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.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
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.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
c'est une question du validite
Saturday the 9th of December, 2006
And now, The Name of The Rose, querying the licitness of laughter.
Delight.
Mutually-syncratic idio-facilities, expression-found in the corporal world and through it's transcedence.
That's what I've got to say about that.
I have no basis. I have no limits. I cannot claim. I am not certain.
Is this an admission possessing, in any sense, validity?
And now, The Name of The Rose, querying the licitness of laughter.
Delight.
Mutually-syncratic idio-facilities, expression-found in the corporal world and through it's transcedence.
That's what I've got to say about that.
I have no basis. I have no limits. I cannot claim. I am not certain.
Is this an admission possessing, in any sense, validity?
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
as are superlatives
Thursday the 7th of December, 2006
The ridiculous transports us both.
I found it the first time by sharing it. This is one of the ways the divine is present, every day, and in my life, and in the communion with others.
There was an articulate suggestion on the tragedy of being sensitive, susceptible to beauty, attuned to the sublime in existence, and comfortable with forms of perfection, which was offered as an explanation on the Japanese moral character and the effects that were being noted on the Japanese as an entity -in the article preceding the commentary- as the vagaries of global parity brought to bear on the country as a whole.
Explanations are ridiculous.
I am globally mobile, perhaps you remarked.
Freedom, air, water.
Everywhere, in every place, we have much to learn from one another. It's dealing with it.
Dealing with what's there when you find it.
The familiar feeling of reverting to an inner certitude within the domed air in places of worship, only to perform spastic acts of road rage in negotiating the exit from the congregational carpark, to feel intense desire to negate the existence of the people around, to non-confront them, to have Tourettes in spades immediately following from affirming the infinite's capacity for magnanimity.
Managing the equilibrium in the midst of the swirling ravages of every day, everywhere. This is what I think life is worth going through life doing.
I am thinking quicker than this, and it is unbearable to maintain communicative contact at this perambule, however, I am finding joy in it. By what we do, we can be happy. So what is not my inclination in terms of action, can be the arena in which I develop my inclinations in terms of emotion and values. As if anyone directs the course of affairs, while simultaneously, of course everyone mediates the course of affairs.
Slowly now, and back to a time before, if you commit suicide, how will you know what happens tomorrow?
The circular logic of expectations. Logic in quotation marks.
Craving and lust are 2 manifestations of desire. Each influencing different cultures to different degrees. Leading to different experiences of satisfaction. And by so influencing responses to life, also providing each culture with a definitive quality of life.
Desire.
Desire is ridiculous.
I stop being identity-relevant in the presence of the ridiculous. It's something we share.
Further gloriousness in being human that you live to know are compassion, appreciation of music, pattern recognition.
More to come.
The ridiculous transports us both.
I found it the first time by sharing it. This is one of the ways the divine is present, every day, and in my life, and in the communion with others.
There was an articulate suggestion on the tragedy of being sensitive, susceptible to beauty, attuned to the sublime in existence, and comfortable with forms of perfection, which was offered as an explanation on the Japanese moral character and the effects that were being noted on the Japanese as an entity -in the article preceding the commentary- as the vagaries of global parity brought to bear on the country as a whole.
Explanations are ridiculous.
I am globally mobile, perhaps you remarked.
Freedom, air, water.
Everywhere, in every place, we have much to learn from one another. It's dealing with it.
Dealing with what's there when you find it.
The familiar feeling of reverting to an inner certitude within the domed air in places of worship, only to perform spastic acts of road rage in negotiating the exit from the congregational carpark, to feel intense desire to negate the existence of the people around, to non-confront them, to have Tourettes in spades immediately following from affirming the infinite's capacity for magnanimity.
Managing the equilibrium in the midst of the swirling ravages of every day, everywhere. This is what I think life is worth going through life doing.
I am thinking quicker than this, and it is unbearable to maintain communicative contact at this perambule, however, I am finding joy in it. By what we do, we can be happy. So what is not my inclination in terms of action, can be the arena in which I develop my inclinations in terms of emotion and values. As if anyone directs the course of affairs, while simultaneously, of course everyone mediates the course of affairs.
Slowly now, and back to a time before, if you commit suicide, how will you know what happens tomorrow?
The circular logic of expectations. Logic in quotation marks.
Craving and lust are 2 manifestations of desire. Each influencing different cultures to different degrees. Leading to different experiences of satisfaction. And by so influencing responses to life, also providing each culture with a definitive quality of life.
Desire.
Desire is ridiculous.
I stop being identity-relevant in the presence of the ridiculous. It's something we share.
Further gloriousness in being human that you live to know are compassion, appreciation of music, pattern recognition.
More to come.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
waiting
Thursday the 16th of November, 2006
Waiting for - - - -
Thoughts on the state of - - - -
What are you waiting for?
An examination of the easily assumed support structure of the question - - - -
Waiting for the catastrophe that will make sense of everything, the everything that has happened and is recalled, that has happened before.
Some people give the distinct impression, from a distance (across airport carpets, within the tv as they read the script-prompter, insulated by their uniform either physical insignia or mental adherence to protocol) that they are monumentally pressed by their notion of existing on the tracery of the cliff drop. As if some original state of freefall has been arrested, they transmit a quality of vigilance from their globulous selves.
This is funny.
And then I write words I had not previously thought I had thought, and on topics that had not formed any intrarelevance in my mind, as though having decided to write and not finding myself bereft of words or intention once the page is opened before me, extraneous expressions seep in curlicues, improvisation, while the nut I place and replace upon the page, as the piece reshapes and bends, and I review whether the one or the other can be deleted and then decide whether the collation is acceptable.
Waiting for - - - -
Thoughts on the state of - - - -
What are you waiting for?
An examination of the easily assumed support structure of the question - - - -
Waiting for the catastrophe that will make sense of everything, the everything that has happened and is recalled, that has happened before.
Some people give the distinct impression, from a distance (across airport carpets, within the tv as they read the script-prompter, insulated by their uniform either physical insignia or mental adherence to protocol) that they are monumentally pressed by their notion of existing on the tracery of the cliff drop. As if some original state of freefall has been arrested, they transmit a quality of vigilance from their globulous selves.
This is funny.
And then I write words I had not previously thought I had thought, and on topics that had not formed any intrarelevance in my mind, as though having decided to write and not finding myself bereft of words or intention once the page is opened before me, extraneous expressions seep in curlicues, improvisation, while the nut I place and replace upon the page, as the piece reshapes and bends, and I review whether the one or the other can be deleted and then decide whether the collation is acceptable.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
funniness
Wednesday the 15th of November, 2006
Much of the intentions employers have toward the members of their workforce who are guests in the country can accurately be summed up "to make benefit glorious nation of" ________.
Now, Borat is many things, one, not insignificant, illumination - the precision instrument to measure/ and the precision measurement of the contemporary, global pulse; and another, the device is a love letter to freedom.
In countries where repression is the norm, outsiders are engaged with in circumstances designed to extract usable information without reciprocating. Communication is essentially oneway, which is, do you agree, not communication? Stonewalling another human being isolates an inquirer with their thoughts. When you deny an exchange oxygen, it suffocates. This is repression.
In "Make Benefit of_____", all the disturbing, unquestioned, reinforced normalities that have been encouraged in the various localities, are shared openly. None of the segments of the populations bear any resemblence to the other ones more strikingly than in their attitudes to disclosure, inclusion, and confidence in their beliefs and behaviours.
It's good to be aware of what you would not like to be included in, and good to know what you are expected to do to be included. Some activities have an extracurricular scope that I hope you always have the choice to refuse.
But Borat never can say I love you in this way in this place. Because, a conceit such as saying "I want to be like you, show me how...." is too far advanced in being able to assume that the intruder is engaged with as an individual.
Much of the intentions employers have toward the members of their workforce who are guests in the country can accurately be summed up "to make benefit glorious nation of" ________.
Now, Borat is many things, one, not insignificant, illumination - the precision instrument to measure/ and the precision measurement of the contemporary, global pulse; and another, the device is a love letter to freedom.
In countries where repression is the norm, outsiders are engaged with in circumstances designed to extract usable information without reciprocating. Communication is essentially oneway, which is, do you agree, not communication? Stonewalling another human being isolates an inquirer with their thoughts. When you deny an exchange oxygen, it suffocates. This is repression.
In "Make Benefit of_____", all the disturbing, unquestioned, reinforced normalities that have been encouraged in the various localities, are shared openly. None of the segments of the populations bear any resemblence to the other ones more strikingly than in their attitudes to disclosure, inclusion, and confidence in their beliefs and behaviours.
It's good to be aware of what you would not like to be included in, and good to know what you are expected to do to be included. Some activities have an extracurricular scope that I hope you always have the choice to refuse.
But Borat never can say I love you in this way in this place. Because, a conceit such as saying "I want to be like you, show me how...." is too far advanced in being able to assume that the intruder is engaged with as an individual.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
eloquence in extempore
Thursday the 9th of November, 2006
When the dragon licks the sky, the tang of the sweetness of the time before, comes to rest, brought along down the arrow-tip of an illusory tail.
By having a love affair, you become prone to love affairs.
Being prone to love affairs, luck is what spikes your drinks hereafter.
And if you're lucky, you know when the dragon licks the sky.
You look up and memory and novelty make a blanket, an army, horse-hair, hardware of the care your life is wrapped in.
Be happy, you lucky, loved, living choicetwitch. Infinity from nought, a loquacity of significance.
When the dragon licks the sky, the tang of the sweetness of the time before, comes to rest, brought along down the arrow-tip of an illusory tail.
By having a love affair, you become prone to love affairs.
Being prone to love affairs, luck is what spikes your drinks hereafter.
And if you're lucky, you know when the dragon licks the sky.
You look up and memory and novelty make a blanket, an army, horse-hair, hardware of the care your life is wrapped in.
Be happy, you lucky, loved, living choicetwitch. Infinity from nought, a loquacity of significance.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
the town planners cough
Sunday the 29th of October, 2006
You saw the low white wall. The cloven tiles scattered on top and the glinting sun on the glazing.
What did you think of the green doors, emphatically chained, martial twins guarding the house? guarding the people. Keeping the people in or out. Keeping the out people out and the in people in.
Did you feel like you wanted to keep a step away from the twiglets on remand from the hedge? A step away and you can focus better, in the gaps, on the foliage beyond.
You just know that the gates are creaky in that place.
Entrances that are diminutive, the step in sunken so you don't catch your head. The earth is different here, it's ours, that's what that lets you know. The hours in here are ours, and bending to come though is the way to do it.
You saw the low white wall. The cloven tiles scattered on top and the glinting sun on the glazing.
What did you think of the green doors, emphatically chained, martial twins guarding the house? guarding the people. Keeping the people in or out. Keeping the out people out and the in people in.
Did you feel like you wanted to keep a step away from the twiglets on remand from the hedge? A step away and you can focus better, in the gaps, on the foliage beyond.
You just know that the gates are creaky in that place.
Entrances that are diminutive, the step in sunken so you don't catch your head. The earth is different here, it's ours, that's what that lets you know. The hours in here are ours, and bending to come though is the way to do it.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
So square, so solid. A cubic metre of explanation.
Saturday the 21st of October, 2006
We prefer the family.
First.
Over and above all.
Really.
And, just so you understand, the accepted rhetoric is better for all concerned in the circumstances.
Because it answers all the acceptable questions.
It is as it is.
It was better before.
Which is, but of course, why we carry on in the same spirit today.
With innovations, in which we specialize and excel, that promote the feeling of wellbeing that our custom has perfected and which was enjoyed and is documented by generations long before.
Oh to be warm, inert and wellfed.
Nurtured.
Group happiness, mass somnambulant activity, and a capricious, anxious titular head, to whom we can demonstrate obseqious gestures that, at times, can undermine or promote that individual while having no impact on the ceremonial value of the act, and to whom physical expression is easier than verbal to come by, and is the just response to all provocations of circumstance, for you can see and understand that unexpected violence is the constant.
We prefer the family.
First.
Over and above all.
Really.
And, just so you understand, the accepted rhetoric is better for all concerned in the circumstances.
Because it answers all the acceptable questions.
It is as it is.
It was better before.
Which is, but of course, why we carry on in the same spirit today.
With innovations, in which we specialize and excel, that promote the feeling of wellbeing that our custom has perfected and which was enjoyed and is documented by generations long before.
Oh to be warm, inert and wellfed.
Nurtured.
Group happiness, mass somnambulant activity, and a capricious, anxious titular head, to whom we can demonstrate obseqious gestures that, at times, can undermine or promote that individual while having no impact on the ceremonial value of the act, and to whom physical expression is easier than verbal to come by, and is the just response to all provocations of circumstance, for you can see and understand that unexpected violence is the constant.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
a richly veined passive aggressive bedrock
Monday the fourth of October, 2006
I saw a snake escape the afternoon, the other day. It crossed into the grass and morning closed with a flick of its tail.
People know their behaviour has crossed norms when they feel the urge to justify, and they seek the complicity of others when they couch their presentation in terms the other can understand. The victimhood of the ancestors has a ring to it, polyphanous. Where the narrator places the onus, to whom the narrator would have it befall the wound, the failure, the responsability or the shirking of it. Who is seen as the betrayer, the betrayed, the perpetrator. To whom were the consequences kind.
They were competitive.
He was struck by the competitiveness of individuals in the highly conformist society.
They didn't want to be most like the other, he thought.
They wanted to be most like the ideal societal unit; fulfilling the mosaic of categories
of age and position and image.
More like the ideal than the next person.
This conundrum had a force.
The almost murderous desire to surpass their peers, and the necessity of peer-group comparison,
parity and pressure.
It was a bedrock.
I live in a place where altruism is a non-idea. Where everybody's motives are suspect. Where acting in your own self-interest is the basso profundo. It makes for intense competition, and open jostling for power and resources. There is no pretence even at solidarity.
I make no comment as to whether there is a right or a wrong switch to this, only that it has been some time since I heard innocent laughter, and I miss it.
I miss knowing that someone is happy.
Below is some version of an assessment of a tradition. It has merits.
Competitve hospitality. Arms-length hospitality. Ostentatious hospitality. Arranging situations to leave the guest in a position of scrutiny, when scrutiny can only mean vulnerability. Hospitality as a glittering mirror, behind which moves the secret.
Hospitality as a concert of exclusion.
Another is to say take us as we are and we take you as you are. One says come in, the other keeps silent.
I saw a snake escape the afternoon, the other day. It crossed into the grass and morning closed with a flick of its tail.
People know their behaviour has crossed norms when they feel the urge to justify, and they seek the complicity of others when they couch their presentation in terms the other can understand. The victimhood of the ancestors has a ring to it, polyphanous. Where the narrator places the onus, to whom the narrator would have it befall the wound, the failure, the responsability or the shirking of it. Who is seen as the betrayer, the betrayed, the perpetrator. To whom were the consequences kind.
They were competitive.
He was struck by the competitiveness of individuals in the highly conformist society.
They didn't want to be most like the other, he thought.
They wanted to be most like the ideal societal unit; fulfilling the mosaic of categories
of age and position and image.
More like the ideal than the next person.
This conundrum had a force.
The almost murderous desire to surpass their peers, and the necessity of peer-group comparison,
parity and pressure.
It was a bedrock.
I live in a place where altruism is a non-idea. Where everybody's motives are suspect. Where acting in your own self-interest is the basso profundo. It makes for intense competition, and open jostling for power and resources. There is no pretence even at solidarity.
I make no comment as to whether there is a right or a wrong switch to this, only that it has been some time since I heard innocent laughter, and I miss it.
I miss knowing that someone is happy.
Below is some version of an assessment of a tradition. It has merits.
Competitve hospitality. Arms-length hospitality. Ostentatious hospitality. Arranging situations to leave the guest in a position of scrutiny, when scrutiny can only mean vulnerability. Hospitality as a glittering mirror, behind which moves the secret.
Hospitality as a concert of exclusion.
Another is to say take us as we are and we take you as you are. One says come in, the other keeps silent.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
fierce, winged cat
Sunday the first of October, 2006
He draws attention to the news interests, to the state of the world. He reverberates the myths. Enervates the thinking people. Abhors the shoddy veneration that is resurrected to the unconscionable hijinks of previous bands of brothers by historically-grouped and nationally-collective. Uneducted - to give it an apologetic, possibly useful in today's climate - or the descendents, those vesting their beneficence in the continuing hallowing of certain tilts of human relationships under the name of "tradition".
His subjects are not funny. His technique is comic. His command is inspired, deft, clinical.
A warrior holding a falcon on the back of a fierce winged cat.
If you can do nothing but laugh at the funny presentation, then pay for the laughs. The revenue will go to alleviate the conditions, in the long run. As the jokes, themselves, are not funny. At present, the stream will continue the research, production and performance of readjusting the main-frame of a population less-aware of their comparative relevance than they are of the diminishing effect of their marginality as exotic.
The roman alphabet is exotic in form but who cares what it says. Semiotically irrelevant.
Irreverently semiotic.
He draws attention to the news interests, to the state of the world. He reverberates the myths. Enervates the thinking people. Abhors the shoddy veneration that is resurrected to the unconscionable hijinks of previous bands of brothers by historically-grouped and nationally-collective. Uneducted - to give it an apologetic, possibly useful in today's climate - or the descendents, those vesting their beneficence in the continuing hallowing of certain tilts of human relationships under the name of "tradition".
His subjects are not funny. His technique is comic. His command is inspired, deft, clinical.
A warrior holding a falcon on the back of a fierce winged cat.
If you can do nothing but laugh at the funny presentation, then pay for the laughs. The revenue will go to alleviate the conditions, in the long run. As the jokes, themselves, are not funny. At present, the stream will continue the research, production and performance of readjusting the main-frame of a population less-aware of their comparative relevance than they are of the diminishing effect of their marginality as exotic.
The roman alphabet is exotic in form but who cares what it says. Semiotically irrelevant.
Irreverently semiotic.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
swaying in the breeze
Sunday, the 17th of September
A bird fell from the sky. Plop.
It was dead.
Its tail twitched, leg wiped, as the instructions from the neural cord concluded transmission.
At what moment, it was dead to the purposes of the world, its life was definitely at an end after it hit. Direct brain injury, beak turned sideways, undamaged. Bird with no wings on a long drop down. Was it a heart attack from above? A swift paralysis? A fit? A sudden loss of balance?
A deliberate death early in the day.
A day that this life was not intended to see.
Ah, you are taking the view that this state of affairs is informed by linear time. Well, if you believe that time is linear, or solely linear, such an assumption will preclude you from more than...
A bird fell from the sky. Plop.
It was dead.
Its tail twitched, leg wiped, as the instructions from the neural cord concluded transmission.
At what moment, it was dead to the purposes of the world, its life was definitely at an end after it hit. Direct brain injury, beak turned sideways, undamaged. Bird with no wings on a long drop down. Was it a heart attack from above? A swift paralysis? A fit? A sudden loss of balance?
A deliberate death early in the day.
A day that this life was not intended to see.
Ah, you are taking the view that this state of affairs is informed by linear time. Well, if you believe that time is linear, or solely linear, such an assumption will preclude you from more than...
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