excellence of quiet being

Tuesday the 13th of March, 2007

I met someone. And my life is suspended. Time apart hung from time together. When we’re together it’s solid.
I see fragments of anatomy. A tableau of poses. Truncated images. All of it is too much too take in.
I cannot remember what they look like.
I have run on the way to an assignation. I smile and think “nothing matters” and it seems like the most optimistic phrase ever. I think surprises and it’s not yet May, when my inspiration is upcoming.

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.

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.

At times I feel like a witness to the trials of those in a routine and indignity that each urban morning wakes them up to. And what use am I?

Monday the third of July, 2006

I could be otherwise engaged.
As if I should be doing something else.
With the time. With my skills.
To my potential.
As per instructions. For a higher cause. In case I was mistaken. If my efforts were futile.
If my efforts were inconsequential because I had missed, misinterpreted or forgone the pertinent signals.
A fear that by every step I invalidated myself
- rephrase –
A possibility entertained in all spheres of my activity that I invalidated the conditions upon which I was understood previously.
As if I was consigned to make and remake the doorway through which I entered to start my whole life.
As if my life was excluded – by my own actions, my own lack of a grasp, a tentative grasp, on the codes of relevance – from wholeness.
As if I raked into a farfelu semblance, the approach to wholeness.

Then I think, grow up, this is where you are and you’re enjoying the rich stability
the stimulus
the opportunity
the perpetuum mobile
of this era.

And part of me wonders how long to give it, or to pick up and move on.
But what it am I thinking of?
There is no it, except the wonderful, opportune opportunity that happens in the course of my travels, where I’m supposed to be absorbed in immersion and discovery.

It’s a stay/go consideration.
And dealing with the things I find.
Dealing with what’s there when it’s there.

exhale exalting

Wednesday the 10th of May, 2006

for freedom
for the desire to accept the moment
for the voices of all those who are most dear to me
reinvigorating my spirits, making me laugh, lights among lights
for the opportunities taken to add to the good when others ask
for the stillness
for faith
for constant flux
for not understanding
for stopping
for the long days at sea, when you feel inutile, and the period interminable, that once on land you long for as the time when you were engaged, and useful and effective
for discernment and scorn when it comes to “make work”
for giving myself dignity and extending my understanding of vulnerablity to the point of view of others
for taking it easy
for laughing

Supplying your own demands

Thursday January 19th, 2006

Sometimes I love taste so much, it occurs to me that it might be the one thing I live for. Or the one thing I know to declare so. The reaction that my system has to the essence of a substance upon it being ingested, when it is positive, is all-encompassing. A complete satisfaction fulfillment. When that happens, what I am wanting to smell, or hold or see, or be around, or drink or hold in my hand and inhale the steam of, or put in my mouth, appears with clarity to my consciousness. No matter what else I might have been consumed by or uninvolved over, the presence of the thing to which my desire has alighted me, brings a pleasure in its certainty and an enjoyment as much out of myself, as it is a part of me connecting my abstract and material experiences.

Chocolate. The smell of apple gummi bears. The idea of figs. The smell of the sun at the mouth of a plane that has just landed, infused with the flora and whitewash and wild life of the existing structures.

I think it must be history, the build-up of sensory expectation. It is satisfied by the available history.

Several cameras

Wednesday the ninth of November, 2005

What did I reveal when I showed you something? What did you see when I spoke my mind? Where did you take me, that walk in that light afternoon?
We stayed indoors and I played the piano. I always play the piano, I’m boring like that. I don’t rise to your expectations. And I’m flatter than a book.
Which part of me glinted, in your eye, what dust was there that knew to be irritated? Which are the bits that I have the other bits of, that I don’t get and didn’t see? When I say we had a good time and the glow is the glow of a distinct constellation, is it anything like a galaxy for you, or a gap between sandwiches?
We
Why do you do this?
See you when I see you.
Yes.
What if I am not who you think I am. Who is flummoxed?
Of course you aren’t who I think you are. Or you, you. Or you, me. Or me, me.
Being and showing and looking. Generally, I’m looking to the stars. Or just away. You know that, you’re with me, I’m looking away when we’re together. So are you. And then you tell me what you see, and show me what you know. That’s how we know each other.
Together let’s go on an expedition. We’ll have to spend money and consider an itinerary and probably get joint provisions. And it will be in the future. Some kind of solid projection. We might even have to involve an intermediary. A travel agent or something. And know that when it comes to the pilot, it has nothing to do with trust. And develop pictures that show what happened that have nothing to do with what it was like.

Worn through

Saturday, the 4th of November

Deep, dark, rich, scratchy neckwear. Woolen smoke and mulberry; knotted silk like cresting waves and guano; this cravat a rainbow of memories cold-pressed, photo-pristine, shabby and loved. Shabby but loved. LOVED. Did I yell that? It’s the scarf, the warmth-giver, protecting my voice, my heart, blazening my intentions all over the show.

Flat skirts, box-stencilled, the order of heritage worn by girls, only girls, a garment that is a telescope into a fundamental aesthetic.

Which brings me to "Sah

saturday the 1st of July
Blatant
is hollywood as selfdestructuve as to advertise it’s own crapness in the tidal wave of crapness currently washing over the neon plastic cinema houses, in crap areas of the world where the people are supposedly sub-optimal and thus receptive to cinematic representations of themselves as disposable sidewatchers, invisable, unwarranted until they are patronised.
Blatant
the abscess of a hero (what, you thought i was going to say absence?) coupled to anthemic music to which the lyrics “Make Way for the Idiot” are too easily fitted might actually be by design.
The storytellers-elect are embarked on increasingly bloody and violent creation myths. Bang an empty oildrum ‘why don’t you?’ for all the hollow resonance they provide. If you are accustomed to recognising the stirrings of a redemptive heart at the existential cavity of human endeavours, the redundant premise of soulless mirth (yes i think i bled that phrase from somewhere else) is faintly disturbung and highly destructive and as insulting as it is possible to be – as the bigot castigates the seagull.
Repulsive crapulous crapsousity, crapscular extrapolations from a mind unsatisfied by it’s inability to relate to the social space in which it’s physical body receives information on which meanings are ascribed to it. And so whole fake epics are knocked up whose only message is to herald the haggard ego of somebody’s child who cannot fathom his relationship to his penis. Skin-numbingly arrogant aggressive spiels of all things under the sun as manipulated by a one-eyed belief in them as functions of an appendage. And fanaticata, ad nauseum, a scary appendage.
I have never met an American who didn’t seem normal, but yet there seems to be an institutional obstacle so that the experience of empathy eludes them. Maybe, in addition to not hearing the voices of those in the conversation with them, their own voices and words are deafened by the din of their ideology. They do seem to have a ideology that blocks out the actual living realities and subtleties and delights and sensitivities and the possibilities of diverse and responsive proclivities to keenness. One that kind of pfluffs like a fat yellow cushion inside their minds and callously invalidates independant expression and meta-systemic organisation.
Yes, it is true that I never want to go to America for this reason; that from the pallor of their skin and the quality of their eyes (dull, it seems to me and that is a cause for concern), and from the arrangement of their skeletons (the girth of their bones perceptibly augmented), their food sources are acting upon the population an experiment, or several ill-thought-through experiments on biodiversity, on behaviour. A commercially readjusted pseudo-controlled reality.
It makes my skin numb with the aggressive arrogance of it all, and I am disconcerted by the obtuseness of Americans that I know.
Ponder the attempts some people make to respect and give respect to those who do not respect them.

the phoenix system

saturday, the 21st of may

I may not have freedom of choice, but I do have the freedom to say yes or no to the choices presented to me. I have the flexibility to confirm or deny, to accept, to recognise and to appropriate, or not.
I have the foresight to seek out my sense, what sense is to me, what sense there is according to my own inclinations.
I have the freedom to exercise my senses. I have the space to flex my muscles and I have the space to not be constricted.
Rhythm is my singular ‘sense’- my making of sense, this world; and making into sense, me.
Rhythm is the map of the way that has been, at one instance, chosen. A link in sense.
The inherent sense of audio.
The vibrational thoroughfare. By which we make our way.
Through sense, to live and see the world. By sense, to seek and learn the world.

Perhaps proof is the epitome of the misled creed.
That something occured is proof of exactly zilch, not even of its’ own components.
That something happened can be taken to neither preclude or predict any other thing or series of things.
Consequence is the moniker placed on, in everyday parlance, antequence. That which is, at a singular point, seen to have come before – and, making a wholly erroneous link (erroneously linking), is thus seen to directly influence or to create the specific conditions an individual might be aware that they are experienceing.
This has as much to do with the quality of an individuals’ faculties and comes down to that individuals’ consideration for some concept of “self” and their unique appreciation of their person as a self.