The music grew louder and faster than ever before. The three musicians wrote and played in a dark ecstatic fury; they were acting out all of the pain and anguish, beauty and joy in the universe. Colours swirled, blended into darkness; and then they were gone.
Suddenly I noticed my gradual awareness of the musicians' absence. Yet, those who had surrounded them were left with their song as it's elegaic resonance echoed on. At first the people played the song of the musicians, but then they began to add their own songs to the song. They captured the music, it endured, it was frozen for a moment...
(This part of the dream has been omitted)
I wish that I could work this out; I wish that I had the courage to sing this song. The musicians never returned; the song endured only for a short time, but its lingering affect, a change in the air could be felt, something had changed in the process, but the people know not what. The people began to speak of themselves and their own songs. They forgot the melody and the harmony, focusing only on their single refrain. The song grew dim and crept into the darkness of a heart that could not understand its sounds and thereby come to believe that it was his song. The song was able to reside and survive in that humid and dark sanctuary; alive in the ignorance of its host.
It may just be bullshit, but it was the moment that I realised that truth was hidden, something to be dreamt, that I was able to appear as if I were playing the game well, appear intelligent. I am really more of a lazy dunce. I see through things rather, notice ripples in dark corners. I used to think that I was merely observant, but now see that it is that I have different eyes; I've seen my eyes now, they are strange. True joy comes to those who realise that they have eyes, yet then chose to close them, being more content in their imagination. To revel in blindness, complete ignorance. The world becomes more vibrant to me, more pronounced hues of colour caused by the impending darkness. To see this beauty one must see and dwell on the absolute transience of everything. Everything is forever breaking down (or up?) into oblivion, but once it reaches its end it will have become everything again and thereby repeat the process. The spirals continually become larger and smaller?
(This was all a dream)
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Clarvoyance
I try to run, outrun this flood, this torrential river, pursuing me, engulfing me, drowning me- Life! I claw myself out, make progress, see ahead- clarvoyance.
To do this I must decend to the depths, so that I can run on a solid surface. To elevate myself I must fall; I must drown to escape the crushing waters.
And I see, that glimmer, that shining hope beyond the myst and darkness, that something beyond the infinite which is our inner illumination. That is my sight.
Then, a gust from behind; I feel it coming before it hits, an echo of pain, a feeling that something dreadful is coming, like that static feeling before lightning, like contractions before a birth. I know that reality is about to take my feet from under me, undermine my progress. The river catches up. Did I slow down, did my sense of dread at the impending river cause me to falter, or did the river just gain speed? I am undone. I am again swamped in its confusion, mundanity, animalistic frivolity- meaninglessness. I have to start all over again, I must find my feet again and ramble on.
To do this I must decend to the depths, so that I can run on a solid surface. To elevate myself I must fall; I must drown to escape the crushing waters.
And so I escape to dark abstraction, a time of complete oblivion, but once I have passed through this night, a night more confusing than even the meaningless river, then I can move on once again. In the time that it takes me to decend life has moved on without me, I gain nothing, no understanding because the river is crippling my every attempt at peace and unity. I am caught in a perpetual cycle, futility. No matter how I struggle I can go nowhere. Perhaps I would do better to take the opposite, yet equally obstinantly defiant stance in refusing to join the river. What would happen if I were to decend and then plant my feet; let the river pass me by entirely. Could I stand long enough while the glacier melts, while a world of water flows past me? Perhaps I am not drowning thoroughly enough! So I have two choices:
I can remain in my cycle of defeat in which I try to outrun the river, or I can lie on the river bed and let the water move on while I dream of someday reaching that inner illumination, the light at the end of the tunnel which is actually myself...
To do this I must decend to the depths, so that I can run on a solid surface. To elevate myself I must fall; I must drown to escape the crushing waters.
And I see, that glimmer, that shining hope beyond the myst and darkness, that something beyond the infinite which is our inner illumination. That is my sight.
Then, a gust from behind; I feel it coming before it hits, an echo of pain, a feeling that something dreadful is coming, like that static feeling before lightning, like contractions before a birth. I know that reality is about to take my feet from under me, undermine my progress. The river catches up. Did I slow down, did my sense of dread at the impending river cause me to falter, or did the river just gain speed? I am undone. I am again swamped in its confusion, mundanity, animalistic frivolity- meaninglessness. I have to start all over again, I must find my feet again and ramble on.
To do this I must decend to the depths, so that I can run on a solid surface. To elevate myself I must fall; I must drown to escape the crushing waters.
And so I escape to dark abstraction, a time of complete oblivion, but once I have passed through this night, a night more confusing than even the meaningless river, then I can move on once again. In the time that it takes me to decend life has moved on without me, I gain nothing, no understanding because the river is crippling my every attempt at peace and unity. I am caught in a perpetual cycle, futility. No matter how I struggle I can go nowhere. Perhaps I would do better to take the opposite, yet equally obstinantly defiant stance in refusing to join the river. What would happen if I were to decend and then plant my feet; let the river pass me by entirely. Could I stand long enough while the glacier melts, while a world of water flows past me? Perhaps I am not drowning thoroughly enough! So I have two choices:
I can remain in my cycle of defeat in which I try to outrun the river, or I can lie on the river bed and let the water move on while I dream of someday reaching that inner illumination, the light at the end of the tunnel which is actually myself...
Anchoured
I've been languishing here where I sit, this grim repose, wasting time.
Pretending to wait, false anticipation for something that doesn't exist.
I lie about understanding, fooling myself into believing that I am standing under something.
under what?
life?
perhaps I am above it?
born dead, waiting to live, maybe once I've died?
So I fill my time with trivialities, leisure, luxury- destractions from boredom-
the alternative being industrious labour- which I revile.
It dawned on me today that I was not in my body yesterday, and have just recently returned.
I am a captive once again to this listless ship-
suffering in the dulldrums of mortal existence-
unable to raise anchour-
smiling gashes in my sails-
longing for a rough stong breeze-
to blow into me, through me, beyond me, to carry me away.
If I could but laugh about this more often than I weep, then I would have the answer,
but my lungs have been weak of late, and I cannot allow the first peal of laughter to ring from this cold stone monastery...
Pretending to wait, false anticipation for something that doesn't exist.
I lie about understanding, fooling myself into believing that I am standing under something.
under what?
life?
perhaps I am above it?
born dead, waiting to live, maybe once I've died?
So I fill my time with trivialities, leisure, luxury- destractions from boredom-
the alternative being industrious labour- which I revile.
It dawned on me today that I was not in my body yesterday, and have just recently returned.
I am a captive once again to this listless ship-
suffering in the dulldrums of mortal existence-
unable to raise anchour-
smiling gashes in my sails-
longing for a rough stong breeze-
to blow into me, through me, beyond me, to carry me away.
If I could but laugh about this more often than I weep, then I would have the answer,
but my lungs have been weak of late, and I cannot allow the first peal of laughter to ring from this cold stone monastery...
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Force
There's nothin' left to writ; it's all bin rot - ten away for so long that it would be scratchin' a stick in the dirt to make shapes of this shit.
Words count pecious little,
in the process of change, history.
Brute force continues to play,
the role of the dominatrix.
Thoughts count for even less,
vanishing even while they form.
Even if the pen be mightier than the sword,
and people remember words longer,
still...
a sword's a sword,
and a pen is just a stick full of ink,
and a thought,
unarticulated
is nothing...
Words count pecious little,
in the process of change, history.
Brute force continues to play,
the role of the dominatrix.
Thoughts count for even less,
vanishing even while they form.
Even if the pen be mightier than the sword,
and people remember words longer,
still...
a sword's a sword,
and a pen is just a stick full of ink,
and a thought,
unarticulated
is nothing...
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Voices
What does my reading voice sound like? I have many voices that mimic out the world around me, yet this internalized voice facinates me more than any. I remember the day that I learned to read " in my head"; I just chose to switch worlds. Perhaps it is its similarity to my dream voice, that voice which I am barely able to hear, mostly in muffled sputters, that makes it so desirable to me. It is a comforting voice, a deep voice, yet higher, somewhere out in the world of the text. It has traveled through the words of the writer, to his life, and then back to me, through my life. I si a sort of interface; perhaps then it is not "mine" at all. Perhaps it is an autonomous spirit, a guide who comes to me when I wish to understand another being. A spirit of empathy; MY spirit of empathy. A sprite, a ghost, a geist, a spirit of me- could it be my soul? Maybe it is me and I am an outside observer? The outer eye, beholding my inner me as it travels to other places, through the words of others. Maybe it is this outer eye of never gets high or even drunk, this "rational" being which eludes external affectation. Perhaps I have been approaching real experience, but I have never realized who I am yet? I have been looking at the wrong me! I am the elusive one; this spectator, who is even writing this, the one who is writing this is not me, it is a journalist of my being- an observer of genuine life- it is my spirit- just as real- but not as potently ME- as I AM- the ONE that can be in communion- unity...I am a coward...I cannot finish this thought, maybe I will someday...
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Acceleration
Fools with their sprinklers- I can feel the impending storm deep within my bones.
They can wash their cars- I can see the black clouds forming.
(tell me, do clouds no longer contain pictures, or have my eyes grown blurry)
They sit in their houses- the climate remains uncontrolled.
I hear the rolling thunder- they hear only the television.
I can feel the crackle in the air, I see the lightning stike
hot as the sun- perhaps?
as brief as joy- certainly!
The rain begins to fall, first in a dry sputter,
then it pours,
heaven opened up,
my downgoing,
is my exhaltation!
I can feel the storm, taste its power,
smell its lingering scent- O-zone?
I stand enraptured,
in its overwhelming strength.
I am in the storm, and it is me.
Together we will roll along the sky,
I- accelerated by its rampant degeneration- the storm killing itself,
raw power being acted out in an exquisite dance of-
light, sound, smell, taste and texture.
They can wash their cars- I can see the black clouds forming.
(tell me, do clouds no longer contain pictures, or have my eyes grown blurry)
They sit in their houses- the climate remains uncontrolled.
I hear the rolling thunder- they hear only the television.
I can feel the crackle in the air, I see the lightning stike
hot as the sun- perhaps?
as brief as joy- certainly!
The rain begins to fall, first in a dry sputter,
then it pours,
heaven opened up,
my downgoing,
is my exhaltation!
I can feel the storm, taste its power,
smell its lingering scent- O-zone?
I stand enraptured,
in its overwhelming strength.
I am in the storm, and it is me.
Together we will roll along the sky,
I- accelerated by its rampant degeneration- the storm killing itself,
raw power being acted out in an exquisite dance of-
light, sound, smell, taste and texture.
Within Cynicism's Grip
On the very edge of substance
near humanity
miles away from awe
stands the dull conversation
of those who do not see at all.
If I were a swine
I'd grunt with the rest
I'd swill in my slop
and roll in the muck
then I would truly know
what happiness is!
near humanity
miles away from awe
stands the dull conversation
of those who do not see at all.
If I were a swine
I'd grunt with the rest
I'd swill in my slop
and roll in the muck
then I would truly know
what happiness is!
Monday, June 04, 2007
Namaste
It is impossible to see the dusk. It is an equivocal state of luminocity, in between day and night. As a child I would sit in a field and wait to capture a glimpse of the dusk. I was attempting to pinpoint the single instance, the flash, however brief, in which light turned into dark. When the restless illumination calmed to a peaceful and soft darkness. But, I could never find it. Try as I might my mind and eyes would either see day or night and then if I sat for too long then night would overwhelm, I would miss the dusk, the chance of finding the elusive, the chance to see the equivocal transition in which knowledge becomes understanding.
As I sat in the field people would walk past me. Some didn't give me a second thought; others were interested as to why I would sit in a field staring at "nothing"(nothing = not tv etc). I would tell my task to those who asked me, some laughed and walked away, others came and sat beside me. Some of those who stayed would claim to have seen the dusk and then leave, a select few would sit in longing frustration along with me. I have always been thankful for those who would sit and stare with me. It was more important that they be there than I knew at the time.
I think though, that I have seen the dusk now. I did not pinpoint it, it is not a flash, it is a becoming. In order to find the dusk I slowed myself down and stretched myself out. This can only be done by looking forwards and back and examining the process, the transition, the dialiectic, the image, art, an utterance of sight, of genuine experience. In the flashes of ecstatic sunlight and smooth dark understanding we see, but we cannot see the transition, the point where THAT WHICH IS, becomes real, when oblivion becomes eternity, in us, the fragmented pieces, the lens which gives existence to the luminescent/infinite infinity of spirals. In this drawn out moment, there is only holy laughter, intense laughter that is also weeping, pain and loss at having gained everything.
If only I could learn to reside in those drawnout moments of dusk, to experience the rending joy of equivocal/internally illuminated existence! To experience the connections of everything! Oh, it is certainly a good thing to sit with another, to share that moment, to be suspended together, twisted, inextricable linked in reality.
To sit in a field in the blazing hot sun- to be filled, dried and made incoherent and pregnant by knowledge.
To remain in the field while the elusive dusk passes by undetected- knowledge transforming into understanding.
To remain in that now-dark field, the stars and moon above, darkness enveloping life, a sea of contentment, a deep understanding, yet longing, a restless stirring, more satisfying than satisfaction, glutted appetitive satisfaction.
To pass through these three stages, especially with another person, that is hiros gamos, holy union with ALL THAT WHICH IS. This is what gives being to the infinite spirals of infinity. This is how the flint strikes the tinder. If we can reside with another within this process of becoming we can see and experience our role in creating, in being, in the infinite. WE ARE!
As I sat in the field people would walk past me. Some didn't give me a second thought; others were interested as to why I would sit in a field staring at "nothing"(nothing = not tv etc). I would tell my task to those who asked me, some laughed and walked away, others came and sat beside me. Some of those who stayed would claim to have seen the dusk and then leave, a select few would sit in longing frustration along with me. I have always been thankful for those who would sit and stare with me. It was more important that they be there than I knew at the time.
I think though, that I have seen the dusk now. I did not pinpoint it, it is not a flash, it is a becoming. In order to find the dusk I slowed myself down and stretched myself out. This can only be done by looking forwards and back and examining the process, the transition, the dialiectic, the image, art, an utterance of sight, of genuine experience. In the flashes of ecstatic sunlight and smooth dark understanding we see, but we cannot see the transition, the point where THAT WHICH IS, becomes real, when oblivion becomes eternity, in us, the fragmented pieces, the lens which gives existence to the luminescent/infinite infinity of spirals. In this drawn out moment, there is only holy laughter, intense laughter that is also weeping, pain and loss at having gained everything.
If only I could learn to reside in those drawnout moments of dusk, to experience the rending joy of equivocal/internally illuminated existence! To experience the connections of everything! Oh, it is certainly a good thing to sit with another, to share that moment, to be suspended together, twisted, inextricable linked in reality.
To sit in a field in the blazing hot sun- to be filled, dried and made incoherent and pregnant by knowledge.
To remain in the field while the elusive dusk passes by undetected- knowledge transforming into understanding.
To remain in that now-dark field, the stars and moon above, darkness enveloping life, a sea of contentment, a deep understanding, yet longing, a restless stirring, more satisfying than satisfaction, glutted appetitive satisfaction.
To pass through these three stages, especially with another person, that is hiros gamos, holy union with ALL THAT WHICH IS. This is what gives being to the infinite spirals of infinity. This is how the flint strikes the tinder. If we can reside with another within this process of becoming we can see and experience our role in creating, in being, in the infinite. WE ARE!
Saturday, June 02, 2007
slip't away
I am looking for a language,
not taught to me,
not adopted by me.
I need a language,
but they all seem to slip away.
If I could outshout myself; silence the chorus of other voices muddying the stream; I'd truly be able to communicate clearly. It may be brilliant and interesting to refer to a thousand different things at once, but for real coherent image to form with language it must be honed to a needle-point. Those of many voices shall touch many faintly, but none intensely.
I have never been able to ignore my surroundings, yet at the same time I am completely oblivious of them. I am jarred out of contemplation by countless distractions, yet they are the only things which stop me from disappearing into the air. I am caught, in a limbo, called life. I need to be born, I need to die, I need to do both at the same time. Perhaps my quest to be a master of language is impeding me, perhaps I must let go of my need for communication.
Is not the greatest wisdom to sit in the wild repose of understanding, touching the air, tasting the sun, hearing the colours, smelling the grass and seeing all of it at the same time? I'm going to slip away quietly, but my body might continue to go through the routines of life. This is my down-going...
not taught to me,
not adopted by me.
I need a language,
but they all seem to slip away.
If I could outshout myself; silence the chorus of other voices muddying the stream; I'd truly be able to communicate clearly. It may be brilliant and interesting to refer to a thousand different things at once, but for real coherent image to form with language it must be honed to a needle-point. Those of many voices shall touch many faintly, but none intensely.
I have never been able to ignore my surroundings, yet at the same time I am completely oblivious of them. I am jarred out of contemplation by countless distractions, yet they are the only things which stop me from disappearing into the air. I am caught, in a limbo, called life. I need to be born, I need to die, I need to do both at the same time. Perhaps my quest to be a master of language is impeding me, perhaps I must let go of my need for communication.
Is not the greatest wisdom to sit in the wild repose of understanding, touching the air, tasting the sun, hearing the colours, smelling the grass and seeing all of it at the same time? I'm going to slip away quietly, but my body might continue to go through the routines of life. This is my down-going...
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