Tents blew.
Mud flicked.
Sun shone and shoes floated away.
Sleeping everywhere.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Were the families.
On the 14th of July the pines fell into the wind.
Tents blew.
Mud flicked.
Sun shone and shoes floated away.
Sleeping everywhere.
Tents blew.
Mud flicked.
Sun shone and shoes floated away.
Sleeping everywhere.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
it ain't me babe
Sunday the 20th of May, 2007
the boys are looking for a hole. It's not me.
the girls are looking for a husband. It's not me.
Conversation, spark in the eyes, a grin that knows, and something new. Something utterly new.
Not getting it from them, but they're not getting it from each other.
How can they predetermine their options, and limit their options, and be content with something so parched?
Can smile at life. What am I? I am not. I am the buddha.
O
String a string back: are they doing it in pursuit (smile, smile, smile) of identity, security, rote activity?
Where is the security in going back to home, with halfgrown progeny. To undertaking short courses on floristry, jewellery making, to enquiring of friends the prospects for immigrating in Argentina, New Zealand, the Netherlands?
In subsuming into the dualcomposed domestic career-unit, running the enterprise without overt acknowledgement. and stringent demands. Particular demands, and expectations, and finely-honed, specialist skill-sets that, quite frankly darling love, can be ridiculed from allcomers. And will be. Empty air in lands that are not yours. When the question is repeated, "When are you going home?"
And smiling and absorbing the insults under cover of impeccable manners, diplomacy, and the brazen delivery of them, mockery broadcasted to the onlookers.
Embodying the focus for all illthought out, deeply felt, ventable frustrations of inequality. And of viciousness which we shall not mention, see above.
Displaying the veneration of your partner, tu sartorial marker of attainment, ambition, and reward.
You, proxy for all emissions.
You, receptacle.
Another strand: are they doing it in concord with the release of physical tension? Walking dickhead.
As if the world entire was made for the better enjoyment of their dick?
Who indulges another in this, and why?
No stopping to ask. Must forge ahead. And forge other things as well. The difference might be but in form.
And then, to realize that it is not so.
By displacement of certain indicators that supported this previous article of faith. Now 'proved' (smile, smile, smile) to have been erroneous. Pride and potency, why now so dissimilar?
By decreased impotence.
By only advancing age, and by abandonment by formative enablers.
Realization?
To know it was the lucre, the association, the pantheon of myth that all had arranged themselves in dependence with your import.
To be hated by your children for never being there.
To realize.
To 'retire' somewhere coastal. To build your own house. To have a companion (are you cynical, feeble, discardful of emotions, responsabilities, or is it that you have attained great wisdom with age and see that exploit and exploited are simply illusions, why, the sum of all actions is the satisfaction of immediate, selfish, inexplicatble, unjustifiable whims, and don't even try to interject nonsensical "integrity" into the spleen of current rationalisations I am being so considerate as to spell out for you), 16, always 16, without education and with many blood relatives living nearby.
We all help each other.
Keep that knot.
String dissolves in wave and particle.
I'm looking for a conversation.
the boys are looking for a hole. It's not me.
the girls are looking for a husband. It's not me.
Conversation, spark in the eyes, a grin that knows, and something new. Something utterly new.
Not getting it from them, but they're not getting it from each other.
How can they predetermine their options, and limit their options, and be content with something so parched?
Can smile at life. What am I? I am not. I am the buddha.
O
String a string back: are they doing it in pursuit (smile, smile, smile) of identity, security, rote activity?
Where is the security in going back to home, with halfgrown progeny. To undertaking short courses on floristry, jewellery making, to enquiring of friends the prospects for immigrating in Argentina, New Zealand, the Netherlands?
In subsuming into the dualcomposed domestic career-unit, running the enterprise without overt acknowledgement. and stringent demands. Particular demands, and expectations, and finely-honed, specialist skill-sets that, quite frankly darling love, can be ridiculed from allcomers. And will be. Empty air in lands that are not yours. When the question is repeated, "When are you going home?"
And smiling and absorbing the insults under cover of impeccable manners, diplomacy, and the brazen delivery of them, mockery broadcasted to the onlookers.
Embodying the focus for all illthought out, deeply felt, ventable frustrations of inequality. And of viciousness which we shall not mention, see above.
Displaying the veneration of your partner, tu sartorial marker of attainment, ambition, and reward.
You, proxy for all emissions.
You, receptacle.
Another strand: are they doing it in concord with the release of physical tension? Walking dickhead.
As if the world entire was made for the better enjoyment of their dick?
Who indulges another in this, and why?
No stopping to ask. Must forge ahead. And forge other things as well. The difference might be but in form.
And then, to realize that it is not so.
By displacement of certain indicators that supported this previous article of faith. Now 'proved' (smile, smile, smile) to have been erroneous. Pride and potency, why now so dissimilar?
By decreased impotence.
By only advancing age, and by abandonment by formative enablers.
Realization?
To know it was the lucre, the association, the pantheon of myth that all had arranged themselves in dependence with your import.
To be hated by your children for never being there.
To realize.
To 'retire' somewhere coastal. To build your own house. To have a companion (are you cynical, feeble, discardful of emotions, responsabilities, or is it that you have attained great wisdom with age and see that exploit and exploited are simply illusions, why, the sum of all actions is the satisfaction of immediate, selfish, inexplicatble, unjustifiable whims, and don't even try to interject nonsensical "integrity" into the spleen of current rationalisations I am being so considerate as to spell out for you), 16, always 16, without education and with many blood relatives living nearby.
We all help each other.
Keep that knot.
String dissolves in wave and particle.
I'm looking for a conversation.
an instant
Saturday the 19th of May, 2007
I look at the grass. I think, Why?
What the fuck? I think.
My dog died. She ate her puppies. Is there a difference in the effect, the change in her existence as it matters to me, from dying or from doing something that my dog doesn't? There isn't. You see that.
The grass is green. It spreads from the window. There is sweat on the desk. There is sweat on my arms. Also behind my knees. My t-shirt is damp. Being 40 degrees it just feels heavy. It doesn't flap like a cool shirt would in the breeze of an airconditioned room.
There is a lot of homework I'm not doing.
There is a lot of life I'm not living the same as. Next door, they are singing. They are burning what accumulated since the last time they burned stuff. They are leaving all the doors open, so the air can circulate. Our doors are open too.
There is no glass in the windows. A tunnel, voiding between entrances, encourages the channeling of temperature differential. The dogs stay outside, on the concrete, or laying against the fence.
Somebody is cooking. Somebody is shopping. Somebody is inside the back of the washing machine. Somebody is getting ready to have a tantrum. Somebody is driving home. Somebody is delivering the finished soda bottles. Somebody is brushing their hair. It is not me.
I go to find.s
I look at the grass. I think, Why?
What the fuck? I think.
My dog died. She ate her puppies. Is there a difference in the effect, the change in her existence as it matters to me, from dying or from doing something that my dog doesn't? There isn't. You see that.
The grass is green. It spreads from the window. There is sweat on the desk. There is sweat on my arms. Also behind my knees. My t-shirt is damp. Being 40 degrees it just feels heavy. It doesn't flap like a cool shirt would in the breeze of an airconditioned room.
There is a lot of homework I'm not doing.
There is a lot of life I'm not living the same as. Next door, they are singing. They are burning what accumulated since the last time they burned stuff. They are leaving all the doors open, so the air can circulate. Our doors are open too.
There is no glass in the windows. A tunnel, voiding between entrances, encourages the channeling of temperature differential. The dogs stay outside, on the concrete, or laying against the fence.
Somebody is cooking. Somebody is shopping. Somebody is inside the back of the washing machine. Somebody is getting ready to have a tantrum. Somebody is driving home. Somebody is delivering the finished soda bottles. Somebody is brushing their hair. It is not me.
I go to find.s
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
You better be funny
Wednesday, the 25th of April 2007
And then, she said, the other day, when the sky was any kind of smear that I hadn't looked at, because it was above the rise of the 3rd and 5th storeys, and the pall over the streets and dappled sunspots on the pavement were like the smear of a grimy eraser, and the premises behind the doors and the windows purposefully blank, not to take any account of the folded in people walking themselves in the way of the wasp, careful to not burn their fingerprints off on the element hot with life, she said, come and have a drink.
She ordered for us.
She said, it's always ok.
She said, what are you thinking about?
She said, what did you do yesterday?
She said, this drink warms you up from the inside.
She said, nothing stops, everything changes, you're good as you are, breathe.
She said, nobody knows anything.
She said, the universe is very good.
She said make your choices.
She said, a significant proprtion of women do not get married of their own free will.
She said, take that whichever way.
And her teeth flashed.
She asked, are you free to come to the house next weekend?
And then, she said, the other day, when the sky was any kind of smear that I hadn't looked at, because it was above the rise of the 3rd and 5th storeys, and the pall over the streets and dappled sunspots on the pavement were like the smear of a grimy eraser, and the premises behind the doors and the windows purposefully blank, not to take any account of the folded in people walking themselves in the way of the wasp, careful to not burn their fingerprints off on the element hot with life, she said, come and have a drink.
She ordered for us.
She said, it's always ok.
She said, what are you thinking about?
She said, what did you do yesterday?
She said, this drink warms you up from the inside.
She said, nothing stops, everything changes, you're good as you are, breathe.
She said, nobody knows anything.
She said, the universe is very good.
She said make your choices.
She said, a significant proprtion of women do not get married of their own free will.
She said, take that whichever way.
And her teeth flashed.
She asked, are you free to come to the house next weekend?
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
almanaical
Wednesday, the 18th of April, 2007
The province of Typing, consisting, chiefly, of three main villages; Kra Ma, Spel Eung and Sintac, is auspiciously located on the lower bank of a tributary to the Convoluted Narrative, the river that winds its way through the plains of the country.
The decision making power is arranged in harmonious concert with the whole of the governing body, and is titularly held by the organisation of the Premise.
This is a democratic function, however, once installed, the figurehead of State is obliged to serve the duties and responsabilities of the post for life.
These acts and their protagonist are, from the date of their introduction, known simultaneously as the Recurring Motif.
The Recurring Motif may, or may not, be readily apparent, depending on what the Whole Point is.
The Whole Point is where we end up, and, even if we didn't grasp it at the outset, where it all starts from.
Which brings us to the Whole Point.
However, if there is none, the merits and achievements of the corpus vivendi are but simulacra which vacuousness is remedied by the cross-border intervention of Real Life.
Real Life is a humscrum Potentate with may emirs, none of whom make any claim to the equivalence of the status of the Premise.
It's chief value is in making you think things you had never thought before and in its constant manufacture of curious mirrors.
The province of Typing, consisting, chiefly, of three main villages; Kra Ma, Spel Eung and Sintac, is auspiciously located on the lower bank of a tributary to the Convoluted Narrative, the river that winds its way through the plains of the country.
The decision making power is arranged in harmonious concert with the whole of the governing body, and is titularly held by the organisation of the Premise.
This is a democratic function, however, once installed, the figurehead of State is obliged to serve the duties and responsabilities of the post for life.
These acts and their protagonist are, from the date of their introduction, known simultaneously as the Recurring Motif.
The Recurring Motif may, or may not, be readily apparent, depending on what the Whole Point is.
The Whole Point is where we end up, and, even if we didn't grasp it at the outset, where it all starts from.
Which brings us to the Whole Point.
However, if there is none, the merits and achievements of the corpus vivendi are but simulacra which vacuousness is remedied by the cross-border intervention of Real Life.
Real Life is a humscrum Potentate with may emirs, none of whom make any claim to the equivalence of the status of the Premise.
It's chief value is in making you think things you had never thought before and in its constant manufacture of curious mirrors.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
oh my opera
Friday the 23rd of March, 2007
I love 300. It's an opera. I had to return several times. I saw it on a gigantic screen, variously buffered by and creeped out by the small groups dispersed over the cavernous auditorium. Held by the story, knowing that there were girls in the room, from seeing one then 3 then all of them on each return from shaking my head in the corridors to dislodge the roar from the speakers, let some of the paranoid bloodlust pressure off, while periodically refreshing my peripheral bearings. The timbre of the movie had that effect.
Afterwards, I felt incredibly soothed. I still do when considering the visuals, or the rejoinders, or the prominences of the distinct ethos'. I trace this back to the movie.
And I got it, in my heartbeat. I understand having a pure nugget of value on which all choices spring. I understand how the core trumps all vagaries of circumstance.
Even as I appreciate "random".
In one way (and I have jumped without spreading out the inferences, but it is directly connected) it is reflected in a view that belief (or professed belief) in an abstract absolute precludes against the abuses of very living, very temporal, bullies.
I love 300. It's an opera. I had to return several times. I saw it on a gigantic screen, variously buffered by and creeped out by the small groups dispersed over the cavernous auditorium. Held by the story, knowing that there were girls in the room, from seeing one then 3 then all of them on each return from shaking my head in the corridors to dislodge the roar from the speakers, let some of the paranoid bloodlust pressure off, while periodically refreshing my peripheral bearings. The timbre of the movie had that effect.
Afterwards, I felt incredibly soothed. I still do when considering the visuals, or the rejoinders, or the prominences of the distinct ethos'. I trace this back to the movie.
And I got it, in my heartbeat. I understand having a pure nugget of value on which all choices spring. I understand how the core trumps all vagaries of circumstance.
Even as I appreciate "random".
In one way (and I have jumped without spreading out the inferences, but it is directly connected) it is reflected in a view that belief (or professed belief) in an abstract absolute precludes against the abuses of very living, very temporal, bullies.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
come on handshake
Thursday the 21st of March, 2007
You are like light on the water, offsetting the spined bridge there far off in the gaps in the trees.
You are like my finger on the page, each day I blink back at you when we were part of a more inclusive present.
You are the murmurs and ripples that emanate from a historic that you were aware of as an instant.
You see, you don't know what it is you are to people who are not you. Which is everyone.
Maybe you are the upstanding thing that steadies another and so they go on. Which is why being upright, and breathing in the oxygen that being alive keeps you alive, and loving all that is there, is necessary.
Through this enunciation, a braillespeak on your skin, a morse across the clouds, a rhythmic memorefrain, you know you are, in ways you don't know, what you don't know you are.
Always keep faith to the figure in the image developed in your contemporaries roll. It is me as well.
Always be flexible.
It makes me laugh, when, later you are consistent and surprising too.
That you are unexpected and full of integrity.
It confirms.
You are like light on the water, offsetting the spined bridge there far off in the gaps in the trees.
You are like my finger on the page, each day I blink back at you when we were part of a more inclusive present.
You are the murmurs and ripples that emanate from a historic that you were aware of as an instant.
You see, you don't know what it is you are to people who are not you. Which is everyone.
Maybe you are the upstanding thing that steadies another and so they go on. Which is why being upright, and breathing in the oxygen that being alive keeps you alive, and loving all that is there, is necessary.
Through this enunciation, a braillespeak on your skin, a morse across the clouds, a rhythmic memorefrain, you know you are, in ways you don't know, what you don't know you are.
Always keep faith to the figure in the image developed in your contemporaries roll. It is me as well.
Always be flexible.
It makes me laugh, when, later you are consistent and surprising too.
That you are unexpected and full of integrity.
It confirms.
Monday, March 19, 2007
projecting a concrete image.
Riding in a compartment through pollination-active under sun, long grasses and poppy heads, copses, a leaden sky like an eye that has ceased to focus. Writing in this compartment, a gem that is human; and crafted, human, meet conversation summarise the themes, which I am happy to have identified, and propel the plot to a forseen conclusion, for it is an end-game excercise that my words are garnering their fellow syllables to progressively involve.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
excellence of quiet being
Tuesday the 13th of March, 2007
I met someone. And my life is suspended. Time apart hung from time together. When we're together it's solid.
I see fragments of anatomy. A tableau of poses. Truncated images. All of it is too much too take in.
I cannot remember what they look like.
I have run on the way to an assignation. I smile and think "nothing matters" and it seems like the most optimistic phrase ever. I think surprises and it's not yet May, when my inspiration is upcoming.
I met someone. And my life is suspended. Time apart hung from time together. When we're together it's solid.
I see fragments of anatomy. A tableau of poses. Truncated images. All of it is too much too take in.
I cannot remember what they look like.
I have run on the way to an assignation. I smile and think "nothing matters" and it seems like the most optimistic phrase ever. I think surprises and it's not yet May, when my inspiration is upcoming.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
entirety and strings
Friday the 9th of March, 2007
To wake by a,
to a,
with a
strung sentence of coherent thought.
everyone is born with an amount of anger to expend over their lifetime.
Should this ideal rate of attrition not find satisfaction, there is always next time.
And of how much I want to discuss with someone in the present moment, concepts of time. To throw it in the air between us, we enthused at the quirks. Amused at the soothing effects of linear time as a thinking model. The backward-forwardness of inadequate assumption, of limited horizons. Things that are very easy to grasp.
Units of occurances. Self-contained phenomena. Refractions of instances.
Anachronistic realities. Personal rhythms. Warped nets.
Acceleration. Graphs. Familiarity.
And illusions.
I was going to invite my brother to think about it. I have just emailed him another set of focii, though, and the last time he read my English, he said
"_____________ your writing puts me in a similar frame of mind to how I feel on the approach to a difficult hole on the golf course."
To wake by a,
to a,
with a
strung sentence of coherent thought.
everyone is born with an amount of anger to expend over their lifetime.
Should this ideal rate of attrition not find satisfaction, there is always next time.
And of how much I want to discuss with someone in the present moment, concepts of time. To throw it in the air between us, we enthused at the quirks. Amused at the soothing effects of linear time as a thinking model. The backward-forwardness of inadequate assumption, of limited horizons. Things that are very easy to grasp.
Units of occurances. Self-contained phenomena. Refractions of instances.
Anachronistic realities. Personal rhythms. Warped nets.
Acceleration. Graphs. Familiarity.
And illusions.
I was going to invite my brother to think about it. I have just emailed him another set of focii, though, and the last time he read my English, he said
"_____________ your writing puts me in a similar frame of mind to how I feel on the approach to a difficult hole on the golf course."
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
because we can
Saturday, a national holiday, the 17th of February, 2007
I slung my bag back over my shoulders, and marched beside my horse for the last five kilometres before reaching camp. The wind had a damp smell from the innards of the forests coating the hills beyond whose slopes another country lies.
The sky is a wondrous playground of entirety, and tonight, as I watched the development of the day, cloud by cloud, a piano went off in my head, well-tempered, playing on infinity and dimensions, baroquely disinclined to pauses.
I wake very early, when I sleep in cold conditions. For the length of rest that I physically need, my consciousness mutes the signals of distress, and my core organs are untaxed while I spend enough recuperation. Then at 4 am, before the birds, in the darkest of dark, I switch on.
It is cold, like petrified, and gentle.
And I coax my mind into my breathing and my skeleton, and then my body restarts behaving as if it has a purpose in this world.
This is how I don't contract a stomache ache from wrenching myself into motion.
We walk out of slumber, my horse and I, and when we are out of it, we eat breakfast, and then we contemplate the terrain on which to direct our first steps.
I slung my bag back over my shoulders, and marched beside my horse for the last five kilometres before reaching camp. The wind had a damp smell from the innards of the forests coating the hills beyond whose slopes another country lies.
The sky is a wondrous playground of entirety, and tonight, as I watched the development of the day, cloud by cloud, a piano went off in my head, well-tempered, playing on infinity and dimensions, baroquely disinclined to pauses.
I wake very early, when I sleep in cold conditions. For the length of rest that I physically need, my consciousness mutes the signals of distress, and my core organs are untaxed while I spend enough recuperation. Then at 4 am, before the birds, in the darkest of dark, I switch on.
It is cold, like petrified, and gentle.
And I coax my mind into my breathing and my skeleton, and then my body restarts behaving as if it has a purpose in this world.
This is how I don't contract a stomache ache from wrenching myself into motion.
We walk out of slumber, my horse and I, and when we are out of it, we eat breakfast, and then we contemplate the terrain on which to direct our first steps.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
few and far between
Sunday the 11th of February, 2007
"And who might that be?"
"That, Minister of Defence, is the Fabricator of the Exterior."
"What is their mandate, precisely?"
"Precisely so, Minister."
"And who might that be?"
"That, Minister of Defence, is the Fabricator of the Exterior."
"What is their mandate, precisely?"
"Precisely so, Minister."
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
feel free
What if you were to find you were living among people with no moral centre?
It is a great thuddering gap in the thought process of most transigents here. We spend the conscious parts of our time working to the requirements of a professional ethos, and graciously - as much as our personalities warrant this - giving the benefit of the doubt and treating expectations with decency, basically adapting to the censure deflected at us. And to a large extent, niggles aside, this is able to be discussed in bars and on the phone, among those in the know (a solidarity thing, cringe with embarassment maybe, but even then, you know how it is), and it's also able to be alluded to in various ways in describing the untranslatable quotidien quality of the days to the people we are apart from but who know us in a sense that has more to do with shared identity than shared experience.
It's regarded as a medical condition that we share. Something that we have picked up. An easily dissected foreign object residing on our person. Possibly we'll shake it off. And people can quarantine themselves from the carrier, should they determine that the mode of contraction is stigmatisable, or if it is obvious that the symptoms are those that provoke no sympathy, or if they are excerbating it unnecessarily.
Beyond that, the fabric of life here is not hidden, just not prominent, so if you were to come from a place that has outlawed smacking, you wouldn't be informed voluntarily, that it was not the case here, until you walked into a punishment ritual and for the time after, feeling as though some dizzy shadow had started up from inside. And everyone giggled when they saw you had seen. And now you know. But still, in the professional arena, you cannot get clarity on this. It is not blown into life with talk. They do not recall whichever incident and clear it up. They do not speak of this side of routine protocol. You do not speak of it.
And thoughts of Roald Dahl tauten.
And the excreta fixation.
What' s up with that?
I cannot find anything on the internet to say. Like that's out of order.
And the vestiges of unspeakable acts in the public spaces and recreation areas that remain in the daylight in suburban open buildings after a night where you find it easy to believe in the sensationalist exagerations of shadowland national psyche, red and black and with all the latest technology.
That in the daylight, you wake into a blue blue day, and the noises you heard, you can't drag into the new encounters, because maybe it's just you. And what you were doing in that place, becomes the primary question (a domestic place, a place you spend time in regularly, the vehicle screeching from the compound, the reminder in the lobby as you step out of the elevator). And why are you asking them?
And the fear is that it's widespread.
And there is some thought that it is not widespread; that it is extremely abnormal, peverse, and degenerate. But I didn't intervene, you say. Ever.
With prayer.
Why don't you get out?
And give that, as a reason?
They would laugh at me. Or maybe, I would have to sit on the floor, in order to not be taken to a very small room.
In these days, I articulate the good. I keep the wellbeing of those in my day as the basis for our relationship. I try to live all the things that I have faith in. Light and nourishment and peace.
It is a great thuddering gap in the thought process of most transigents here. We spend the conscious parts of our time working to the requirements of a professional ethos, and graciously - as much as our personalities warrant this - giving the benefit of the doubt and treating expectations with decency, basically adapting to the censure deflected at us. And to a large extent, niggles aside, this is able to be discussed in bars and on the phone, among those in the know (a solidarity thing, cringe with embarassment maybe, but even then, you know how it is), and it's also able to be alluded to in various ways in describing the untranslatable quotidien quality of the days to the people we are apart from but who know us in a sense that has more to do with shared identity than shared experience.
It's regarded as a medical condition that we share. Something that we have picked up. An easily dissected foreign object residing on our person. Possibly we'll shake it off. And people can quarantine themselves from the carrier, should they determine that the mode of contraction is stigmatisable, or if it is obvious that the symptoms are those that provoke no sympathy, or if they are excerbating it unnecessarily.
Beyond that, the fabric of life here is not hidden, just not prominent, so if you were to come from a place that has outlawed smacking, you wouldn't be informed voluntarily, that it was not the case here, until you walked into a punishment ritual and for the time after, feeling as though some dizzy shadow had started up from inside. And everyone giggled when they saw you had seen. And now you know. But still, in the professional arena, you cannot get clarity on this. It is not blown into life with talk. They do not recall whichever incident and clear it up. They do not speak of this side of routine protocol. You do not speak of it.
And thoughts of Roald Dahl tauten.
And the excreta fixation.
What' s up with that?
I cannot find anything on the internet to say. Like that's out of order.
And the vestiges of unspeakable acts in the public spaces and recreation areas that remain in the daylight in suburban open buildings after a night where you find it easy to believe in the sensationalist exagerations of shadowland national psyche, red and black and with all the latest technology.
That in the daylight, you wake into a blue blue day, and the noises you heard, you can't drag into the new encounters, because maybe it's just you. And what you were doing in that place, becomes the primary question (a domestic place, a place you spend time in regularly, the vehicle screeching from the compound, the reminder in the lobby as you step out of the elevator). And why are you asking them?
And the fear is that it's widespread.
And there is some thought that it is not widespread; that it is extremely abnormal, peverse, and degenerate. But I didn't intervene, you say. Ever.
With prayer.
Why don't you get out?
And give that, as a reason?
They would laugh at me. Or maybe, I would have to sit on the floor, in order to not be taken to a very small room.
In these days, I articulate the good. I keep the wellbeing of those in my day as the basis for our relationship. I try to live all the things that I have faith in. Light and nourishment and peace.
Friday, February 02, 2007
irrationality is not a thing to be reckoned with
Friday the second of February, 2007
Do you think that dissimilarity is all that wounding to a sense of propriety or balance?
Well, we all digest the fruits of the Earth differently. Think of it as an ongoing meditation with the breadth and the depth of human intelligence and conviction. In considering family ties, it's possible to approach a way of identifying enmity without claiming any of the why fors. Here's a tema I've been working on - "You shackle your response to my presence by your codes of conduct" and in parentheses, "(by which blindness I amply profit)".
What's the difference between people?
Their level of satisfaction.
Oh. Their terms of debate? "I spurn your terms of debate" case, terms of debate? Sense of humour? Intelligence?
I think that's more of a variable than a difference. A detail, a degree.
Taste?
My ocular facilities, my critical sensibilities. My eyes, my taste - a quirk of timing wouldn't you say? Of timing making the individual.
What about disabilities?
Well, you cannot possess knowledge of full capability and of restricted motion/ reach simultaneously, so such a comparative intelligence is academic. A nonsense.
Money?
What is money?
Ability to influence the thoughts and behaviour of others?
Isn't that an unprovable extrapolation inferred from empiric observation? It is a mock-question. It falls short of assuming the probe of enquiry. Be sincere.
Questions are sincere, then?
Let's go off topic, then. Yes, a question is a modus operandi of sincerity. It is the sincere in inquisitive employment. When you let sincerity play in your encounters with others - in the dark, or less - then the interaction is of quest. Sort of a square quest. Interest in cubes which domino in spontaneous sincerity.
I believe it to be a contributing sense of satisfaction.
When was the last choice you took that felt good?
That is a calendar I do not possess.
I am now going to html some formative whimsy that was eloquently linearised in ink from an afternoon walk along smoky fields.
I did enjoy considering your words. If you drift off, that's fine, but should you return, think on this, that too.
What is discipline?
working in this environment extends my appreciation of the ways language defines and shapes what is taken for knowledge and of what knowledge is taken to be.
Recieved opinion.
Consensus.
Of convention reached
That results in conventions
Resulting from convention - ways of doing things - ways of thinking
I find it easier to be original in societies where holding/displaying views that vary from the mainstream, or that proliferate according to creeds and experience can, at worst, be met with a benign ostracism.
This could be a monumental consequence if a major indicator of your life satisfaction is hosting and participating in dinner parties, or going for coffee, or any social action that fosters harmonious confirmation and accord.
However, in the wide world of relationships, the health and confidence quotient of people who can foster and absorb incompatible, unrelated and competitive approaches to corporeal issues, simultaneously and cumulatively, is far more optimal.
For one thing, it extends humanity to everyone.
It is inclusive without prescription.
Acceptance is contigent on avoiding transgression and there are conditions that have to be met.
Set phrases that have to be memorised.
Set phrases that have to be recalled to fit the relevant moment.
A script of acceptability.
Imposed opinion
Dictated responses
Assimilated dictatorship
Assimilated hierarchical responsibility and authority
Diluted delegated authority and responsibility
Participatory censorship
Slogan-ism
Peversion - strategic employ of - mottos
lip service to to avoid unattractive consequences
Effective bullying of individual minds ---> influencing the national psyche.
I thought you weren't convinced there was such a thing as the nation.
Ha! Let's go find something to do.
Do you think that dissimilarity is all that wounding to a sense of propriety or balance?
Well, we all digest the fruits of the Earth differently. Think of it as an ongoing meditation with the breadth and the depth of human intelligence and conviction. In considering family ties, it's possible to approach a way of identifying enmity without claiming any of the why fors. Here's a tema I've been working on - "You shackle your response to my presence by your codes of conduct" and in parentheses, "(by which blindness I amply profit)".
What's the difference between people?
Their level of satisfaction.
Oh. Their terms of debate? "I spurn your terms of debate" case, terms of debate? Sense of humour? Intelligence?
I think that's more of a variable than a difference. A detail, a degree.
Taste?
My ocular facilities, my critical sensibilities. My eyes, my taste - a quirk of timing wouldn't you say? Of timing making the individual.
What about disabilities?
Well, you cannot possess knowledge of full capability and of restricted motion/ reach simultaneously, so such a comparative intelligence is academic. A nonsense.
Money?
What is money?
Ability to influence the thoughts and behaviour of others?
Isn't that an unprovable extrapolation inferred from empiric observation? It is a mock-question. It falls short of assuming the probe of enquiry. Be sincere.
Questions are sincere, then?
Let's go off topic, then. Yes, a question is a modus operandi of sincerity. It is the sincere in inquisitive employment. When you let sincerity play in your encounters with others - in the dark, or less - then the interaction is of quest. Sort of a square quest. Interest in cubes which domino in spontaneous sincerity.
I believe it to be a contributing sense of satisfaction.
When was the last choice you took that felt good?
That is a calendar I do not possess.
I am now going to html some formative whimsy that was eloquently linearised in ink from an afternoon walk along smoky fields.
I did enjoy considering your words. If you drift off, that's fine, but should you return, think on this, that too.
What is discipline?
working in this environment extends my appreciation of the ways language defines and shapes what is taken for knowledge and of what knowledge is taken to be.
Recieved opinion.
Consensus.
Of convention reached
That results in conventions
Resulting from convention - ways of doing things - ways of thinking
I find it easier to be original in societies where holding/displaying views that vary from the mainstream, or that proliferate according to creeds and experience can, at worst, be met with a benign ostracism.
This could be a monumental consequence if a major indicator of your life satisfaction is hosting and participating in dinner parties, or going for coffee, or any social action that fosters harmonious confirmation and accord.
However, in the wide world of relationships, the health and confidence quotient of people who can foster and absorb incompatible, unrelated and competitive approaches to corporeal issues, simultaneously and cumulatively, is far more optimal.
For one thing, it extends humanity to everyone.
It is inclusive without prescription.
Acceptance is contigent on avoiding transgression and there are conditions that have to be met.
Set phrases that have to be memorised.
Set phrases that have to be recalled to fit the relevant moment.
A script of acceptability.
Imposed opinion
Dictated responses
Assimilated dictatorship
Assimilated hierarchical responsibility and authority
Diluted delegated authority and responsibility
Participatory censorship
Slogan-ism
Peversion - strategic employ of - mottos
lip service to to avoid unattractive consequences
Effective bullying of individual minds ---> influencing the national psyche.
I thought you weren't convinced there was such a thing as the nation.
Ha! Let's go find something to do.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
flight of the arctic geese in son et lumiere
It's in the north, isn't it, where the accordian is fetched from beside the cabinet, or unhung from the wall, played after dinner, put on stage, taught to semi-autonomous preteens by hardworked, wellfed, mature people, with squat fingers in semi-autonomous regions.
The squatter the fingers, the further north? Or is it the hard work and the weather and the leisure in accordian enclaves, the squatter the fingers? Or is it just that dancing fingers in the light of the fire look truncated?
I watched a program of recently migrated girl-relatives, who maintained their music and spirits by practicing and performing on the instrument they brought with them, don't ask me on what - a train, a series of buses traducing the desert, in one of their backpacks, I like to imagine several ways of passage, that wasn't in that segment of the documentary, and prefer to have it hazy and replete with possibility - and they weaved with the music, twitched their necks, bent their knees as they moved for the camera in the small room swept clear of furnishings, with a full length mirror on the wardrobe door. They were very young and very proud and their mother had made them up with green eyeshadow and vaseline on the fine hair that doesn't reach to a ponytail. They did a sort of mimetic dumshow of the emotions the lyrics were to elicit from their audience. That got me.
Blatant fakery, is still something that another way of seeing, a rephrasing, is still unable to be acceptable to me. But they were real enough, and the music is old, and it's necessary to many people, over a great stretch of tundra.
The accordian in itself, as it appeared to me as a child, is in the radio family, small people, orchestras, chairs and changing rooms inside.
The squatter the fingers, the further north? Or is it the hard work and the weather and the leisure in accordian enclaves, the squatter the fingers? Or is it just that dancing fingers in the light of the fire look truncated?
I watched a program of recently migrated girl-relatives, who maintained their music and spirits by practicing and performing on the instrument they brought with them, don't ask me on what - a train, a series of buses traducing the desert, in one of their backpacks, I like to imagine several ways of passage, that wasn't in that segment of the documentary, and prefer to have it hazy and replete with possibility - and they weaved with the music, twitched their necks, bent their knees as they moved for the camera in the small room swept clear of furnishings, with a full length mirror on the wardrobe door. They were very young and very proud and their mother had made them up with green eyeshadow and vaseline on the fine hair that doesn't reach to a ponytail. They did a sort of mimetic dumshow of the emotions the lyrics were to elicit from their audience. That got me.
Blatant fakery, is still something that another way of seeing, a rephrasing, is still unable to be acceptable to me. But they were real enough, and the music is old, and it's necessary to many people, over a great stretch of tundra.
The accordian in itself, as it appeared to me as a child, is in the radio family, small people, orchestras, chairs and changing rooms inside.
Monday, January 22, 2007
myopic and blinkered reiterate "...as I thought" to each other, And those with a more certain gift for comedy exclaim, "Further proof!"
Monday the 22nd of January, 2007
In the days after - the shape of things resettled into their contours - when his gaze alighted on some assortment, it was as though millions of butterfly wings came to rest in one breath.
Indoors, it gave his thought-heart a gasp of ghost pain.
Outdoors, the light that suffused everything seemed to bang against itself in the resolutely independent hues of the multicoloured decoupage of downtown.
Shadows chronologically surpassed their neverending illusions of geometry.
Cans and corners, heights and slopes came into a solid undercurrent that let him stand as though on an entirely new and unconceived of planet.
Flimsy as the past now proved itself, the unarguable solidity of the present kept him guessing at the unfamiliar centre of gravity now located within him.
In the days after - the shape of things resettled into their contours - when his gaze alighted on some assortment, it was as though millions of butterfly wings came to rest in one breath.
Indoors, it gave his thought-heart a gasp of ghost pain.
Outdoors, the light that suffused everything seemed to bang against itself in the resolutely independent hues of the multicoloured decoupage of downtown.
Shadows chronologically surpassed their neverending illusions of geometry.
Cans and corners, heights and slopes came into a solid undercurrent that let him stand as though on an entirely new and unconceived of planet.
Flimsy as the past now proved itself, the unarguable solidity of the present kept him guessing at the unfamiliar centre of gravity now located within him.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
the day dawned bright and clear
Sunday the 21st of January, 2007
last night, my apartment shuddered.
I ran outside. There was one light window on the ground floor.
The lady inside asked if I meant the shaking, she didn't feel anything.
I went upstairs, with my heart like a schooner sail in a squall.
I went upstairs with the complete and immediate collapse of large structures in a rotating panorama before my eyes.
I went upstairs knowing that I would sit on the ground rather than walk myself toward perdition.
I went upstairs to the third floor, which, incidently, is where my belongings, those I would take in both hands and those I would be relieved at sudden removal from my possession, are arranged in current ergonomy.
I went upstairs, and knocked on neighbour first and neighbour on the block-end of the building. Villa. We live in a villa.
The end door opened and the waft of industrial volume fishpaste that came out stayed with me all the way back to the eerily undisturbed interior of my apartment.
The machine in her living room groaned in rust grating cycles. It hadn't been in operation for the last couple of weeks.
I slept through the night for the last couple of weeks.
She didn't know about the shaking.
I thought about moving the bed frame with the mattress on it directly under the central light.
It is large and Soviet/1930s functional, frosted glass suctioned onto the papered ceiling.
I didn't.
last night, my apartment shuddered.
I ran outside. There was one light window on the ground floor.
The lady inside asked if I meant the shaking, she didn't feel anything.
I went upstairs, with my heart like a schooner sail in a squall.
I went upstairs with the complete and immediate collapse of large structures in a rotating panorama before my eyes.
I went upstairs knowing that I would sit on the ground rather than walk myself toward perdition.
I went upstairs to the third floor, which, incidently, is where my belongings, those I would take in both hands and those I would be relieved at sudden removal from my possession, are arranged in current ergonomy.
I went upstairs, and knocked on neighbour first and neighbour on the block-end of the building. Villa. We live in a villa.
The end door opened and the waft of industrial volume fishpaste that came out stayed with me all the way back to the eerily undisturbed interior of my apartment.
The machine in her living room groaned in rust grating cycles. It hadn't been in operation for the last couple of weeks.
I slept through the night for the last couple of weeks.
She didn't know about the shaking.
I thought about moving the bed frame with the mattress on it directly under the central light.
It is large and Soviet/1930s functional, frosted glass suctioned onto the papered ceiling.
I didn't.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Fado
Wednesday the 10th of January, 2006
Should be of all proportions.
Until it changes, it can be no other way.
That is, the present, and my current perspective are sufficient for sustainability of the life partative to the nodes on this and that plane as they interfere in the communicative sphere.
The urge to make lyrics is stymied by my lack of projection at the moment. If there is no ideal state to allude to, no history to eulogize, sparse nostalgia, to whom can I address my yearning?
Perhaps a hymn to the felicity in my life?
I'd rather hang out with the people I like, than wind strings around my emotional response to their impact on me, or to the effect they bring to the colours of life.
A rhythmic meditation on the recurring words of my semiotic environs?
It is until it changes.
Come on, a patter that is easily wrought, that makes you laugh because words so easily assemble into seemingly realistic phrases that bear nothing veritable?
Could. Won't. I remember clearly what I was really thinking when I wrote them but others don't and can't say when or if one would supersede the other.
Who cares?
Is it important?
To me, here, now, yes.
Should be of all proportions.
Until it changes, it can be no other way.
That is, the present, and my current perspective are sufficient for sustainability of the life partative to the nodes on this and that plane as they interfere in the communicative sphere.
The urge to make lyrics is stymied by my lack of projection at the moment. If there is no ideal state to allude to, no history to eulogize, sparse nostalgia, to whom can I address my yearning?
Perhaps a hymn to the felicity in my life?
I'd rather hang out with the people I like, than wind strings around my emotional response to their impact on me, or to the effect they bring to the colours of life.
A rhythmic meditation on the recurring words of my semiotic environs?
It is until it changes.
Come on, a patter that is easily wrought, that makes you laugh because words so easily assemble into seemingly realistic phrases that bear nothing veritable?
Could. Won't. I remember clearly what I was really thinking when I wrote them but others don't and can't say when or if one would supersede the other.
Who cares?
Is it important?
To me, here, now, yes.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
crisscross
Sunday the seventh of January, 2007
The things we know, we know them well. The thrill of the new, the cast of the old, the words which herald ourselves to ourselves. Symbolic, incantatory, familiar.
In the family of language, we grow up. From the sense that bursts forth in a tongue, a calendar begins that lets us say, perhaps, "In the beginning..."
yes I'm laughing, but persevere throughout -
for now, look within language - there is always always to regard the ex- and ante-lingual - to consider, gently,
when thoughts are stripped of words, quick liquid through my brain, where do you find your place, where do you make your place, crouched, and when words pry you from your refuge, then my thoughts stand akimbo, unformed and articulate. I am more dense, now, and purposeful and idling missile.
CCXLVI Ozymandias of Egypt Percy Bysshe Shelley
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said:—Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
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