration, but malcontent.
if advertising is a stretch and yoga is an industry, is the union of opposites – an every day phenomenon?
life folds upon itself;
without trespass, life folds upon itself.
when doer and done become one,
there is neither angst nor mockery left.
there is only the act of love.
As opposed to cynicism:
if emotion is the potential for self realization, and potential is the yearning for actualization, is the spiritual energy of the seeker – negative, positive, or suspended in a state of supplication? if devotion is the recognition of one’s impotence and omnipresence, is the relationship of extremes – the role of the model or the blindness of light? if transcendence is self referential, is the practice of truth – pursuit of the absolute or the divinity of the present moment?
if returning meaning to words is my way of living in the moment, is writing them down – my way of paying rent to a higher power? if a higher power is the fall from grace, is accountability – the suffering of forgiveness and the gratitude of sin? if the depth of skin is animated by the faculty of touch, is the sound of love – feeling heard? if passion is speechless, is connection – inhuman? if the difference between humans and animals is a sense of humor is comedic timing is linguistic play, is the tongue – an organ, immoral? if such standards are outdated, must the ethics of a modern world – reach out to alien worlds and foreign spaces, not the chambers of the heart’s historic complexes but the reverberations of a “single one?”
Whole Foods:
bladder: if the irreality of my isolation manifests as a community that can’t realize its’ interconnectedness, is the dream of the absurd – an ironic display of the regime of oppression?
gall: if the consumer is more than just a materialistic eater and the craving for community binds hunger to nature, is food – the product of digestion or the passage of narrative?
stone: if the sense of story is language and the language of the senses is an identity in crisis, are speech and knowledge – mutually exclusive or impossible to separate?
Body of Color:
Passionate planet,
with your exhausted ocean of fell sperm and your bosom with its’ he-eaving and holy opera,
there was a moment tonight,
before the lightning thrived and the sky bloomed like busted blue and black berries in an abundance so gaudy it gushed seduction and impossibility….
it may have been a distraction, but at the time, it struck me as a revelation –
“you see, the arena of intimacy is airtight.”
I was leaning down to help a man boy stretch, not unlike michelangelo, when I realized that the two of us were projections on a screen, no, like phantoms of narrative, no, like veterans of nativity, no, like imitations of ourselves – the integrity of whose’ interactions either elevated or damned.
there was freedom in this and also the release of some artificial nature that I had agreed to only by default.
my friend, you speak of vibration as a vehicle for a shift in consciousness.
my right ear strains so much to see under its’ own nose, I think i am a listener.
my question is this: if everyone knows, but no one says, is it a zen koan or a splitting chromosome?
if color emerges at the borders between light and dark, and boredom relates sentiment to the inane, is “the way things are” – an expression of movement being made into an art?
(the disciplines overlap to “form” a continuous spectrum)(the continuous spectrum reflects the emergence of illusion)(illusion is real.)
if art is a monopoly of the imitation that divides life into replication, is a monopoly – the limitation that gives birth to death?
if creation and revelation are the two poles of cosmic consciousness, is the rift in between – the product of myth or the myth of the absolute?
if the dream we are being sold is the dream of buying more, is the culture of debt – a budget deficit? if the desperation of the unemployed is the work force, is creativity – enslaved? if the mother tongue is explicit and incest is slander, is the desire of desire – lucrative only as language? if language is the planet’s nuclear radiation, is the dust I hunt, hoard, and heed – an unnatural disaster waiting to happen?
if information is the speed of light, is the need to slow down – a vitamin deficiency or a poisoned paranoid?

if light listens and sound imagines, is time, as we know it, the break that constitutes communication between elements of the ether?

dark meat: if a rate of waste is the cost of life, is the neglect and degeneration of kidney, liver, and thyroid – a relic of prejudice or a random percentage of the modern age?
if language is culture, narrative is tradition, food is memorable, and taste is the sensualist quest to transcend, is the commercial of and for the present – a patent of an antibody or biologically indeterminate?
if money is a vehicle of consciousness, bound to the laws of thermodynamics, are the decisions I make based on “how much more?” – legitimate accounts or the failed calculations of and for a perpetual motion machine. if competition is a misrepresentation of an innate harmony and suicide is a misrepresentation of misrepresentation, is the extreme I encounter – the choice to recognize my true self? if I am an other, is the mass of matter – energy or labor? if fame is the product of history, are the imitations of identity – like authenticity, but enslaved? if validation is a commodity and a commodity is material, is the trade of abstract goods – a black market or a spiritual proof?
if the convenience of convenience is a vacuum and culture is what we have misplaced, is the accent – an undercover salesman or the simulacrum of the immigrant-native that functions as a fulcrum for the artifact of the dual &/or the duality of potentially being impossible? if bile is the speak easy that binds flow to discord, is conscience – the measure of being anatomically faithful? if speech is the bird that flies out of the mouth and never returns, is the script – the double edged sword that “touchè s” as it breaks skin? if bile is the color of shit, is waste the product of the consumer or the treasure of the digestive system? if my sense of self is eavesdropped in myth is taught to read, are my organizations of disorder – primal intuition or a very literal avoidance of the “other.” if history is the original “other,” is coming to terms with the timelessness of human experience – the soul of love?
Status Quo:
(Is attachment the alter ego of ignorance?)
if the infrastructure of culture is the management of waste, and the difference between solid and liquid is a state, is emotion – a rhythmic paradox of destruction & creation (like the heart beat that circulates the blood stream) or a product of ignorance, an attachment of many names?
(If the macrocosmic is statistic and the microcosmic is probable, is the repetition of the random – meaningful as the mystery of dark matter?)(like the future, but in transition?)
if knowledge is experience and experience is the medium for information, is connection – an imitation of continuity or “scrambling the code?”
if my center of gravity correlates to my spiritual growth, “am I alone in the depths of subjectivity or linked inextricably?”
if my ego is a body of stress and the origin of the ego is the default of origin, “is my poor right kidney bearing the burden of my false pride?”
if language, like gravity, is an entropic force, and recycling is a refusal of fatalism, “is the emotion of activism – the culture of the spiritual?”
growth vs. change:
if the proof of faith is in the trinity of choice, forgiveness, and sacrifice, is the spiritual seeker – a hero in an epic quest?
if receptivity is the gift of the self and vegetation is the cemetery of eternal life, is being vegan – a body of gratitude?
if the sight of sound is script, is the beauty of the senses – a recognition of integrity or a random eye movement?
As a child, we pray with play. As an adolescent, we pray with error. As an adult, we pray with payment. As the aged, we pray with doubt; our rasping throats reach for the salve of hopeless hope and the joy of dreaming peace is forgone for a desperate plea. To pray is to imagine a cosmos in which divinity and planet earth are aligned, in which the highest realization is the ground under our feet. To pray is to plant the seeds of intention without the expectation of guilt, greed, or profit. To pray is to realize that to desire is to do and to do is to serve. To pray is humanity’s mirror meditation upon the banks of an endless flow.
if the guru is the antidote to the ego and sexuality is the decoy of true strength, is desire – miraculous or sensible as a rechargeable battery?
if competition is the way choice operates to test the true desire of participants, is “showing off” – an ignorance of the rules of the game or the basis for its’ built in mechanism?
if words are the color of sound and light is what we live for, is darkness- the memory of forgetting, a theory of opponents, or the raw material of re-creating?
(if spirituality is an imitation of science and science is an avoidance of reality, are past lives – factual, fictional, or designed to demystify the present by revealing the sexual orientation of personality?)
Job Security:
if information and identity are interchangeable in the feedback loop and suffering and enlightenment are united in awakening, “I am the writer of my own story.”
if the language of the human is music and the language of the universe is energy, is vibration – the neutral medium that binds desire to peace & culture to immortality?
if tuning out is a defense mechanism, is staying engaged – confidence in the timelessness of the inexpressible and the communion of opposites?
if the energy consumed by the senses is manifested as a conversion of “language” into mutual exclusion, is true communication – an accumulation at the core, not of deferral or blind obedience, but pure presence?
if the dna that makes synapses stick is what makes you – you and me – me, is “putting our heads together” – our true self or a double helix?
if comparing the incomparable is a calculation of the impossible and the impossible is a negative impression of the self, is “chance” – the saving grace of karmic debt or the intuition of thought?
if money is a representation of the “irreversible” and the market is interchangeable, is the number of numbers – infinite or inhumane as a bar code?
if a gene is the bridge between the language barrier of the inscription and the expression, is “the human genome” an attempt to unravel the unspeakable or to traverse the tenth dimension?
Belief is the beginning; work is the ending; the duration is transcendence….
if love is the mirror in the brain, like science, but poetic, am I an archetype in disguise or an inexpressible form?
if art is the link between love and science, and hunger is the link between power and structure, is the microcosm – my self or sacrifice?
if the word comes alive in speech, is preserved in thought, and destroyed by the awakened mind, is the question of grammar – a spiritual prophecy or the enlightenment of enlightenment?
the dream we weave, as a people, as the pendulum swings
shame, desire, and creativity reign
the rhythm of rhythm is an automatic product
grief, woe, and sorrow are either profound or melodramatic
self absorption is the color of light
meditation and chaos merge in the one who watches the breath
on the inhale, life enters me, limitless, brazen, full of longing
on the exhale, I empty.
how can I remember? how can I forget?
teach me, mother, how to be
here, I am.
Water up; Fire down
I am learning to see
with the eyes of my heart, the ears of my light, the sound of my mind.
the waves, majestic, roll upon the shore like peristalsis.
the chakras are the architecture of the soul, emerging from the patience of the seeker.
the soul is disenfranchised.
what will the future hold? consumption or peace?
love thrives in gratitude and wilts in a body of decay.
death is natural. mourning is human. suicide is blindness.
the preconception of “openness” is that it pertains to an opportunity for conception whereas in actuality, “openness” is in of itself a creation of a free society that illuminates conception and opportunity as one. openness is the condition of breathing easily and sharing without calculation or anxious mistrust. openness is a dialogue of equals,a spontaneous inquiry, a gift of friendship. openness is the ideal of an economy without scarcity, of knowing without pretending, of grace without stipulation, of love without boundary, of structure without strangulation, of irony without bloodshed, of growth without radiation, of age without denial…
if the truth, when denied, becomes falsified, are the brain waves of counterfeit proof – the invisible shackles of modernity’s spirit of crisis and boom?
if a human being is the universal principle of sacrifice, am I lost or transcending?
if Buddha is the true potential of consciousness, is suffering – the failure to recognize the mirror image in a world of appearances?
if the guilt of guilt is the voice of conscience and the conscience is forgiving, is the sound of crying – a call for help or a human being?
if an unrealistic system of supply and demand is taken for granted, is the energy I circulate – too much or never enough?
if the victims of culture are my loved ones, is the direction of my thoughts – an elegy obscured by my selfishness?
if freedom of expression and work ethic are at odds, is a revolutionary – the pioneer of the tenth dimension or the reality of relevance?
Now: if rhetoric is the tool of resistance, and faith is the belief in reason, is the “future” the debt of culture to itself or the awakening of the solar plexus?
if love is the cycle of death and rebirth that powers our need for energy, is our need for energy – an empowerment dynamic or an advertisement for scarcity?
The relationship between art and mind is like that of the ear to the head. Film, literature, music, and theatre, like dramatic irony or the culture of spirituality, inhabit a position of authority – integrative, subliminal, and effective. Is Van Gogh’s Starry Night – propaganda of the cosmos or born of darkness? The relationship of art to itself is like that of incest. Film, literature, music, and theatre, like the mediums of transcendence, codify the inexpressible. Are constellations – man made marvels or divinity’s guidance? if the corporation is the intermediary between the ego and the artist, is technology – a pawn of the power hunger of the immature or the seeker’s vehicle for self realization?
how do I stay centered in the body without becoming egotistical?
how do I feel connected with all life without losing my voice?
express yourself
how do I speak my mind without distorting time or isolating the listener?
root yourself in your intuition
how do I root myself in my intuition without creating opposition?
“Go with the flow”
there are no readers, writers, or speakers. there is only the process by which mediums transform…imitative frequencies…into representatives of interest. There is no interest, per se, only radical movement, under cover of its’ own self delusion. there is no self delusion, only unrealized play. there is no lament, only the soul’s ecstatic pit, in which every union plants a divisive seed and every divisive seed sprouts an abundant tree. there is no poem, no poet, no sound – who can save spirit and matter from war with each other. only the pure of heart….
“When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart,
and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for
that which has been your delight.”
Khalil Gibran
Time is where the living and the dead come together. It is not as we think. It is not a straight line that hungers forward, leaving lovers to their fate at train stations where partings are bitter sweet or the aged to their aging where the dirge is weak as a medicinal draught in a habitual mass or the ambitious to the pursuit of victory in a sport, doomed to it’s own vain recollection. Instead, time is where the living and the dead come together. Phenomenal as the mother tongue, the human being is made human by her penchant for history. Hindsight is a gift, either taken for granted or merged with guilt to reach an understanding of the way things come to be represented. Representation is like the power of the powerless, which manifests as the blind fear of love, or the meditation on one’s ancestors, which brings mythology to root in the nervous system and the tribe to be guided by the configuration of stars. Time is where the living and the dead come together. Its’ axis is rotation and its’ rhythm is vibration. This brings me to my next question. What does it mean to be modern or as some sources say, “post modern?” If the teacher teaches, according to the student, that choice and creation go hand in hand, is the more choice we have, the less choice we have? If extremes are where opposites imitate each other, how do we tell where one begins and the other ends? If all in the universe is guided by law, is ignorance of the middle path – a lack of knowledge or an immaturity of growth? If cancer cells replicate without heed to the consequences, ethics are the personality of the microscopic, and the big picture is an expression of one feedback loop, is the moral of a depressed civilization – the need for reform? if reform is self realization is respect for the earth we share, will we come together in a ritual of fire, healing, and affirmation, or will it always-already be too late?
Spirituality is a transition. Like superman’s voyage in the telephone booth or the elephant in the room, spirituality marks a shift from a mundane and aggravated reality into a higher consciousness. The shift is a shift in perspective. Like the lion’s “badge of courage” or the placebo effect, it is a choice, bestowed by a guru, whether it be wizard or healer, whose power, ironically, is bestowed upon him by the disciple or patient’s belief. It is like a circle chasing its’ own tail. What is beyond?
if the difference between cynicism and spirituality is the difference between arrogance and humility, is the path paved – one of aspiration’s hierarchy or honor’s haven? is it place, time, or an idea of the mind? if the mind is split between receptivity and action, and collective consciousness is a creative expression of their union, am I – a ripple or the ocean? if the rhythm of tension and relief that I feel when juggling agreement and discord is the harmony of our muscles pulling at each other, are the limits of perspective the openness we share? if I am reading this out loud, is the listener – an illusion of matter’s visible barrier or a trust that sound follows light as it travels through sight?
if beyond spirituality is the independence of the soul, is the story teller – a commercial for an absence or the self realization & equal footing of the tale? if performance is our ability to empathize, is drama our bad appetite? if our need for borders defines our comfort zone, is a violation of respect – an awkward force? if creation and destruction are one, and preservation and perpetuation are symmetrically opposed, is the product: a piece of art or a possession of possession? if there is a demand for response, am I expressing myself or playing my part? if speaking my mind means making a choice, is the cost of uncertainty – the price of guilt? if surviving despite the odds is human triumph is human loss, is kundalini – the density of mass?
kal-ajna: the difference between self expression and being one’s self is the difference between imitation and creation. life is always-never repeating itself. our various becomings, voluptuous as they are with taste, hunger, ambition, and the desire for salvation and/or liberation flail between the storm-racked sea of passion and the shore of bittersweet relief. if we listen to our intuition, without judgment or wild speculation, we will learn that the bridge between our “identities” and our nature is in the completion of our soul. like the distance in between anticipation and desire, it is a duplicitous language, masking a reality – ever present and breathing in rhythm, ever giving, ever receiving, ever unfolding in a celebration of its’ own joyous existence.
if all human expression is art, are the desires for safety, recognition, and control – illusions of the conditional matrix or the foreplay of choice? if choice is the paradigm of the individual and enlightenment is the liberation from social systems of control, is my freedom of speech and thought – dependent on a law or on my own experience of the infinite incarnate?
if a star is an “image” is the form of light, is the surreal life – the publication of “one” mind?
if the negative’s bad reputation is the gossip of the channel, is the reality of polarity – a divine quest?
if spirituality is like optimism, but with just cause, is the hope of the human race – a solidarity with space?
if space is the simultaneous fullness and emptiness, is identity – the knowledge of experience and “idiom” – the body of mind?
imagination is like the ability to survive in the desert. it’s a sustenance of off one’s self and one’s reserves, a creation of meaning intertwined with the digestive fire, the fiery radiance, and the radiant matchlessness.
the relationship between text and speech appears to mimic the relationship between (re-) union and (re-) emergence, existence and corporation, creativity and transcendence. dialogue in writing is as ironic as drama or the role of the “audience.”
the voice is an instrument, trained to speak; in singing, it becomes spoken; in speaking, it is freed.
A man will be imprisoned in a room with a door that’s unlocked and opens inwards; as long as it does not occur to him to pull rather than push.
– Ludwig Wittgenstein
(notes beforehand: another “film-dream”: House of Candy: like Edward Sciissorhands meets Requiem for a Dream…a coming of age gone wrong….the brain’s ability to deceive itself…”the middle east” … nature of trauma…how do we practice spirituality in an age of horror?
characters: the mentally and ethically strong psychiatrist, the hero, the megalomaniac child abuser…
escaping into denial…the imagination/the fantastic as refuge…
sabotage, self destruction, the victim’s self blame….”what is real?” “illusion or pain?”
in our greatest moments of terror, is god there?)
Scene One: “God is in the Details”
Abraham is at his laptop. It is around 8 o clock at night and outside his window, the late summer sunset is just beginning to transition into an inky darkness. The glamor of industry is giving way to the primal dark, but first the two dance a suspenseful dance. He is a middle aged man with a slight paunch and bad eyesight. He has the potential to be handsome with a full head of hair and a self deprecating wit whose charm he uses as a defense mechanism. Next to his laptop is the framed picture of a woman with red hair. She is laughing into the camera and her head is slightly tilted back and her chest is thrust forward in an expression of spontaneous joy. Her arms are extended behind with all ten fingers distinct as the points of a star. He picks up the photo and its’ energy makes him uncomfortable. He puts the photo down and tries to stretch out his legs from his computer chair, an awkward motion- more like an uncomfortable squirm than an expansive exercise. Is it sexual tension? Where do the physical sensations of his body end and his emotions began? Is it so cut and dry? The room is dim, lit by a small desk lamp, and one has the feeling that there is something cramped about the man’s surroundings. Though there is enough room, he feels like he has to hunch and the constriction drives his blood flow in modern ways. On his wall, there is a poster of a futuristic labyrinth, a diagram from Jacque Fresco’s Venus Project. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. He yawns.
The phone rings. He alerts and picks it up. It is a cordless. It was off its’ charger and laying on its’ side next to the laptop, a frequently used tool.
“Hello?” He feels the need to clear his throat.
The tension breaks as he recognizes the voice. “Jake! Hey.” There is laughter as the two men talk about the game and then, a bout of weary business.
“How is the reconstruction coming along?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I am having trouble regulating the uncertainty.”
“I mean, the balance has to be just right. Some uncertainty drives the market, but too much cripples its’ ability to act.”
“You sound crazy.”
“I feel a little crazy. I can’t get a handle on the situation. Last night, I wrote down, “if speech represents the masses and text represents the individual, is the overlap of the spoken and the heard – a medium for the inexpressible?” I feel torn between the sacred and the profane. I think we are one, but…”
“But, God and the Devil are fighting over the details.”
Scene Two: Childhood
Abraham and Margaret are walking on the sidewalk of a suburban neighborhood. Margaret is a short, thick woman with rimless glasses and long grey hair pulled into a ponytail. She is a cross between a scientist and an activist. The human brain is her study and her cause. She is fearless, disturbed, and persistent. Her step is purposeful and beside her, Abraham seems off-center. He follows her lead and she serves. At times, he eludes and she pursues.
“This is where it happened?” she inquires.
“He was just a boy.”
“It wasn’t his fault.”
“But, he was attracted…”
“He didn’t know….do you remember the day?”
“No, absolutely not.”
“You know, it’s not unusual to block out negative memories.”
“You misunderstand. This is inconceivable. How can this be?”
“What is the matter?”
“I don’t know how god could let this happened. And what is worse, a world without god or an indifferent god?”
“My conviction is that humanity’s true crisis is spiritual.”
“I need to understand why we suffer.”
“I think it was Ayn Rand who said Identity is Consciousness.”
“How can we help but identify with our pain?
“Who are we?”
“Is that an identification with identity?”
“Red hot.”
“Pain is the reason for everything.”
“Is that fear talking?”
“We are mortal. Fear is our fate.”
“What if our true self was immortal?”
“What if the prophets were deluded?”
“is a conspiracy.”
Scene Three: To believe or not to believe:
“The heart pumps the blood and the blood pumps the body. The brain is protected from the blood, but by no means, immune to its’ rush. Like a lover, it listens for its’ loved one.”
“Poetry is dead.”
“But, protest is still alive.”
“Who is speaking?”
“The dark.”
if the relationship between the brain and the blood is not only the communicable barrier but also grey matter, is gravity – an agent of growth or the genius of genius?
Channel of currents, here is your dirge:
Consciousness, rooted in mortality, yoked to the quest for transcendence, “creature, can you hear me?” your begging for love is silenced by your pride and your pride is ashamed of its’ own reflection. your voice is lost in the crowd and the dark night of your soul is magnified into an epoch.
An age of gaping loss, dice toss, and poets sick of rhyme- its’ expressions are bitterness, addiction, and protest. justice is a penname for blood spilled and blood spilled is a justification for more. community is a competition of like minded beasts and care is fought for like the favor of the queen.
the love of knowledge and the knowledge of love have been separated by the cynics and their taxes on truth. what hope is there for passion’s purity and purity’s union with the divine when confidence and aggression are interchangeable in the eyes of the interloper, frightened, blind, and buried deep in debt, drugs, and woe?
significance is like a sad game, one in which we all playwar. the rules are the reasons for treason and the attachment, like a scenery of heaven and hell or the pitchfork of ignorance, is the cause of an endless cycle of suffering.
Art is the epitome of intentionality. “Art” is big business, emotional fraud, and physical dependency. The difference between hearsay and original thought is like the difference between positive and negative, an inversion whose moral is spiritual or an apathy whose contagion is cultural.
if the endocrine system correlates to the chakras and the nervous system represents the energy flows, is the skeleton clothed in muscle – a body of love or a liver of regrets?
if expectation is the perfume of the bomb maker and language is the mass of the weightless, is transcendence – the key to understanding human behavior?
if the imagination is free, is the currency – our ability to trust in our own creative power?
Aesthetic Theory:
word connects image and sound….truth and beauty…man and beast….
an expression, like the breath, bridges body and mind…
heartfelt or neurotic, it relates the relative to the absolute….the sensory to the transcendent….
just like breastmilk bonds mother and babe, it is a voice of passion that tempers the rift…
man is a stranger to man until the force & vulnerability of maternity fuse a society of care….
is the craft of the infant’s call – a vocation or a tool?
is idealism – the brain child of womanhood or a formation of form?
if the sophistication of the neocortex is driven by a pregnant urge – are the expressions of the heart – anthropological or a longing for home?
if knowledge is the union of the self and language is the uncertain domain of our alter ego, is the psychotic break between truth and talk- a school of enlightenment or the learning curve of the suffering?
if the institution of gravity is an artificial limitation of the phenomenon, is its’ natural state – a spinal tap or a force field? is it environmental, universal, or a channel for love’s equal opportunity?
if identification with sound is the tip of the metaphysical iceberg, is going beyond the “speaker,” the sound of sound or a single syllable?
if the big bang is the break through of the brain stem, is the model of the brain – the irony of death or the rebirth of analogy?
if resurrection is the oldest trick in the book, is literature – the preserver of creation or the destroyer of destruction?
if the default of our story telling is the “publishing industry”, are the writers to be – the products of waste or the waste of potential?
if potential is fulfilled, is the perpetual deferral of the modern economy – a blind spot of the material world or a pathological lack of hope?
Scholar Herbert V. Gunther further explains, “an individual, which in other systems is imagined as a combination of matter and a permanent mental principle (atman), is in reality a continuously changing stream of that which from one viewpoint is believed to be matter and from another a mind. However, what we call the mental and the material occurs in a unity of organization. Organization is something dynamic.”
{ if desire is thirst, then water is light. }
film as a form of learning; structure as a being of time; artist as an universal archetype; light as the guide that bridges form and object – personal and profound.
film as background noise; ego as an unrealized self; attachment starring as ignorance.
film as the medium for performance; love as an embrace of hope; main character as life, itself.
film as the perpetuation of history; film as the overlap of decay and rebirth; film as the phantom – manifest.
film as the skin of a homosapien; film as the poetry of a bard; film as divine play – vitamin D and the sexy replication of cells
film as the reason for revelation; film as the deferral of satisfaction; film as the satisfaction of deferral.
film as the need for recognition; film as the glow of connection; film as the foundation for the makeup industry.
film as the revolution of now; film as the age of modernity; film as the coverage of the cover up; film as the shine of rising from the ashes; film as the beauty of the hero’s journey; film as the memory bank whose true nature is to serve the marriage of the head and heart….(citta-shakti?)
if within the positives, lies the potential for the negative and within the negative, lies the potential for the positive, and the dynamic aspect of change is as static as the subtlety of energetic shift, is potential, like an awakening to one’s own enlightenment, the key to uniting opposites or a grey area of creative, if dubious, impulse?
if language is like meditation, but restless, and like analysis, but irrational, are the two hemispheres of the brain, like east and west, connected by a muse which belongs to no one?
if the power of the mind is in the body and the power of the body is in the mind, is their relation – rooted in a power – beyond thought or action?
if the oneness and interrelatedness of all life must be experienced to become actual, is the hope of humanity – in the spiritual drive?
the pyramid:
if protest is the catalyst of revolution and the collective conscience is the heart of imagination, is the time for change – as uncertain as the vocal range of the modern age?
physical reality as an expression of the mind
mind as potential for self realization
self realization as the bridge between the mundane and the profound
materialism as the gateway into the spiritual life, like exhaust fuels our quest for a renewable resource….
conjunctive disjunction as the state of the present; creative opportunism as capital; intuition as personal integrity; hope as hopeless as the duality of duality: an egoic projection, rooted in the unreal.
love as real & divine.
re:chakras, vedic astrology, & self expression
Consciousness is a record of evolution. Before there was speech, there was the communication of communication by touch. Before there was touch, there was hunger that united the nomadic tribe like a drum beat. Before there was hunger, there was the feverish division of single celled organisms, blind as love and innocent as desire. And before this desire, there was the seed of life, latent potential – vibrating in the cosmic womb. My question is this: what is beyond speech? If telepathy is the reading of minds and the reading of minds manifests in the physical reality as “text,” is the link between mediums – a channel of liberation, a future tense, a new age, or an astrological sign?
“We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” ~T.S. Eliot
“to feel is to be felt”
emotions are the music of the cosmos. the emotion of emotion is expression. the expression of expression is thought. the thought of thought is programming. the programming of programming is ph-ysical being. the ph-ysical being of ph-ysical being is the replication of the self is the miracle of life. to grow is to die; to learn is to teach; to have is to lose; to love is to give. profound, mundane, present, and pervasive – we are as free as we choose to be. earth comes from water; water comes from fire; fire comes from air; and air comes from ether. the elemental design is a dynamic balance of opposites. passion is a sacredness yet to be purified. purity is a passion yet to be sanctified. the rhythm of our heart beats is not the restlessness of an animal in a cage, but the harmony of emergence.
the word is like sex. where is sex? is it in the bedroom, where the people reside in a state of slumber? or in the body, where being takes root? is it in the second brain – the consumer which eats as it digests and digests as it observes? or in the heart, which takes the sweet phrase to be a message from god? is it in the throat, in the thyroid that talks and talks to avoid being alone? or in the higher mind, which sublimates, sublimates, sublimates for the good of all?
the word is like imitation. it obscures itself in revelation.
the word is like a woman, fighting for liberation.
the word is like a revolutionary, seeking common ground.
the word is like a ticket to an undetermined future- like hope, but veiled by its’ many layers.
the word is like illusion, maya, caught between can’t look and can’t look away…the Word is like medusa, a story of snakes, stones, sibilant symbols that hiss with suppressed thirst.
the word is like virtue. biologically, it is a narrative. circular as time, its’ dna is a code written in riddles. instant of insight, it is a path of light. the word is like a capsule of memory, complete unto itself. a great preserver, the word is a reality of creation…
if suffering is the desire to heal, is the desire for suffering, ignorance or the illusion of salvation?
if attachment is as visceral as it is metaphysical, is the knowledge of my bone marrow, the relief of letting go?
if blood flow is the movement of movement and breath is the vehicle, are my body & soul bound by an intensity beyond time & space?
if self consciousness is symbolic and society is linguistic, is the value system – idealistic or “coined?”
if text is the anticipation of speech and metaphor is the missing link, is the hope of human kind in the universal nature of the inexpressible?
if my imagination makes the impossible real, is transcendence – the dream of sharing freedom?
the ego is a state of matter. the emerging consciousness is an identification with nature. the imagination is a continuation of childhood or an embodiment of its’ timelessness. hope, faith, & prayer are commodities of the human experience that need to be balanced in the name of love to be transformed from jealous gods to benevolent arms. the future is in our hands. are we holding on to the past or uniting heaven and earth?
film is a mirror of the soul. despair is the decay of hope. karma is the repentance of job. the gospel is outgrown. language and the sacred are like the body and its’ expression; the present moment is not only holy, but reality. the underworld is misunderstood as understanding is interpreted. information is either free, corrupt, or bankrupt. compassion, as the final frontier of human evolution, begins as soon as judgment ends.
the son of god, the son of man, the child consciousness is always potential. the economy is the borderline between the material and the spiritual; it is the practice of the practical or the creative force of pure awareness. inverted as the tarot symbol of a hanged man, in reality, the form is the projection and the source is the truth. at the root, attraction and repulsion are united into an energy pill, an elixir of healing, and a lover of oneness.
thought is infinite. mythology is planetary. the art of dying is not only what we leave behind but what we let go of. is the specialization of language- alienating to the masses or an expression of human form? our thirst for knowledge is a desire for self realization. the “uni-verse” is our oyster.
K for Kirtan: If a “kriya” is a completed action, and “karma” is action and reaction, is the transcendence of time – an act of forgiveness?
it is true that to perceive, receive, share a piece of art, a piece of heart, one must become a mirror to light, delight, be bright. one need not know, no, groan in the brain; one need only play the way one’s soul says echoes rays sound waves. one need not imitate a tyrant with his tight pants clenched fists hoarding mind; one need only give, live, flow blood, laugh, lymph, move with the wind. is cosmic wind lightning? are mythic gods fighting? is energy cycling with such abundance that its’ grace stuns us? is sensation present with such selflessness that its’ pleasure frees us? is love so wild a servant that its’ limitlessness binds us?
if the nature of hope is pandora’s box, and what is revealed is what lasts, is novelty – the blindness of modernity or a lesson, learned from the ancient past?
our eyes are thieves; they steal night from day and day from night. darkness and light are in one embrace, but the cycles of the world’s ages move from woe to wonder with or without the insight that the universal law is that of change. the sage says that the ego is a barricade, a body of defense that in its’ urge to protect, wounds itself. when I try to speak with people of “spirituality”, I make the mistake of doubting myself. as like attracts like and souls imitate, we, then, fall into a game of blame and suspense. when I write poetry, it is not order that I reason with but chaos who I court. it is a balance of trust and error that yields these words, like a net that captures a naked mermaid with wet hair that’s never been cut, but what these words give in return is not payment or the greed of spectacle, but thanks, so much thanks. it is not absurd, but guttural. it is not definite, but creative. can you imagine, I mean, a way in which we are not our talking heads or the sums of our actions, regrets, and crimes of nature, but the ecstatic brilliance of an infinite and diamond being?
if the product of expectation & the expectation of product are what bind language and technology together like a pair of handcuffs or double vision, is the unpredictability of the weather coupled with human emotion – a plasma screen or an advertisement for madness?
If at each chakra, a different representation rules, obscures, and reveals…,
is the root related to the guilt,
the abode related to the gender,
the city related to the persona,
the inner world related to the word,
the archetype related to the taste & cadence of choice,
the intuition related to the eternal garden,
and the origin related to a recognition of the real, like a meeting of friends?
if the family of crime is a bond of fear and the crime of family is a law of man, is true solidarity – in the solitude of self realization, the heart of madness, or the transformative embrace of the divine feminine? }V{
On Revelation & Loss:
The past is more than just a history of what has happened; it is a corpse in the water supply. The future is more than what may one day be; it is the faith in time’s service to humanity. The watcher, a traveler between worlds, relates to temporality by imitating the play between shadow & sundial. Rhythm is nothing short of the cosmic pulse. Hope is the ability to see past vision into insight. Redemption is the self’s return to paradise.
Matter and spirit are inseparable. The nature of their connection, like the teaching of tantra or the light of the visionary, is the inexhaustable mystery of who we are.
Belief is an instrument of the divine, exploited by the ignorance of the personality or harnessed by the compassion of the teacher to save humanity from self destruction.
The cosmic dance, the romance between revelation and blindness, is the self’s journey to realization. When I conceive of all human expression as art, I don’t only transform my materials into an artist but transform the artist into a great space of freedom, openness, acceptance – a burst of lunar color. The artist is a master of emotion. The master is an artist of artists. The creation is so transient that the act of perceiving it leads to its’ resurrection.
e v o l u t i o n or regression? work in progress… can you manufacture enlightenment without alienating the seeker? can you speak without becoming the speaker? can you conceptualize language without irony, cynicism, or shameless self promotion? can you preach creativity without the capitalist greed, that reeks of guilt and profit? does the flag of “freedom” automatically disenfranchise the spontaneous flow of holons? does the flag of “anarchy” automatically make its’ movement – impotent as mundane lust? if all the expressions of logos are indicators of a music of the spheres that is as dynamic as the listener’s ear drums, is the nation of islam, paranoia, and corporate liberty – reality or a show of power equivalent to an infant’s tantrum?
Perceiving the Petals:
(fight or flight, cosmic consciousness, embrace mystery, create vitality)
deep sleep, dreams, and waking are like the stations where mind and body transition. in our dreams of waking, the “mind” dominates. in our dreams of deep sleep, the “body” dominates. when we wake in deep sleep, however, our consciousness rises from dormancy to enlightenment.
if knowledge is the source of power and the age of information makes the secrets of nature readily available, are human beings – free to organize without hierarchy or still bound by tradition, custom, & the superstitions of the superego to isolate each other in the name of upholding irrelevant laws?
if the cosmic mind is human destiny, is beyond self realization – the frontier of boundless being?
if god is man-made, is man’s soul – the creation of creation or the cause of reaction? is it a field formed by belief or an energetic being?
emotion occurs in the gaps in which we think we are someone else. in the realization of our true self, emotions are the waves of the soul that rise and fall according to the rhythms of essence.
if language is the last straw and desire is the thirst for spiritual growth, is hunger the hay made while the sun shines or the dead horse?
if the sum of our senses is the physical self, is the impatience of the ego – the modern age & the joy of the sage – the present moment?
the ego is real. the ego is an illusion. is the ego – the color of hope or the destiny of alone? is it the dream of spiritual union or the sleep of the manifold? is it an antenna for love or the disappointment of the millionaire judge? is it the unconditional bond, like a yoke of the body & mind, or is it a gamble, in the name of world domination? is the ego an artist or a child of two archetypes? the ego is a reflection of a projection. is it a screen for the imagination or a program whose cost is human suffering?
Dancing Shiva:
we think of ethics as something somber & sterile – set down like the weight of a heavy book, the clenching of our jaw caused by the word, “law.” in truth, ethics deals with sensuality, with the limits of pain and pleasure. when we factor in our experience of spirit, of transcendence, of humble awe, ethics is/are transformed from something externally imposed to something internally inspired. like a desire for union, we feel its’ guidance, gentle, yet urgent, in every step, leap, and bound we take. it is no longer a figure of authority – patriarchal or otherwise; it becomes the intimacy of shared space.
The Buddha Tree:
life is suffering.
suffering is transient.
transience is permanent.
mind is limitless.
heart is fearless
soul is selfless.
meditation begins as a protest,
then, becomes a middle path,
then, goes beyond the sound
of words.
the heart center is where the transcendence of duality begins. balance between forces that appear to be in opposition teaches us that nothing exists in isolation. to move beyond the mere/mirror acceptance of interdependence requires a sense of consciousness. I am not my body and I am not the energy that moves through me. Pure essence questions, “who am I?” Is it darkness that answers, or light? Is it an echo, a reflection, or unstruck?
is it possible that the human body has been conceived by nature as a vehicle for revelation, realization, & liberated existence?
evolution is multidirectional. there is a direct connection between the primordial origin and the current moment. is it a network of spies or a gift between lovers? the journey to full expression is simultaneously a surrender to the chaotic womb, the embrace of mystery, the return to nothingness.
12-16-2011if language is the public space and the public space is polluted by an indifference to the spoken word, are reality and dreams confused by a sleeping populace?
everything is a lesson in life. spirituality is not just another “option,” but the presence of choice. perception is creation. the seer is the believer. language is the medium of culture. culture is the home of the human. attachment is the disfigurement of form. form is.
if womens’ rights are literally being undermined in a left brain society and my emotional makeup is a violated mother tongue, is speaking out: a cause of the voiceless or a reaction of the oppressed?
if language is dark matter and balance is inborn, is the storm of emotions that cloud the heart – the child who never grew? if the actor, performer, and/or libidinal projection is a sense of being in the world, is the womb – the gateway or the room, the room, the room? if the acoustics of space are the resonance of our souls’ longing to see its’ beloved in every bloom, are the lives we live – directional or radiant with narrative like the color red of a rose?
friend, I offer you form like a beast who dances with beauty in an imaginary ball. with no less love, my voice emerges like a fountain, an illusion, a harmonious creation of nature and divinity – an overlap of duality – an immortal skull. then, sound becomes in the same way that the sun is said to rise or the rain is said to fall. “to be or not to be” are the words of a man, alone.
a human changes like the seasons, but with less forgiveness. a human transcends like a poet’s verse, but with less credence.
if the real is not the question appearances would lead us to, how do I honor what is without the joyful notion, nation, nous that, “I am here to celebrate?”
C H A K R A:
if the overlap between the real and the artificial can be conceived of as the divine and the divine is the light that guides, is moving forward – a ritual of purification or a becoming human?
if the spoken word is the individual soul and the written word represents the whole, is the half life of language – the essence of being?
if evolution is the technology of life, is natural selection – creation or choice?
if shiva & shakti, consciousness & energy, are at either pole of the physical experience, is their union – transcendence & immanence?
A meditation on perspective:
the human being is a projection of what is seen.
the human voice is a repetition of what is heard.
the human female is a form of desire, born to love.
the human form is a female, giving birth.
the human-ity is a place in time.
to ask, “who am I?” is to venture beyond the reflection of one’s face into the land of doubt.
to survive the land of doubt is to practice faith.
to transcend religious dogma, ritual, and paraphernalia is to contact spirit.
to contact spirit is to unite energy and consciousness in an eternal embrace.
to know the truth is nothing.
to be the truth is everything.
inbetween nothing and everything, the wise walk the middle path – invisible & free, dark & light.
(aesthetics is not the point; it is a tool.) (love is not an equation of giving and getting; it is the illogical truth of the gratitude outweighing the gift.) (threes pattern the cosmos)
the usual question is, “what would you take with you if your house caught fire?” on the mat, I ask myself, “what will I burn?” what attachment is it that I have come to perceive as another limb, artificial yet trained to reach for a phantom greed? the element of fire has the power to purify. like tears, but burning, bold, and bright eyed, I behold the nature of my own ignorance and douse it with flames. dancing golden, I become shiva in his immortal form – destroyer of worlds and joy of reincarnation.
when you first begin to meditate, your feet fall asleep, the mind becomes drowsy, and you want to lie down. instead, you stay. linked to some fierce desire for a soul-ar connection, you transcend the transience of even your most deep rooted inertia. it seems that what is most fleeting in the true scheme of things appears to be most solid, stable, & enduring in the world of shadowy forms. dear earth, are you illusory, sorrowful, dumb and mute? you turn my abstractions inside out! as I breathe into this body, the shape clarifies as well rounded, whole, and good. gratitude fills my heart for the playful mud of my ancestral home.
when I am filled with thirst, I do not dare drink for I fear I will drown. desire is similar. in this human mold, pleasure feels like a great risk and pain, like a sacrifice in vain. history speaks of a great flood in which the wretched were damned and the righteous were saved. the holy book is an icon of faith – one we attach to with shame. if water is not only a way of loss but also – a purifying agent, is the mortal dust I surrender – the radiance I gain?
Air, Ether, & Space
i know the higher planes by my desire to speak- by the sound of my voice as an approaching distance. the ringing in my ears is as familiar and yet phenomenal as the flight of the wing. I know the higher planes by my desire to be heard – by communion which softens the blow of noise. I know the higher planes by the humility of the seeker who knows he doesn’t know & the compassion of the sage who is there to teach and then, gone.
if culture is the external manifestation of the Self, and regression is the natural order, are we stuck in a loop of mindless consumption or choosing to love? if the choice of love is freedom and the love of choice is human, are the relationships we form – circular or reflective?
if the sublimation of sexual energy is an embrace of all life and a return to innocence, is the self absorption of the eg…o – a misunderstood spiritual drive?
if the sophistication of our society can either reveal or obscure true wisdom – is worship of the earth as goddess – a way of healing body and mind?
if emotions are the movement of energy, is modernity – the confusion between the wave and the particle?
if the love of fear & the fear of love are ironic manifestations of an infinite potential, is the recognition of energy’s pure neutrality – a step towards higher awareness?
if the mental energy of the collective is the “media,” the life energy of the planet is the sun, and the spiritual energy of the individual is the present moment, is the sum of existence – a sacred economy of service or the trust between guru & disciple?
if the difference is “only” a matter of semantics, is the wealth of the nations distributed according to need or “timing?”
if the link between “language” and “timing” is the knowledge of death, is how we mourn our mortality – the key to how we celebrate our life or is the polarity itself a veil in the perception of the alchemical body?
the imaginative act creates space. space creates pathways. pathways create networks. networks express cosmic mind. words are letters in free association. sounds are primal magic, making the dense green forest self aware as the shaman’s chants wake the birds and the bees to the glory of being interconnected. the artist struggles to feel without losing oneself in the enmeshing waves of emotion. like a being in a crafted raft in a stormy sea, he sees the majesty of unraveling nature, the ecstacy of the near death experience, and still his human frame desires to reach safe harbor. like the lover who seeks to be devoured by passion without losing his faith, the artist experiences the tension of balancing opposing forces and calls it, “grace.” she opens the mirror and her eyes dance. the spectacle is either empowering or illusory. the imaginative act creates space. is it a narcissist void, an echoing nymph, a selfless flower, or a re-turn to the real stage?
a woman’s world:
(dedicated to Barry Long)
this morning, god became visible.
not in one place, but unmistakable…
if love is a state and emotion is a position,
am I, like the holy virgin, with-child or crucified?
my transgressions, like my guilt, bide time in the shadows
like history repeats itself and martyrs die in labor.
identity is a power structure, known to many,
as simply “my self” – how ignorant we are when it comes
to voicing the truth of being no body.
I want to say that I know who I am when I stand here,
alone with the archetype like the mind naked in the mirror,
but words are no embrace and even the psyche, in all her glory,
is lonely for land, sea, and man.
journey to opennesss:
if religion is the true nature of history, becoming is the expression of evolution, and expression is the physical reality of the metaphysical, is the spiritual teacher – the counter pose to the suffering woman , a personification of cosmic mind, or the purification of emotion into love?
if the incredible is the factual, is our awe and wonder – as crucial as salt – to our sustenance, nourishment, and wholesome being on earth?
if giving love is the gift of the self and receiving love is the natural equivalent, is abundance – our birth right and our shared inspiration & experience?
if the essence of embodiment is a bodily fluid, if sexual desire breeds selfishness, and the memory of love is the experience of consciousness, is the purity of the light – the endless knowledge of the self – the re-union of the masculine & feminine?
identity occupies us at a cellular level. this is my myth, the fact of the matter, and an expression of essence. the speed of thought corresponds to the medium of communication. thought is not something private and forlorn like a goldfish swimming in circles in a small glass bowl. thought is telepathic, cosmic, and informed by pure bliss. the embodiment of movement – it is the dance of being and the becoming of time. it transforms a visual into the capacity for vision – is it imagination or insight into a creatively-relative-realistically-biased-field-or-zone-or-diamond-or quantum tunnel of miraculous journeying? rhythm jeopardizes the norm. its’ beats sway according to the ecstacy of a hairy gorilla escaping from the zoo. is it a mandala or fixation on a random flow? it is source and its’ sensation, free to be. as visceral and contrived as the bond between writer and tool, is it an instrument of the divine or a super power of the blind self? like the shadow of color or the name of god, it is phenomenon – a mirror of nature, a mask of man, a babe of light…
Impermanence, Sentience, & Synergy:
(the surrender of the self, like the blooming of a flower,
is an act of grace.
grace transforms belief into faith.
the plethora of words, like the petals of the soul, or the
bouquet of the beauty within, courts the unsaid – the virtue of breath,
the madness of the moon, the revolution of orbits around love.
light falls in a way unknown, man thinks the weight of his head is a curse, and blessing
is as grateful as the birth of.
(Surrender of the self is like the flight of the bird. It is a metaphor for paradise.)
The circle is a profound shape. It bridges movement and being. Like the belly of a woman, it gives birth to new life. Chance or novelty, it is more than a capitalist wet dream. It is the power to turn life into a lesson, a teaching into a destiny, and a people into a dharma. It is not dogma but the higher calling of form & manifestation – true self and unending silence.
I will reiterate: spirituality is not an end in itself; it is the appearance of a transition in the history of humanity from self centered, neurotic, aggressive, and imbalanced to harmonious, devotional, mature, and dynamic. The imagination will no longer be used for “profit,” but for the betterment of the whole planet. The higher mind will no longer wallow in its’ cynical fantasy but serve the needs of living, breathing beings, innovating fair solutions for shelter and sustenance.
What part does a/the writer play?
The writer plays the part of the hermit-fool. Like a crab in a shell with surround sound, he muses and broods like the hope of western civilization, the muse of the new age, and the news of tragedy on the horizon. The original man-child, the writer labors between his desire for beauty and the egoic consciousness that brings his mind to the brink of madness but will not let it leap into the arms of love. <3
On Competition : If the difference between the individual and the collective is risk, and the difference between risk and music is reward, is the bridge between people – a race in time or a karma-yoga that links action with detachment, kindness with pleasure, and fulfillment with selflessness?
Value, Worth, & The Economy: A distressing rift was developing. It was raining, and I was in traffic at a street light. I was waiting for the green arrow when I recognized a trap on the spiritual path – the illusion of a choice between a lifeless sterility and a guilt-stricken conception. How and why might I deceive myself? Complexity, at times, undermines simplicity, and thus, I had, indeed, hidden the fearful belief of being unworthy under the projection of an other-worldly aspiration/renunciation. It is somewhat difficult to explain; but nonetheless, the link between creativity and the creator is a sense of empowerment. The link between the creator and the creation is cosmic, and that is neither here nor there, neither microscopic nor abstract, but a matter of being present. What does this have to do with the economy? Is it nonsense or revelation?
The heart of a human being is the call to express her unique, radiant matchlessness. When you combine this with the common needs of our physical bodies, what manifests is an exchange based on merit, service, and the greater good. When we are unable to recognize the integrity and unity of the ineffable and the material, not only do we lose our ability to be grateful and celebrate abundance, but we become a species of “Starving Artists” and vain fame.
Absolute Duality: Absolute duality is the love of god. The human being’s crown chakra is the heart center of cosmic mind like woman’s divinity is man and man’s divinity is woman. Man and woman are god-in-existence. Thus, relationship is a form of worship, and worship is the realization of self in other. All creation originates from the womb. When we connect our creativity with our sense of purpose, community is born. When culture is purified, the knowledge of innocence and the innocence of knowledge become one. With oneness, spirit begins its’ journey to mortality. Does it warp reality or save sentience from suffering by bringing together the profane and the sacred?
Invocation to the Animal Soul:
Are you located in my limbic system, one level lower than my underworld of programs – as digital as the fingers that grip the tools of daily life: car keys, cell phone, pencil, paper, tooth brush, and pen…?
I hear your voice. You imitate my true self and repress the pure clarity of my intelligence. What can you teach me? Wild thing, your contradictions are part of your magnetic personality. You are innocent and cruel, aggressive and vulnerable, manipulative and childlike, clever and ignorant. A fish out of water, you choke on fresh air and please the greed of the cook.
Wisdom teaches me that those who have prisoners can never be free. And so, how do I bring you hOMe to rest in peace? It’s not the zoo you crave nor is it the air conditioned cage of a rent controlled high rise, but the peace and power of stalking prey, laying in the golden stupor of the sun, and silently moving in the skin of your body – at one with instinct.
Your memory courses through me like blood. My awe, reverence, and acceptance are a play of alchemy, a ritual of mystery – raising the bar, burning the star, transforming primal rhythm into a master piece.
his deepest desire was to be a guide on the spiritual path. he was being sent by his father figure to the rich elite whose greatest desire was perhaps to be loved for no reason at all. her deepest desire was to be a famous actress. she was caught in a tragic romance. what was the truth of their lives?
what was the truth of mine?
if to be in relationship is to mirror the nature of the soul, is intuition of otherness – a glimpse of beauty or a ruse of time? is it a duty of man or the pleasure of a woman? if the sexual drive is at the root of all human intercourse, is the divine – the union of god & existence?
if woman is the wisdom of gravity and man is the law of the word, is attraction – the pull towards higher understanding and repulsion – the connection to the earth?
if openness serves to express essence and free the soul from the clutches of the superego, is the celebration of life – the first step towards recognizing the real?
the way the ego forms an attachment is ingenious. it turns the temporary into the permanent by inserting the fiction of separation. the sages were wise for they sensed the roots of suffering were deeper than the cause & effect of human circumstance. they divined, intuited, and accessed a higher reality whose ignorance created an altered state of strife, dullness, & calamity.
as anger can be transformed into inspiration for right action and the sexual impulse can be channeled by the soul for bliss, thus, darkness can be dispelled by a guru and a guru illumned by light.
but, in the mainstream, spirituality is still a last ditch resort of those in rehab or afflicted by acid flashbacks. how, then can one spread self realization but by exemplary example and prophetic vision? words are beautiful, but they fall short of the meaning of sound, which, like the rush of the breath as it battles the past impressions that confound and burden the brain, tells a story that bonds listener and dream, form and formlessness, matter and being.
the human body is an expression of cosmic mind. its’ folds, expanses, and channels are the contours of space and time. the rhythm of its’ breath is at the heart of its’ alignment with the divine. cosmic mind is the evolution of creation, the intelligence of time, and the mother of language. its’ features resembles the human face.
the expression of the human body is a sense of identity as pure as the vision of light. the expression of a sense of identity is the ego. the ego longs to return to the source like the monarch butterfly knows to migrate to a place its’ never “known,” but it gets in its’ own way. the instinct of the human soul, when embraced, is unconditional love. when repressed, programmed, or mutated, it becomes a distress signal, self destructive, and impossible to believe, but carries within it – the seed for transformation.
The role of the ego is massively misunderstood. Whether in the form of a megalomaniac or Christ consciousness, the ego represents a unit of being. All sentient beings suffer and the sum of their suffering is a witness, whose peace of mind is as undisturbed as it is enslaved. The source of liberation is the realization of the Self. Man is truly made in the image of God and when I pray, I reach through time to save and forgive the lone sinner, hand in hand with eternity, a face as still as water reflecting itself, a prisoner no more….
if the silent film represents print, the color film represents speech, and the integration of the senses is the true nature of culture’s disciplines, is transcendence of the sensory mind – the leap of the spirit, beyond the performance, into presence of mind or the recognition of human creation as perpetual, collective, & divine?
if “spirituality” is the context of consciousness, is our ability to communicate the inexpressible – a sign of trust?
Shiva Lingam:
There is no lack of energy; there is only the need for a pure channel. My body gives birth to my mind. My mind gives birth to re-birth. Movement is what we have in common. Light is the unity inside. The masculine and the feminine are principles. Principle is reality. Consciousness is energy. The arms are the messengers of the heart; we are the angels who have not yet found our wings. When we learn to see ourselves & each other as healers, there will be heaven on earth.
Blue to Black:
language is the coherent structure of our experience. mantra is the repetition of the holy. the holy is the guidance of the true self. power is choice. will is following the leadership of one mind. the core is the regeneration of that which emanates. the radiance is the devotion and the grail. the body is the root of time and the growth of the soul. completion is the heart of the vibration that frequents the realm of elemental expression. imagination is the closest that the artist can get to god without shedding his egoic fortress to commune with the simple void of being here now.
Jan. 21, 2012
“We, in the grappling nights,
we fall from nearness to nearness:
and where the woman in love sweetly thaws,
we are a plunging stone.”
to rilke:
the appearance of a poem is like time’s true telling.
you wrote it with the heart filling, so coarse, it was refined, so naïve, it was innocent.
and after, when I read it, sensing the same marvel at my fingertips, juxtaposed, juicy – a celebration of sin, a turning head, an electricity coursing through a vein, a whirlpool, a circuit of wind, marveling at itself.
the form it took, from high to low, was like breath. “if you have time to breathe, you have time to meditate.”
and yet, the weight of the page and ink and persistent taking of shape crowded, irritated, tempted, hinted…
but, this! was another trap – the seeker’s guise that perpetuated a false self.
the aliveness, not only of the hand but of the maker, was a disappearance amidst emerging plateaus and a sixth sense among the shifting landscapes of the mind.
dear one, belonging to space, like a drop from my lover’s lips, where you were is where I am.
why does it feel like the world ends when a romantic relationship does? every time, we fall in love, we take with us – the hope of a lineage. around this hope, like the revelry of a wedding caravan or the icing on a cake, forms an entire industry of culture, a vehicle of identity. for example, the love between revolutionaries or the love between poets or the love between intellectuals is the production of production. whatever the ego ideal may be, what is physically created is either a sexual fluid or a rebirth. what is actually created is imaginary. similarly, when a new relationship begins, especially after a difficult breakup, it is the triumph of our spirit of transformation. we defy the odds and take another chance.
Love & Death:
At the heart of time, there is a romance of love and death. In their embrace is a matrix – as unspeakable as it is pervasive. I once wrote, “the only way out is through.” Is there an out or is that another thorn in the rose bush of the reticular formation? Love, in existence, is creation. Death, in existence, is destruction. In existence, the destroyer serves as the image of God. In God, nothingness becomes divine.
The impulse towards oblivion projects a spectrum of experiences, both dark and light. When purified, by tears, sweat, or saint, the impulse is a spiritual right.
emotion, when purified, becomes self expression. the self, when known, becomes increasingly subtle until the borders between knowledge and being, light and darkness, become the shadow of movement & the sound of silence.
(to clarify, self expression is the process of emotional purification. it is incidental, organic, and unique to the trajectory of the seeker in question.)
the record of exchange is communication, not the life threatening unit of monetary value but the essence of generations passing through the beauty of transformation.
the richness of spiritual traditions comes from the unknowing; the space of mystery is the womb of the Self.
the desire for union is like a black hole. between the quantum mind and the stagnant form, is there the chaos of a broken bridge or the bliss of a meditator’s song? the mind of the artist is a prisoner within its’ own masterpiece. the object of subjectivity is the nature of consciousness. this recurrence, dejavu, and waking dream is nothing but the habit of being – discovered as such. when one is no longer identified with one’s habits, the eternal shines through in the present moment – brilliant, intense, and transparent as the particles of the universe.
a dream is a complex organism. it glitters in the darkness and fades in the light. like an imaginal cell, it is a transition worker, delivering us from one world to the next. like a silk worm, it wears itself to dress another. a second skin, it glows like a fire fly, breathes like a dragon, and leaves like dust. when captured on film, what shape does it take? is it a soap opera or a near death adventure? is it curvy like a woman from his story or foggy and charming like a prince from her memory of a far away land? is it a fairy tale or a romance? is it a grandmother or a void? its’ underlying emptiness is a form of love. like the ancient philosopher who asked whether he had dreamt of being a butterfly or whether a butterfly was dreaming of being a man, the borderlines between beings are made of such stuff that Shakespeare wove into poetry and prose, Wallstreet rose to fall, and the pure of heart recognized as heavenly bodies on earth. are they false gods or wonder full?
waves as flows
retention knows
shows its arms
are oars.
still in the womb,
the cosmic dancer
dreams of love and fear, teaching mortals and naming
“Hanuman,” she calls!
student of lore, the
hand and pen
extend from the
heart and to the
history is made.
what emotion is this,
but a passing breath….
(if imagination and collective consciousness are analogous to the connection between the senses and the energy body, is the artist – an expression of identity or an openness to being universal?)
Solar Plexus:
The fate of the world is in the hands of the individual. One is driven to seek nourishment, nourish health, and heal vitality. The body is resourceful as a gold mine. In a spiritual context, this “drive” enables, empowers, and propels the break from destructive behaviors, unconscious patterns, and sense attachments. From the chains that define the psychological prisons of past lives, childhood trauma, and negative family tendencies, the will power of the one who grows towards her full and true potential moves intelligently towards pure love, light, and being like the writer, reader, and literacy purposefully direct the wiring of the brain towards optimum creativity. By acknowledging that even something as subtle as the desire for self expression is still a falsehood …. an identification with the sense of hearing, she carries herself beyond the incessance of the lack. The wisdom is an existential freedom, a presence of choice, and savasana – a corpse “pose.”
The Woman as Artist:
She is the link between man and god. She is the channel for light. Is she a fiber optics cable or a hymn of joy reaching for the clarity of the sky? Prolific and abundant, she is the earth, sounding out prayers for seed. She is the savior of the savior & the revelation of the resurrection. The opening of the senses, an organ of communion, she is the one who bit into the a.pple and found the taste of love to be bittersweet. Her body is divine; divinity is like civilization, but liberated from fear, instinct, and selfishness. It is refinement without pretense and creation without judgment. It is like experience, but embraced. Is she a meaningless barrage of images – a pornography of lust or the living muse – origin of adoration and love of grace? Is she the talk-sin of the liver or the kid-knee of the womb? Is she an anatomy of avoidant materialism, a frustrated calcification, or the connection between the body and soul? Like a mind, but radiant, she is the psyche incarnate.
Union & Immortality:
Youth is the preconception of immortality; immortality is the reality of being. Being is ageless. Body is bound to decay, but this decay is the currency of resurrection. The economy is not just a numbers game, but an expression of bittersweet irony and modern metaphysics. The gambling addict is a human in bad health. Vitality is the prerequisite to meditation,… a…nd meditation is the gateway to transcendence. The need for a teacher is born of and from the ever changing times. The teacher is like an alarm clock, but set to awaken the spirit in the sleeping soul. If we replace sacrifice with contribution, do the dynamics of the alchemical body become more sustainable? If we think of sustainability in the present moment, do the odds of a future increase? If the future is the shining light that guides, is our existence, as we know it, selfless as the labors of evolution towards an ever aspiring ideal? If one finds their seat in accomplished pose or as the lightning bolt, does “thought” transform into the energy of transformation?
The Sacredness:
if being in relationship means taking care of one self, is the challenge of the modern day – the lesson of self worth & is “self worth” – the value of community? if the interdependence of identity and relationship is gender, is being a woman – an embodiment of love and being a man – the truth of service? if the expression of sexuality is the balance of opposites, are intuition and oneness – the head of the household? if this arrangement is turned upside down, we feel stressed out. if the root of suffering is the disconnect from the earth we belong to, is the root of the root – a space ship, a paradigm shift, or a head stand? if the greatest potential of the body is to reverse the signs of aging, is Yoga – a stretch of the imagination or an alignment with divinity?
All Roads Lead to Aum:
The greatest crime in the history of time is the theft of fire, but who will tell the western mind that myth is not meant to be taken literally? As a code, it is the bridge between the universal and the human. My desire is for freedom from bondage & war; therefore, the expression takes on a life of its’ own. The mystic lifts the nectar from the belly of the beast and brings it to the moon where it becomes pure bliss and rains down in the form of a blessing from one’s own womb. Subtle energy is the fluidity of the reproductive. Tantra is the rhythm of its’ infinite harmony. Modernity’s skeptics turn art into an argument. Art turns the argument into fuel for re-creation. Belonging to one & all, art is the dance of music and listener, audience and performer, god and lover, sacrifice and gift.
What is intuition? Is it the power of the feminine or physical consciousness? Is it hunger for food or divine guidance? Is it an ancient Egyptian goddess or a freedom of expression? Is it history or the current manifestation of life energy? Is it coiled or rising? Is it the unification of processes from the toes to the temples or an out law, looking to hunt? Is it my destiny or my creation? As man’s thirst for knowledge, intuition is the desert sphinx, the riddle of time, and the signal to heal & grow. Nurturing as the mother and wild as the night, intuition is the wakefulness of deep sleep and the origin of the origin – a rhythm of dark & light.
The other side of attachment is bondage. The other side of expression is identity. The other side of time is reflection. Ignorance of our true nature manifests as racism, patriotism, & mysogyny. Ignorance does not change reality but distorts the perceptions of beauty into greed, envy, guilt, & profit. What is power? Is it money? Is it the burdensome & heavy responsibility of the old role of the masculine? Is it the ironic prison of patriarchy? Or is it in flow, circulation, and abundance?
If we believe ourselves to be worthy, awesome, and equal, we become free from the need to judge, compare, and embellish.
The oneness of the spirit is not the indifference of the hopeless, but the bridge of higher awareness between earth and sky.
Language and technology are multidimensional suspension cables. Vibration is the traffic of the nerves and commercials are the words of the blind sense mind as it grasps.
The essence of intelligence, like the cycles of water or the appearance of a rainbow, is the discipline of nature by which man emerges as his own creation.
The energy was the essence of movement. The way in which it moved was the lifespan of the beings whose soul was free to express itself in every hue, shape, and musical note. Modernity, blessing or curse, was like a threshold of experience. It could either channel acceptance and integrate the holy with the present or numb the mind to the diversity of form. Balance emerges out of a sense of purpose and functions as the foundation for experience. Experience is like a projection, but fed back to become more fundamental than “preconception” as the origin of consciousness. Consciousness is the garden between the human and the divine. The creative urge is the guidance of time; its’ embodiment is in its’ making, its’ preservation is in its’ faking, and its’ destruction is in its’ being-remade.
Intuition is like hindsight, but it pays it forward. Suffering is like illusion, but its’ reality hits hard.
Art & the artist are inseparable.
To transcend habit is to overcome a limit. To overcome a limit is to come face to face with the programming. To recognize the presence of a code is to be free of tyranny from oppression & regain the power of discrimination.
The grooves of the brain, like the rhythms of the breath, are the muse to the spheres and the sickness of the parasitic-host. The sound waves are the traces, like footprints, of the mind which, upon questioning, disappears.
The edge is neither madness nor violence, neither trauma nor ecstasy; rather, the edge is the crest of the incessancy that repeatedly prints its’ own image on the self effacing compassion of the sand which mothers the womb of man….
The vessel of my body, the earth of my being, the fine form and contour of my legs and buttocks represent the attachment to life and the aversion to death. Yet, the moon in the mind longs to return to the void. In between the two, time stretches, either a waste land or an awakening. Death can be so sweet, so clean, so wonderfully revolutionary. Brighter than any idea, it cures life… …of what ails it and births purity.
I dreamt last night of a black dog who I had chosen to serve but was afraid of being alone with. I kept trying to get someone to come with me to take care of him, but no one would, not out of rudeness per se, but busyness. And I was not speaking openly about my intentions because fear thrives in darkness, not light. Meanwhile, the black dog was hungry and isolated and suffering and I was guilt striken. The dog was “Stranger.” I was afraid of the animal.
If I will not love my death, who will?
Driving around the strip malls of this city, I had felt that the streams of commerce and false advertising were signs of our denial of our own mortality. Like the marlboro man, they were an ironic reminder.
What would it mean to embrace the aloneness, the shadow of unity?
if the medium of consciousness is the messenger, and the question is always, “who?,” is existence – the language of loss, the loss of language, or the truth of the real – touching space without boundary?
the unborn flow of life…
if the ego is a flame that burns out in a race against time…..
“the energy of mind is the essence of life” ~aristotle
“My story” is mystery. My mystery is love. My loneliness is my lesson, and solitude is my teacher. A student of sight & metaphor, I am the lens through which light sees itself. Personality is either a cosmic joke or an expression of oneness. The essence of creativity is abundance. The essence of abundance is form. The form of form is movement. Desire is embodiment, and union is transcendence.
if the need for identity is a spiritual pathology, materialism is a product of egoic consciousness, and the ego is a basic lack of trust, is the way back home – sharing abundance, loving emptiness, or recognizing physical reality – as a projection of God, a ritual of worship, and a revelation of truth?
if at the root of cosmic mind is the twisted code of an iconic shell…a tantric spell…and the call to awaken is echoed through the spinal cord, is yoga – communion between seeker and search or a posture of no use?
if time is the distance between intention & expression, and manifestation is the act of creation, is the “listener” – a passive observer or an active principle? in the depths of solitude, one discovers not only the purity of consciousness, but liberation from the pressures of uncertainty, authority, and debt.
Music can move mountains, break fevers, charm cobras, ease birth pangs, and form bands. Music can also sell sex like the next best thing since sliced bread. Music can make rock stars of men, babes of crooks, and beauties of beasts with bad habits like smoking cigarettes, drinking booze, and doing drugs like heroin and crack. Music can lead us into battle, martyrdom, or pilgrimage b…y entraining the chemistry of our brain waves. Music can make glamour of disease and stories out of mysterious or prayerful mass like hands can cast shapes out of the elements of earth, fire, and air. Music can animate mice like Walt Disney’s pen, the Pied Piper’s flute, or the Fairy God Mother of Cinderella’s blues. Music can make us fall in love with a spell that must break once the clock chimes – midnight, too late, cuckoo. Music can stir our lips into slander or praise, gospel, gossip, or rage. Music can dream us into existence and burden us with illusion. Music can deceive, reveal, embellish, and twist like Elvis’ pelvis and hips. Music can blur the fine light between truth and darkness until the figures dance like shadows on the wall of a cave. What came first? the meaning or the sound? Who was it that heard? the listener or the song? as the flames flickered in the center of a circle older than time & wiser than riddle, I imagine, music pleased the gods like hunger led the tribe. Now days, the music we hear has lost its’ way; is it a jingle of groundless chance or a transition into transcendence? Music gives a stage to emotion and expression to essence; is it a commercial for another unnecessary product or the activism of grace? More than just another medium, medicine, or maze, music makes the world go round; we grow & woe to its’ romance like gravity loves space.
I wanted to write a piece called, “The Man as Artist,” but I was at a loss for words. How could I describe the force that gives shape to me but by obscuring it’s source? It is said that when a man becomes enlightened, he sets up a podium and a pedestal and gives speeches to all who will listen. His heart fills with valor and he shines brightly. When a woman becomes enlightened, she smiles knowingly and within herself, unfolds endless contentment. All knowledge is a form of ignorance, and all ignorance is a form of knowledge. The power of consciousness is in its’ ability to transform; the consciousness of power is one love.
There is an alternative to egoic consciousness. Is it alien or empathy? Is it isolation or liberation, fear or love? Is it doubt or belief? The guru, a frequency of guidance, goodness, and self realization, is the way beyond recognition & identity into the vibration of being.
How does one transcend the third chakra? My dream self was on a journey to find out. “Prize liberation above all else,” was one dictate. “Master the ki,chi,kundalini energy that lies dormant in the second chakra,” was another key. The serpent, dragon, magic energy that lies coiled at the base of the human spine is like imagination, but expressed through the artist – not as a product but as a sense of identity. The power derived from this energy is not meant to inflate the head and tense the shoulders, but to flow from the being in the form of gratitude and loving kindness. The shit we make does not make us immortal; it clutters our life and confuses the issue. It is the ways in which we touch those around us that spurs a revolution. But, I must say, there is something beyond the beauty of the movement; there is the space in which all this takes place. In this space of endless patience, there is the voice of guidance. It is clear as light and mysterious as the darkness. The hero, seeker, and young girl in me asks, “could this be trust?”
The manifestation of the guru or expression of inner guidance is where beginning and end meet. Be here now & Be abundant. The friendship between children, like the secret between lovers, is a learning curve. Practice is the passion of the disciple and the pursuit of no one. The lotus flower of the second chakra is like the ground of being, but unified. The lotus flower of the third chakra is like unity, but individualized. The lotus flower of the fourth chakra is like the individual, but selfless. The lotus flower of the fifth chakra is like selflessness, but truthful. The lotus flower of the sixth chakra is like truth, but flawless. The bloom of the seventh chakra is like spirit, but embodied. The path of ascending is also the path of descending, and the wheel is the symbol of the cycle of labor that can either liberate man or run him over. If the efforts of humanity’s empaths, artists, and care takers are perverted by the monetary system, is the hope of restoration in the rethinking of love or in the independence of the soul from the shackles of ideology?
The attachment to psychic vision is simultaneously the path to unhappiness & illusion. Money is the true realization of materialism as an embodiment of mobility. The attachment to money is the crisis of the financial sector. Freedom from attachment is bondage to attachment… is beyond the point of ideals. The human being needs to feel a connection to her true self to bring peace to …the monkey mind. The existence of the true self is like faith, but experienced as viscerally as a gut instinct and as expansive as breathing from the inside out. Collective consciousness is the body of the mind, and the understanding of karma is like the animal kingdom, but ruled by the wisdom of life’s oneness. Wisdom is like knowledge, but intrinsic and alive as the vagus nerve in an ocean of stimuli.
The story of my life, like the sound of my heart – beating, breaking, bleeding, fasting, and feasting, is a secret identity. In this world, I am the only one. Realistically speaking, the planet is overpopulated by such thought, sentiment, and misguided foresight. What is it about isolation that gives birth to fantasy; is it imbalance or hope? if hope is the expression of humanity and humanity is an expression of the divine, is an expression of an expression the subject – object divide or a coming to oneness? if the spiritual urge returns me to my true nature and my true nature is beyond the self doubt of an economy of form, is art – a devil’s advocate or freedom from the norm?
if the friction between fire and water gives birth to the element of earth, but the ground under our feet has been swept away by cement and other man made ends and means, is all that’s left – an irritated diagram and a need for air, air, air? if overexpansion is an imbalance simultaneous with inertia, is the need for self realization – the call for men and women to recognize themselves in each other? if the purpose of fiction is to ignite empathy, are the stories we tell – guiding rites or memory’s nagging bytes?
if the water element emerged out of space as gravity gathered the nomads of star dust into cooperating tribes, and water is the source of life as we know it, is the transformation of man into movement – the discovery of fire or the taste of passion? Is it time, technology, or reason to dream?
if the heart of yoga is the breath, and the element of air animates the way we interact, are our relations balanced as a partnership of abundance and sustainability or stuck in the dream state of negation and duality? if personality is the nature of identifying with recognition, is openness – the subtle coherence of light?
if light is the receptive action of the third eye and intuition is what connects the cosmos and the mind, is the potential of the spine – gratitude for the whole experience and love for all living beings?
The word is an institution of meaning and the visibility of sound. The traces of our meetings, like the intuitions of our partings, are perfect as they are. What forges the bond between the inner and outer worlds is the subtle fire which consumes oxygen to evolve consciousness. It burns everything in its’ path, transforming obstruction into construction and doubt into the capacity for critical thought.
As I moved through the crowd, aware of the music that held us together, like the beating of my own heart, it was clear as a tear that the hope of revolution was in the awakening of the individual, and I let out a prayer for every soul to become her own source of guidance, trust, and sacred action.
The peace of the heart center comes unexpectedly. It is like freedom, but bound. It is like suffering, but compassionate. When the ocean of questions meets the ocean of answers, the resulting wave is a satisfied mind and a willing heart. There is a warning in the yogic texts of the tendency to pause before inhaling & exhaling. Is this an unconscious habit whose ignorance takes on the character of a suicide-addict?
If breath is the physical manifestation of spirit, and there is a gap between life forms that takes place in the astral plane, is liberation – the immortal becoming of the dance between energy and consciousness?
Death is born with the name. It is said that at the age of six, two things happen. One, the child begins to identify with her given name, as if merging body image with a sound wave, and two, the child begins to perceive, conceive, believe, rationalize, and accept her own mortality. May I extend this connection to the creation of language? Every word matters. If desire is the taste of the mother tongue, and the stories we tell are a way of teaching belonging, is the tale of the grave – a means of controlling the masses or a true celebration of the passing ages? It is also said, written, and calculated that a child is most creative at the age of four. Is this fatalistic thinking or a consequence of the aforementioned schooling?
the structure of the female genitalia is very similar to the structure of the vocal folds; from that loveliness is produced the standard of form. this is why beauty is explicitly feminine & advertised as a woman. our relationship to such personification can be summed up simply as lust. beyond the shadows of sexual impulse is a freedom & knowing that ranges from integrity to god-realization. a hero is born. this is a touchy subject but the energetics involved are no different than what is eaten, drank, and inhaled. out of those three, the breath is the most pure. out of purity, one learns to discern between fantasy and imagination. out of imagination, one gains the power to express oneness. out of the experience of oneness arises all that is real, whole. essential, and complete unto itself.
Get ready to give everything away. Love is coming home. The nightmare is a mask worn by life to scare the fearful. Do you get it? This experience is greater than your untapped potential; it is the eternal transformation of order and chaos through the mirrors of existence. How do you make creation? Through surrendering control. How do you surrender control? By meditating upon the observer who witnesses without judgment and embodies without isolation, separation, or tyranny. History is like a walk through a labyrinth – a continuously interrupted trip within a structure designed to strengthen your metaphysical muscle. The writing on the wall – is it the graffiti of an ape trapped in a zoo beating its’ fists against its’ opposable thumbs or a sacred, secret, scribble like the lining of the womb? if the artist is the masculine archetype of the feminine void, is the energy of a community – as abundant as its’ flow, balanced as its’ connection to the earth, & connected as the impulse to grow? if growth is the link, like reiki, between spirit and life force, is guidance – the complement to the “seeker”, and trust – the gift that blooms in the garden of openness?
The Liver: A parable
In the village, the Speakers were the ancient sages. In the daytime, they sat in wooden rocking chairs or lay down on thatched mats made of hay and straw and watched the passing clouds, the children at play, and the men and women at work. At nighttime, they sat in wooden rocking chairs or lay down on thatched mats made of hay and straw and watched the radiant moon, the animals at rest, and the men and women busy with love and sorrow and prayer and greed. The faces of the ancient sages were very wrinkled and drawn in towards the center so that the words that came out seemed to be sucked out of their tired bones and then released into the air where they would bless or curse or guide or scold. Occasionally, a Speaker would lift his or her stiff and fragile body and began to walk around the compound, leaving behind a creaking chair. The Speaker, on the move, would then caress a child or spit on a mischievous dog or tell a joke to entertain a woman cooking a hearty stew or a man carving a clock. On rare occasion, a Speaker would wander out to the far edges of town or into the forest to meet in secret an angel or a devil or a saint; sometimes the Speaker would not return. If and when the Speaker did return, he or she would spend the following days very quiet, resting and sipping on a tea made of potent herbs and snake blood and at times, hissing to the shadows.
In between the Speakers who told the stories of the tribe and the domestic beasts that served the hunger, thirst, and livelihood of the human bodies, there was the listening. The listening was like time, but it could not be counted like the beads of an abacus or even built like a tower of babble. The listening had the wild course of a jungle vine and the personality of a sensual being. Was it the material world or the astral plane? Somewhere in between, it was either a spirit guide or a trickster. It could tell the truth or be deceived. It was pure light and it loved to shine.
Signs of the listening were everywhere. The drops of rain, the rays of the sun, the colors of the rainbow, the recipes of the cooks, and the many books in the library all emerged out of the listening. The signs took on a life of their own. This life could be called a half life or a dream state for it was not self aware. Instead, the life of the signs was like the feeling of an object as it free falls through empty space. This was either very clear or very confusing to the people of the village. One being in particular was famous for asking, “if I looked in the mirror, traveling at the speed of light, would I or would I not see myself?” You see, there was also a middle group who understood the confusion very well, but could not move forward or backwards; they could only create lovely images, a language of reflection.
Let us call the citizens of this place – sounds.
The imagination of the sounds was brilliant as the elements of fire, air, water, ether, and earth. It could heat, cool, wet, dry, and transport. It could also endlessly combine the elements to produce new scenes of experience as well as practice alchemy to reverse decay, restore order, and return consciousness to its’ golden age. The will power that drove this imagination was like a meditator, seeking to find balance between center and circumference, or a noble prince at battle.
This story will began where something became stuck going down the passageway. Is it Adam that is choking on a bite of apple or is it A for arbitrary? Once upon a time, there was a witch named Juliet who had accidentally cursed herself. Was it the brainwashing of her nakedness as shameful or a wardrobe malfunction? Juliet’s skin was the beautiful dark color of cocoa, and her teeth and eyes seemed to glow a bright white when she smiled bravely or gazed awestruck or grimaced with pain. Her intuition had a scar on it whose healing would take the efforts of many souls working in unision and perhaps, multiple life spans.
It was morning when Juliet woke. The day was a blank canvas and yet, destined to pass. There was a song playing in her heart center like a radio left on, and the sleep in her eyes was a pleasant fog. Her whole body sounded AUM. The emotions were already beginning to paint. There was red and guilt, green and touch, blue and felt. The other side of guilt was her humanness, her speech, and her tribe’s use of symbols to see into the world beyond this one. Her intuition was the seer, and the will to be free drove her closer and closer to the true reality.
She stretched her limbs, her connective tissue and her mouth wide in a luxurious yawn, sensing the opening of the nadis or rivers throughout her body. Between novelty and habit, her senses informed her of where she was. Through her practice of yoga, she was aware of her body from the inside out, the shape of its’ cavities and the channel of evolutionary consciousness at its’ center. The uncertainty that drew her to the surface was a language of blood, impulse, and art.
The dreams of her people formed a map or rather an iron quilt that covered her skin, sweat through her pores, cried through her eyes, and glowed with resonance. Was it a world at war or the self realization of a creative spirit? Was it destruction or literature? Was it self-expression or an identity crisis?
There was an experiment done on the power of hope. A group of lab rats had been dropped into a whirlpool. They swam against the current for an hour before drowning. Was this fatalism or giving up? A second group of lab rats were dropped into the same whirlpool, but this time, the rats were removed after forty five minutes, dried off, warmed by blow dryers, allowed to rest, and then dropped back into the whirlpool. This time, the rats swam for one hundred hours.
Is this a true story, a teaching tool, or a character – exaggerated to form, like a voice of no one or the sensitivity of a thyroid gland to disturbances in relation? It was told to me by a scholar of Tantra.
The spine was the avenue of both transcendence and fragmentation. Interesting as the pieces of a puzzle, its’ compositions were structural and fluid, defining and elusive, simultaneously reaching out and rooting down. Think of the spine as a film projector, giving shape to the perception of depth. The gravitational field was the weight of history – a debt and a gift, a right and a duty. The value of loss was in the presence of the moment until it too was gone…
the blank canvas
The first three chakras teach us how attachment is formed – by need, by desire, and by fear of loss. The fourth chakra shows us how relationships sound to a peaceful heart. Breath becomes life force. The vibration transcends appearances and speaks the truth, “We are mortal. We are eternal.” The sixth chakra calls upon our ancient, ancestral, and timeless wisdom to guide us through the material world. The seventh and final chakra brings us to our knees with gratitude, abundance, joy, and recognition of the light. Expansive and intimate, its’ guidance bridges heaven and earth by blood line. Now is the time to know for ourselves who we truly are, neither by holy book nor holy men, but by introspection, engagement, and openness.
The love was always there. Like the heart of an onion, it was simply buried under layers of complexes. This sweetness, when met, provokes laughter like being poked by a magic stick. There is joy and surprise as the babe revels in the protection of the great mother’s lap. Gradually, the being finds equanimity, calmness, and peace. Beyond this demeanor of tranquility, the inner storm quiets only when the light of wisdom shines. What is this wisdom whose limit is infinite and whose focus is singular? It is my wholeness and my birth right.
Meditation always brings me to the graveyard. The graveyard is as animated as a drunken memory. The ghosts, the skeletons, the broken hearted lovers, the mean spirited monks, the stern saints, the joyous saints, the stench of god. Oh god. Is this freedom….to know that memory is the creation of an absent mind? Intellect is like the bastard child of culture; it has just enough distance to judge and be judged. Nonsense. Total nonsense. My hands are empty. Out flows tantra: sexuality drives everything; everything drives sexuality. If culture is the incestuous production of an industry of media, is real contact – the sense of touch? The senses are the tip of the iceberg and the sound of global warming. If the artist is the bridge between the ego and the soul and the schizophrenic is a mentality made ill by modernity’s lack of imagination, is my prayer: to feel comfortable in my own skin, to hear my calling, and to see through darkness and light – a form of integrity or an incarnation of dissolution? if spirituality is the language of the immortals, is the cycle of death and rebirth – existence or bondage?

**if every human being is a unique expression of divine law or evolutionary consciousness, is the recognition of this individuality – the seed of democracy?**

***if the concentration of power in the hands of a few is the system of money, is the equal sharing of freedom, the way out of this mess?***


New Age:

Ear of God,

the experience of beauty is rebirth.

the spiritual ego and the form of the goddess play together to create karmic repetition like a house of mirrors,

a web of projections like a false revelation, appearances worship the market and personalities rob each other.

the distortion of faith is a testament to doubt,

is this survival or suffering, this being bound?

a prayer in disguise, perhaps folk lore can Ascend to union as union can descend to immanence.

seat of consciousness,

throne of higher power,

base of spine,

the lair of the cobra,

the path clears as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.

the human experience, all encompassing

universal embrace, relative expression,

a face, a planet, a Self-realization.

Old Age:

As the veils began to fall,

attraction and repulsion are witnessed as impulse.

As the veils began to fall,

are you aware that attachment is the cause of suffering?

As the veils began to fall,

the dual transcendence of eternity and impermanence brings the seeker

closer to the shift in perspective.

As the veils began to fall,

the poison becomes sweet and the sweetness becomes the philosopher’s stone..

*A work of art is a study in anatomy. It begins with the bones, an aching to be made, a resonance barely audible but structured nonetheless. Then, there is the musculature. It begins to take on a life of its’ own; it moves, quivers, and holds itself upright. Lastly, there is the nervous system, and that can be compared to the process of “putting it out there,” sharing it with others, and allowing it to communicate with space in a way that is both frightening and exciting, current and everlasting.*

*The difference between religion and spirituality is like the difference between art and revelation; it is in the eye of the creator and the heart of the muse.*


Full Circle:

“Love,” the poet began to write. To be touched by a great truth is to be open. To transcend the physical form is to become a healer. In the depths of darkness, can you recognize yourself as the light of perception? Is this retrospect or the kaleidoscope of faith? Yoga means yoke; the body is yoked to the mind and the mind is yoked to the body. In the modern age, technology makes the bonds appear invisible. Savvy as they are, the link remains, as does the bridge between man and God. So, what good is spiritual awakening? It is the true potential of the human experience, the crown of consciousness, and the catalyst of transformation. As you move today, move with peace. As you move today, move with wisdom. As you move today, move with compassion. You are as free as the river that flows with the current of its’ own tide.


I have always taken “mass” literally,

mass as in the makeup of crowds,

and mass as in this heavy body.

The sense of weight is affected by

gravity. Einstein conceived that gravity

was not as straight forward as it has been proclaimed.

Instead, it was a cosmic proportion with an intelligence

of communication.

Later on, there were theories of how gravity was connected to heat

and chaos theory. Each one created a new world of verse

like an imaginary boundary or a very real connection.

If the face of god is in the individuation of the human being,

is gravity as diverse as the representation of form and unified as the field of

the ground.


Art is the gift of unconditional love. The artist is a practice of idealism. “If I don’t believe I can change the world, I will never get started!” The organism is a longing for union. Union is. Words are the totality of incompletion, and process is the sounding out of space. Space, I am. The student-teacher dynamic is like the relationship between light and dark. Color is a phenomenon of feeling, and transcendence inverts convention until it becomes revelation. Revelation provides perspective, and perspective empowers detachment. Detachment conceives relation, and relation is the heart of language. Language is not just the means and ends of communication but the medium through which we appear to be in the world. Rhythm bonds us not only to the immediacy of each other but to the generations immortalized in the passing of time like fuels for fossils. Capital is an ideal that is either embodied in the presence of a creative moment or a form of currency that recognizes the value of mortality without acknowledging the basis of community. Literacy’s effect on the left brain and the left brain’s legacy of control is a tragedy that goes unreported by virtue of its’ obvious and pervasive rule. Spirituality begins where the brain ends and continues beyond the dream of death, grave, and poem.


True love is not this mockery of flattery that poisons the liver and perpetuates the hopeless hope. It is the limitlessness of giving and receiving that cycles abundance in relation to the individual being. I am not alone, and I am not yours. Between owner and property, there is the potential for self realization. Objective reality is a dream state and the subject is an entropic immortal. As the artist merges with the material, she negotiates deception and confession, fury and action, mother and child, mythic source and the hero’s return. “If it dies, it is not real,” he had said. She stands before him, ready to be an embodiment of every temple, shrine, and holy teacher. Her heart forgives, her mind blesses, and her feet tread upon her own womb. Desire and speech become one when sound merges with space, and light and darkness commune.


Art is light-ness. Art is likeness. Art is the spelling of love with the mouth of God. Art is the flame of the subtle fire and the path to the heart center. It can be inspired by other art itself, but if it becomes isolated in its’ own deification like the sad tour of the security guard in the gallery, it will rot, suffocate, and imprison. Although the processing is a part of the package, it must feel, breathe, and touch. The difference between an original work and an imitation of an imitation is the difference between the sense of flight and a bird in a cage. Art soars beyond wrong and right, beyond rhythm and rhyme, beyond transcendence and immanence; art is supreme joy and delight at holding the creator’s hand. Art is romance. A balance of opposites and a selfless sacrifice, it is nurturing as it is independent and structured as it is free-flowing. An evolutionary bridge and a shared metaphor, art takes us from being the puppets of fight or flight to learning to communicate peacefully with the aliens within and without.



On one side of fire, there is doubt and on the other side, there is faith. Like Dante discovered, the living cannot make the passage without sin, saint, or surrender. The writer who lost his way and feared he would lose his life was given a private tour by the imagination of his poet-friend, but only with the promise that he would not linger.

A chakra is not a one dimensional structure like a fascist’s image of a swastika; it is not propaganda. A chakra is also not a three dimensional structure like a wheel or a blade used to transport or slice or tell the time. A chakra is a vision of the energy body, radiant, expansive, and conscious of movement’s holy and intricate interconnectedness. Holographic, swift, and purposeful, its’ a recording device as well as a hOMe planet.

I am beginning to realize the super ego as a form of sabotage or a guide into the underworld. I am beginning to realize that the underworld holds the key to the outer world and that the outer world is a projection of the eternal, a return to the present moment or a connection to the Akashic records.



The land is a living being. It has more history than an encyclopedia and more rage than a black man, a woman, and a Native American. It remembers every lie, every wrong, and every time a wall was thought to hide sound from light or a room was used to keep a secret tight. It is madness that measures the distance between beings as if they were divisible. It is genius that recognizes madness as the potential for healing and self realization. It is healing and self realization that liberate, not the rules of a despot or the illusions of grandeur.



Materialism in art is the prejudice of medium. To look upon a work as an expression of its’ composition is to be a technocrat. The soul is a semblance of unity and a shadow of color. Isomorphic, it embodies the intangible like the silver lining. “When it rains, it pours.” “A stitch in time saves nine.” The idioms of language, like the citizens of the present, are ways in which our togetherness seeps through our egoic slumber. The purity of consciousness, like the opening of a full lotus, arises from the unconditional embrace of the nurturing gardener, and at its’ peak, is the fragrance of spring.


“The next Buddha will be community.”

The narrative is an evolution of consciousness.

Drama: Text is a performance of speech. Speech is a performance of sound. Sound is a performance of light. Light is a performance of time. Time is a performance of death. Death is a performance of life. Life is the relativity of speed, not a race, but flow and mystery of the unborn.

A.J.: (in anguish) “I did not choose to be born, to be in the world, or to die of its’ weariness! Is all the world a stage? Does every man have a role to play, a part to share, and if so, who designed this cosmic womb in which all suffer at their own hands?”

Insight: Wisdom intuits that human potential is universal. Shame fails to silence, blame, or regret when one realizes that the lessons to be learned are an equal opportunity classroom in which everyone receives the same education, and the student and teacher are one.

Human destiny is upon the same shore of “truth, consciousness, and bliss”.

A.J.: “I am a corporate entity, a consumer, and a fire of questioning my own existence. I am the illusion of separation and the collective of materialism. Am I an actor who has become disillusioned or a crisis of perception? I feed off of uncertainty and starve my children in the name of ignorance. I am ready to cry out. Is there a God? Is injustice man-made? Is my appearance on this planet- a projection or a plague? I am at the cross roads, and I am hungry to find out.”

Enter the Sage: The difference between body and soul is like the difference between a place of worship and the presence of essence. They are bonded by faith and rooted in the mystic’s space of knowing the unknown, the sacred spine. The source of creativity is also the ground of being. Connection is like touch but made sense of. The body as performer is an artist. The cellular structure as thought is a creator. The breath as spirit is human expression. Movement and stillness are like opposites, but dancing as one.



We are given birth by the earth, nurtured by its’ watery womb, thrust forth by the energy of the sun, expanded by the wind, and connected by the ether into a network of trust. Space is not outside but deep within us. The elements are habit forming as sound is a frequency that links mind with modernity. Spirit is the journey to self realization and the teaching of how attachment is formed, form is creative, and creation is art. The lower mind is at the mercy of the senses, the higher mind is self disciplined, and the bliss mind is mystical. Beyond the present moment lies the full circle that revolves around its’ own miracle like a woman in labor, a saint in love, and a world in balance.



Expression and suppression are siblings of the same source. When one realizes that one is all the characters in the dream drama, one realizes the golden rule as karma. Though it hasn’t been copywritten, it is still alive and afoot as the flutter of a hummingbird as it suspends itself between sweetness and beauty. One sees the military general with an anarchist son, the hippie mother with a stock broker daughter, the twins who are as different as ballet and punk rock. On the other side of our unique identities is the gravitational pull of our relationships. What we perceive as choice is as often a reactionary impulse as it is the reflection of the soul. The ways in which we compensate to distinguish ourselves translate into the physical body. Are our shoulders tense from hiding in broad daylight or are our feet tired from dancing to the beat of other dancers? Are our knees weak from carrying the weight of the world or is our throat constricted from having to constantly charm the snake? Are our internal organs tense from their readiness to fight or flight? Are our stomachs filled with a corporation’s damaged work ethic? Is the activism in our blood poisoned by anger? Is our breath full and deep or shallow and neurotic? Is our heart beating in tune with our oneness or is it entrenched in guerilla warfare? Though expression can be spontaneous, it is not random; and though suppression can have a physical cause, it is often emotional in nature. Is this where art and social justice meet? In the historical fiction of played parts, inherited roles, and lawful marriages? Is this an intention of trust, a commitment to love, or a contract of doubtful posession? Do we lift each other up or drag each other down in the name of who we think we are? Is this the fear of chaos masked as order or true peace in acceptance of all?~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Although it can be conceived of as space, refuge is no more a person than a place. Like contentment, but surging with cries of the human race, refuge is the higher power whose arms are never too full to embrace a lost sheep. The jeweled peaks of western civilization, from Socrates knowledge of the unknown to Christ’s consciousness of heart and soul, are where the sun sets. It rises again in the east, heralded by the awakened one. Peace on earth will not resemble a graveyard or a crucifixion but the joy of the whirling dervish whose gratitude spans the tyrants, the flowers, the birds, and the love of the void.



I wanted to write about the dark side of the goddess because it is in her embrace that I find total freedom. In mythology, she is portrayed with her tongue sticking out, committing all kinds of fiendish and shameless acts. And, she is revered. It is as if the dark side of the goddess is a symbol for how the final phase of representation appears to the seeker on her journey – a curse and a blessing, an invitation and a warning, a disguise and an unmasking. In reality, there is neither good nor evil, only bliss, ignorance, and suffering. What is it that brings us together? Is it a form of attachment or the knowledge of death? What is it that liberates us? Is it outside or within? A teacher of man, she is neither captured in Sanskrit, English, or the language of the State; instead, she is the subtle agent of our own confrontation and victory, like faith, but self-evident.



The ego is a tool of the present moment. The present moment is the soul of the animal. The animal is an expression of the soul. The human being is an expression of an expression whose capacity for self realizations spans the depths of all space and time. After a yoga class inspired by the strength, resilience, and conductive nature of metal, I felt the third eye open, and with its’ opening, there was a sense of wonder and a shining desire to awaken the full potential of human consciousness. I can barely imagine the beauty of what this may mean, but it is clear to me that I have spent much of my life, sleeping, and that many are still asleep.

(the artist as a model for emotional self-sufficiency)(freedom from co-dependence & surrender to interdependence)



We think of balance in terms of a kind of lonely logistics, a blues ballad of intention, effort, and timely action. We make promises to ourselves about working more, eating less, working less, eating more, getting sleep, or making friends, and there is always a chorus of frustration, of feeling like one never knows when enough is enough or if that sweet spot can be sustained, but what if balance was like breath – not something that needed to be gained or attained or trained but an inner grace within a grace within a grace. Surrender, softness, sanctuary; like a temple or an altar or a mother’s face, what if balance was the love of a woman and the truth of a man? What if balance was like a web or a womb or an embrace in whose rhythm we were born and raised, not a house divided, but a universal suffrage in which everyone counts and no one is left out? What if balance was like a guardian angel or the heart of god, a golden rule that brought lightness to earth? Would we struggle less and feel more; would we grieve less and love more; would we hide less and share more; would we recognize in each other, the same soul? What if balance, in its’ primal form of life and death, was the key, not to our cycle of suffering and reincarnation, but to our immortality?



Vesica Piscis:

The archetype of the artist is where the individual and the collective meet, where the unique and the diverse unite, and the essence and form align.

If the superego is a sum of our egos, and freedom from oppression is within our heart center, is the purpose of being – to create balance, balance destruction, and resurrect through spirit?

If spirit is embodied, is the hope of man – in expression of the Self?

If the greatest gift of spirit is gratitude and matter is that which is impermanent and prone to suffering, is their union – a community – grounded in love, care, and wisdom?


Democracy is the western form of spirituality. Spirituality is the eastern form of democracy. If east and west are a metaphor of the duality that penetrates from the hemispheres of the brain to the myth of masculine and feminine, and the heart of metaphor is creativity, is art – a new world order or an institution of the elite? If consciousness is collective and conscience is singular, is being the change I want to see in the world – a light unto itself or an emotional mess? If the way we treat women and the way women treat themselves set the foundation for societal harmony, is this insight – the connection between the higher reality and daily life?


The highest desire is that of self expression. The highest expression is the longing for union. When one is upside down, desire throws off one’s balance while expression becomes innate. When one is upside down, a strong center or the strength of the core lightens one’s load while fear, when faced, becomes the excitement of something new & the openness to growth. Time is a matter of becoming, and when we stop dying, we stop growing. Death is the instrument of being, like a musical note. In its’ grips, we are suspended in space like a beautiful symphony, divorced from its’ composer. The ego’s resistance to change is rooted in its’ ignorance and its’ information overload. Its potential is its’ choice.  Its’ will will transform from its’ cocoon, and it’s will will  burn in the ritual of fire and light…..



In my bones, I hold memories beyond the years of my own body, memories of mountains, of rivers, and of people living together as one. I remember every woman I’ve ever been, from the gypsy in the dunes to the nomad in the desert to the witch woman in the Himalayas. There was magic in their pulse, a knowledge of time’s passing and a way of belonging. And wherever women gather, whether it is by the water to wash clothes or in the kitchen to cook or in the yoga studio to teach, I hear the same songs, ancestors-long of moving as sensually as the hips do. There is such wisdom in this sensuality; it is inherited by blood line like the migration patterns of birds and butterflies and it binds our relationships to our creativity like it binds our love making to being born.


The source of perversion in religion is the distance from the original revelation or transmission. What is distorted is what is lost. Like the life changing difference between celibate and celebrate, the shift marks a meaninglessness that perpetuates a sense of futility and blind fellowship.

It is said in the bible that “For where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I among them.” What if, in our modern day transitions, spirituality didn’t originate from a prophet of the mountains or a wise man of the caves, but of the creative spark that flows in between us? Would it mean that the Goddess has returned or that the world has turned?

We can call it guilt for silencing it causes suffering, but what is the true nature of this phenomenon that suppresses us? Is it representation or the cry of the black Madonna?

If the rift between appearance and reality is the fire in which we all burn, the flames of transformation that spare no illusion, is inner vision or intuition – the vitality of the phoenix rising from the sacred mystery or the speaking of truth?

If, in the speaking of truth, there is no separation from the whole, is union – the bliss of being safe and sound in the mirror of love?


What if energy was our currency instead of money? I think of energy in three essential phases – generation, circulation, and recycling. Generation is the re-source and the seed. It could be the organic farm or the wind turbine or the inspiration for a work of art. Circulation is the process of distribution and the in-direction of love. It could be the flow of what you had for lunch manifesting as speech or the gift of giving what you’ve received. It could also be the transportation channels through which resources are made abundant and accessible, through which the common wealth is shared and celebrated. Lastly, there is re-cycling. This is the resurrection of Christ, the holy manure for the lotus flower, and the link between generations in time. This is the planting of new trees, the meditation on death, and the practice of detachment. This is the exploration of space and the discovery of cosmic consciousness. This is sustainable living without scarcity; this is trust without the cost of the Earth’s sacrifice. What if energy IS our currency, money is just another tool, and our blindness to our own intuition is the cause of the “bad economy” and the product of an ego that has no basis in the real ground of being?