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Nov. 9th, 2005 @ 09:34 pm
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this was written on a white screen with black coffee.
a strong cigarette and weak limbs, yielding to creative urges,
hung loosely around a tightly-strung frame.
loud music, made of pops hisses tones waves sweeps;
a quiet reserve with a sharp focus
and a softly spoken but direct and determined course.
i need my blank page, to remind me that there is space to grow.
i need my blank page, to remind me that there is space to grow.
to believe the right lies, select our symbols,
crafting our very personal covering,
and bringing the mesh down over our heads
and wearing it,
until it becomes a part of our being,
the intersections of fabric moving with our joints and contours,
the strands aligning in the right way,
until we forget we are even wearing it. |
there are never enough words to use, and too many singularities to describe.
dividing our two halves like a physical blow, there is line down the center,
slowly dripping it's unseen but decipherable proof, a race to the floor, or bottom, or top;
yet even if there is one, our silent companion shows no signs of acknowledgement-
our future its own goal, pure and undaunted.
through all the streets and canals of our nervous system runs movement's syrupy task,
pilot and foreman from behind the lines. each decision and impulse plays out through
her mind, although most times we say "it is I who is in command."
and sometimes we stop to ponder this faint voice in our every doing,
both unsure and fully self-immersed, wading knee-deep in the waters of causality,
and feeling ambiguity's most sacred power first hand- wavering between yes and no,
weaving and playfully running between our two selves, loving every minute.
thorned hedges catch our sleeves and we keep going, tearing at ourselves
just a little bit, sharing our pain and moving it about, peering into our own workings.
this fragile state we are in, nerves on end amidst connections,
flowing through liquid and static clinging to surface-
wavering opinions and unsure movements- notions glued to the door
in a last ditch effort to save our pride, our image.
walking contradictions, we are all headed to the sun under a full moon's gravity.
it takes her invoking pull to make sense of our own star-searching binds-
tugging at our chains and rooting into the soil of our predicament,
we struggle to find an end, to make amends with this euphoric map of human action.
to begin again whole and unbothered.
and sometimes her power becomes too much, takes hold of certain parts of our playground;
our skies grow dark and within our lego-castles we decide a single piece is no longer true,
or justified, or attractive. we decide that a part of us has become undesirable-
and the castle has to be destroyed:
scrapped for newer and more glorious inventions; a new sculpture in the front,
a better sense of humor in the back, move the shadows out of the closet and
into a tightly-locked trunk in the attic. a silver-laden facelift, more sunny days
to fill our memories, manufactured and pimped. some improvements are seen
with scrutiny, and some we again decide are not allowed, not right in our homes.
and some we realize have special significance, can't place a finger on it,
but some things just clicked with us, and we use them more, and learn more of them,
and they become a bigger part of us, but even some of those are discarded,
after sitting on the coffee table, a conversation piece proudly displayed, it loses its charm.
a few friends make comments and then next week its gone, vanished and erased
like a drunken nights flirtation.
and still throughout our months of heartaches and years of indecision and decades of slow progress,
she is there, our invisible self, hiding beneath it all, reworking our lines, connecting our actions and threading
each new thing we adopt into our perception, our history, into the fabric of what we still insist is some thing we call Me.
she is singing our songs for us, in conversation, words in the air momentarily like a frantic and hungry kiss,
inflated and manipulated and vivid as hallucination, within two minds for an instant, then compounding and interacting, all unseen,
until a mutual understanding is reached. at least we assume it's mutual. or we assume that it's reached.
she is writing our stories, reading our lines, paying our rent and coloring our pages. the things we call ours,
just more of her symbols, written in our hand, on our walls and bedsheets, refrigerator doors and window shades,
we are obsessed with our own stories, it is a writer's obligation. because if we are not living in our art,
our art is not our own, and will not be able to move anyone else. she is the one that makes us want to share.
our fragments thrown as if from our pockets, remain secret until the momentous joy of sharing, and right then,
its not a choice. bashful and ambitious, animalistic and frail, our moments of fright and sterility and shame
are when we are farthest from her, and our moments of passion and ecstacy and self-confidence
are when we are most at rest within her arms.
reaching in the dark for another's hand we stumble through vulnerability, a weakness worn on the sleeve.
throwing ourselves to hope like a token, towards some faith in disclosure, a happily blind confidence in assuredness,
only to find it in a false sense of truth we have been so carefully crafting for ourselves all this time,
adding up not to a triumphant completion, but the next trial's unmoving stare looming ahead.
in the mirrors of question we try to find ourselves, revealing yet another layer of complication
beneath our worn faces and fronts- trophies pieced together from our pains and previous epiphanies
to hang from the neck as charms of resilience. and when we're good, we feel like god.
and we stop to embrace ourselves in pride, but our driver without a name is the one we should thank.MUSIC!!!: tosca tango - waking life s.t. |
At this point I begin to feel a certain sympathy for the
most nefarious of all skeptics, the infamous Max Stirner.
Whatever else he proves or fails to prove in the long, turgid,
sometimes brilliant, sometimes silly text of The Ego and His
Own, Stirner at least posed a very interesting challenge in
asking how much disguised metaphysics appears in philosophers who
avoid being explicitly metaphysical. As I have said, "God told me
to tell you not to put a rubber on your willy" might be a Natural
Law, if such a "god" exists and is not just a hallucination of
some kooky celibates, but "My study of the sociological
consequences of individual acts demonstrates that you should not
put a rubber on your willy" looks, on the face of it, like a
theory, a hypothesis, a matter for debate, maybe even an opinion
or a prejudice - one has learned to suspect such "sociology" -
and it's hard to avoid the Stirnerite suspicion that calling it,
or ideas like it, Natural Law may represent only an attempt,
conscious or unconscious, to elevate a theory or hypothesis or
opinion or prejudice to some metaphysical level where nobody
will dare criticize it, or even think about it.
Here I recall a familiar ritual: the ventriloquist and his
dummy. The dummy seems to talk, but we know that the
ventriloquist is doing the talking for him. It is amusing to note
that many humans achieve a certain dignity or authority (at least
in their own minds, and sometimes in the minds of the gullible)
by pretending to be something akin to such dummies. The judge,
for instance, acts and behaves to give the impression, "It is not
I who speak here; it is the Law speaking through me." The priest
similarly claims that it is not he who speaks but "god" who
speaks through him. Marxists have become very clever at such
dummy-logic and seem often to believe genuinely that they do not
act themselves but only serve as vehicles through which History
acts. Of course, such dummy metaphysics is often very comforting,
especially if you have to do something disagreeable or revolting
to common human feelings: it must be a great relief to say that
it is not your choice but God or History or Natural Law working
through you.
Thus, Natural Law seems like a spook in Stirner's sense, a
disguised metaphysics in which people can claim they are not
rationalizing personal prejudice or doing what they want but are
only dummies through which the Great God Natural Law is speaking
and acting.
"I want it this way" - "I prefer it this way" - "I damned
well insist on having it this way" - all these appear to me as
normal human (or mammalian) reflexes, but we have been
brainwashed for centuries with the idea that we have no right to
want what we want. Even if we rebel against that masochistic
Judeo-Christian heritage, it does not seem wise or politic to
admit that we want what we want. It seems more impressive and a
lot more polite to do the dummy act. It is not that I want what I
want, we then say; rather it is that God or History or Natural
Law or some other abstraction demands that you give me what I
want, or at least get out of my way while I go after it.
Politics, as I now see it, consists of normal human and
mammalian demands disguised and artificially rationalized by
pseudo-philosophy (Ideology). The disguise and rationalization
always seems insincere when the other guys do it, but, due to
self-hypnosis, becomes hallucinatorily "real" when one's own gang
does it. I think at this stage of history, the disguise has
become obsolete and counterproductive. Make your demands
explicit (and leave out Natural Law and all Ideal Platonic
Horseshit), and then you and the other guy can negotiate
meaningfully. As long as both sides are talking metaphysics, each
is convinced the other are hypocrites or "damned eejits."
-Robert Anton Wilson, Natural Law, or Don't Put a Rubber on Your Willytoday is: umm MUSIC!!!: caffeine-brain |
"Shut up," he explained.
The persuasiveness of such "explanations" can be considerable, especially if they are delivered in a loud voice and accompanied by a threatening gesture with a baseball bat. In [R.]'s article, however, they are accompanied only by the literary equivalent of such noise and threat, i.e., by what semanticists call "snarl words"; words which express mammalian rage but do not contain information. It seems part of our glorious primate heritage that such noise and threat is often mistaken for argument, even though it should more properly be called quarrel.
Politicians, advertisers and, above all, the rev. clergy have been very industrious in spreading the notion that there is no difference between noise and information and that the loud noise is itself informative. It is no surprise, in this mammalian context, that [R.] actually includes in his piece the helpful suggestion that the appropriate response to certain annoying questions is to hit the questioner with a chair.
As I say, I do not deny the vigor of such rhetoric, but I find it lacking in intellectual coherence. I do discern a kind of a trace of an adumbration of a hint of an argument in the midst of [R.]'s territorial howls, but I cannot be perfectly sure I have grasped it, since the noise of [R.]'s rage tends to drown out the content of whatever he is trying to say.
-Robert Anton Wilson, Natural Law, or Don't Put a Rubber on Your Willy
-------------------------------
assembling under free signs
the thoughts get construed and erect their own designs
with pattern recognition subconscious reminds
our numbers again have been reassigned-
turned over around and a new thing is shown
to issue a demand that rises alone
seperate truth from will and what do we have?
any decision that's made to replace what's been said
each side of any agreement will always differ.
to take disagreement in stride is to agree with
the one-collective yearn for pride-
within, without, know thyself and then
if its ugly head has been raised, thy judgement spend
under the highest of scrutiny.
for thy judgement is a hallucination,
and if it must be enforced, you better be sure
of what the hell you're hallucinating for.
-------------------------------
Truth! Truth! Truth! crieth the Lord of the Abyss of Hallucinations
-Aliester Crowley, The Book of Lies |
both we must be in the right
but neither of us are
the only reason that we fight
is to avoid the truth at core
communication is a key
to all strife within our paths
because so much relies on language
but the words collide and clash
one of us is all of us
seperation is just a word
and for one to fight itself
as an idea is just absurd. |
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once when we held time in our hands- a certain place of familiarity- there were birds singing in the air and terrible things around the corner still-
once when there was still space for the things we forget- when time stood where it should and our faces would show the holidays of the month-
yesterday i remember tomorrow- tomorrow we saw what went wrong last week- next month we won't have time for today- this cycle is moving faster and when i look at you i realize we may not be able to catch up to ourselves again.
did you make it to work on time? was the sun shining this morning? can we remember what the sun means? what it REALLY means? where did the answers go to yesterday's questions? and when we ask them they are not as important- as the words coming out of the experts' mouths?
i know alterations must be made but i seem to have lost the plans- still the creeping sensation that we have been here before, having this conversation- i have lived through to the end and i still know not where to move next- our patterns are crossing at a higher frequency, the crescendo of our busy lives culminating through the notes, improvised-
if time is running out, where is it running to?
be a volunteer.
the glasses donned. mists and shrouds lifted by the magic words- abra-cadaver, remember the light at the end at the beginning we are still moving in the middle and in question- no confusion- no space to move but we have everywhere to go.
today is: dunn brothers www.lunch break! MUSIC!!!: radiohead - amnesiac |
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Aug. 31st, 2005 @ 11:47 am
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residue and debris settle down into a pile,
between the cracks we find scents of memories
and tales of imagination.
the children we never made,
chosen out of steel or clay,
the molds broken in half just right,
a new life steps out in the light.
but now all our dreams are gone,
manifest in plastic, wood and stone.
washing down the river made
to remind us of our fragile state.
yesterday everything was fine
we awoke abrupt to a panicked mind
and somehow a familiar sense
the anticipation of our one last chance.
air-time or water, take your pick
both we take, or like to think
for any found noun, we must contest
and own and name, there's nothing left
but names and thoughts, blindly attached
haphazardly snatched, and consumed for sight
and in the end, our possesions fight
against the daylight struggle towards freedom night. |
in a red case sat indecision, her hands trembling above the latch
burning core sat in the bowl, smoke curling above the table
"there are worse places than this, but there's no need to be repremanded"
mantras in the head repeat, to enable this solitary regimen
once an hour the chime would ring, ticks building in the muscles
"comfort is a selfish issue, but there's no need to be self-conscious"
relaxation would require intuition, concentration and patience
but within these trials solace was also found.
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anger is derived from guilt.
guilt is derived from love.
love is derived from weakness.
weakness derived from progress.
progress a sign of knowledge.
and knowledge is the key to unlocking all puzzles.
anger is a crutch for the weak.
anger towards self the weakest of all.
for the only reason to be angry
would be realization of one's own faults.
knowledge of weakness is progress towards love.
and love is the antithesis of guilt and anger.
we are love. we are the antithesis of guilt and anger.
realize your self. become one with love.
do what comes naturally, and let everyone else do the same.
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there was nothing left now but null
one sided-cube sat in the muck
future-horizon stuck up above
the ceiling sagged, collapsed under love
figures dancing blazing simple
triggers greasy, yelling for help
limping towards health, breaking in faith
and the shots in the head, heading inside-out
take my choice? leave your answers?
a choice can be cancelled by taking at random
"tell me which way and i'll follow the leader"
with a dirty filter, now can not be clearer.
something in center whispered instructions
tainted and blotting, weakening construction,
deliberately faulted, crying in the corner
the robot sat leaking currents in coitus
who set you this task? a father figure?
the head of the mass knows not our pains
the heart underneath leaves soothing remains
yet still we falter, grabbing what comes
in such a hurry, fleeing in glum glee-
and happily accept second hand-dreams
one more door, and then we're home
one more decision, and decision is gone
make the right answer, the future at stake
a hallucination of time, the past will create
what you are using, is not really your own
where you sleep at night, can't be your home
flying through nightmares,
or drifting in daydream
we sit grinding powder, wishing for cream. |
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Aug. 1st, 2005 @ 11:41 am
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"only G-O-D could be a king to me
and if the G-O-D be in me, then the king I be"
-Run-D.M.C. |
sliding a fleeting fear away from the face,
outside this personal space lay all else,
and the thought of reality was overwhelming
this simple moment contained in bed.
the more concrete a decision, the less
it seemed likely to create the right effects.
where was the certainty life used to bring so easily?
was it ever there?
the peaks and valleys of emotional triumph:
so sweet and sad, like an old hymn first discovered
in naieve (a)gnosticism.
and when does an inkling grow into a fully formed preference.
and how did i ever come to decide the person that i am.
and where does this twisting stream of time and energy find me.
and we do decide every moment of our beings,
and the seconds flee along with the feeling,
for their very idea lies deep within our own indecisions.
and once i decide who i am,
i decide to stop growing into something True.
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Jul. 12th, 2005 @ 12:28 pm
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here i sit front and center,
gravel or concrete; dirt or broken grass;
my concentric rings influence all others.
a map engraved into a soul,
so naieve and capable, we slowly unlearn our rules-
and the lines rearrange.
and so yearning for success and
near hopeless for an end
we draw and redraw our guides
although sometimes it appears
to be written in anothers hand..
Guessing Game.
to find our Owner's true intent,
we had to run away in adolescence.
it takes a certain strength
to go back on a promise made as a child.
but Mother always forgives,
always lets us back into her Home with open arms.
a shade of Green blown over the eyes,
a brief conversation just as lost as we are.
"its too bad isn't it?"
"nothing can be too much of anything."
"but didnt you see, there wont be any more chances!"
"in order to have a last chance, you must have started at a first try. the universe has been trying long before i got here."
there is a certain order to our loneliness,
and if we look in to the right place,
we find that our joys and pains are practically inseperable. |
one fiery night i lost the will to be something else-
a soft light tugging at tradition
lost out of focus until we were all in the spotlight,
bruises and all.
the lines between you and i,
they are tools, not proofs.
rolling over in the grass,
i let out a sigh
and a whirlwind of stars spelled my destiny,
simple and plain.
i realized that my goals had changed;
i no longer dreamed of success and stability.
the shining light at the end of my course
was now beyond words.
this feeling in my limbs,
pulling and pushing at once,
from each and every direction so that
it seemed to cancel itself out
and leave a heavenly vibration that
connected me to everything else in the forest.
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let me wash the sins from my body and mind
wipe clean the dirt from mine hands and eyes
let my vision be cleared and my path concise
I see not truthfully what I do and what I have done
my kneeling in the fresh soil of my desires has muddied my task.
this Holy Truth turns to another facade,
a dirty trick I play on myself.
only in fleeting moments outside of thought and explanation
does my soul rest in its rightful place
every attempt to fuse myself to this feeling
results in a harsh awakening-
if only could I sleep eternal within this guise-
forever be in that sweet resting, organic and divine;
my path is to that place and I will remain unsatisfied
until I am able to call at Will its face and knowledge
into every Question of Belief and Happiness.
if this is an unattainable goal then I must realize
in the most Tangible way as possible.
I must learn the Hard Way any Way about it-
there are no shortcuts.
the most difficult obstruction in my Way is the idea of Division itself.
an Illusion.
the only thing in my way of understanding totally
is an imaginary block to a made-up ideal.
I am beginning to suspect that I am entirely in the wrong
and I should give up now and just be.
("there wouldn't be a problem if you didn't care" -eyedea) |
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packet of the fall/stop between direction and dearly sleep in sections-/right through feeling, rested in dream passages/empty spaces turned inside out/rhythms in memories/memories of truths/winter wishes became funeral fires/and then the order-/ambivalence a sleep like numbers gleaming in fires/nothing shaking colliding into time/silver traveller speaking in each candlelit existence/my journey built for its home/through distance and through time/towers built for the eye topple/mouths and minds couldn't covet the moon/so she turned inside minds/and became mouths/now, rhythms gently/speaking in bones and corners/her love on my side/palms weave between crystal hands/melody pass through the line/cut/sections and burst/and like seed/spread out of grey socket./ |
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recury's journal
