Archive | September, 2009

The Trail is Circular, We’re Working for a Bigger Moment, But:

30 Sep

Thunder breaches the peace. Treason to the treaty between the see-saw offspring children of Wind –Gasp and Sigh– once gently tumbling, so playful and free and easily deceived.

It is seven o’clock. Sunset blushes the lush mountain side innocent pink, perhaps the hue of a piglet, perhaps the freshness of a June rosebud, perhaps the raw warm exposure of a bashful virgin.

Leaves litter the moist ground and their sweep is suspended in the storm, drops of rain like a robin’s eggs press their venious face into the soil unil the rich soil and vibrant green blend into one: the sea of earth.

Eager gusts of cloud’s breath whistle through bare boned branches, frail and frigid, shivering under coats of moss in the unexpected cold summer night.

Neon stars freckle a navy haze , so true to blue it strikes the eye as theatrical curtains closing upon day to change scenes -seamlessly- to a wondrous, omniscient nightfall.

And where am I.

Outer space procreating a world sedated so even a planet is lethargic in defiance of anti gravity and no it doesn’t make sense but fuck you, am i supposed to? hot like the handle of a door way in the way of a fire exit way out in the middle of no where and your hair burns down to the root room the tip where it touches the air borne danger of the dark and the ranger though called is a stranger and will not has not cannot make it because he’s raping a teenager behind the dumpster that his wife threw their recyclables in earlier that week.

Loopy as a nightmare.

My stream of thought picking up where Hollowmen left off:

30 Sep

This is the way the world goes out not with a bang but in a cloud of delirium.

Everyone is starring beyond eyesight, contacted plastic bubble wrapped individually warped perspective conform-fitted perception;

Epiphany precipitates out from under our feet, as we float through life in a cloud of delirium.

Amplitude modulation headphones on ambient distraction, advantageous vantage point cleanses emotion unaware as we stare blankly beyond self into the steam ridden cloud of the third person;

What is lost is living what is lost is meaning what is lost is life as an opportunity to live with meaning. Seduced by shades of gray in an overcast sky, existing without emotion drained out of our system by white noise, cleansed of scarlet fire or brilliant yellow or soulful soulless swallowed by depression deep blue that Picasso thought fitting to articulate the depths of loneliness;

Third person perspective of the anonymous hippopotamus invisible gigantic larger than life third person;
Squashes a sumo with a sigh spirit wrangler air dangler hyper critical  ultimate belittle-er third person;
Can’t touch it no I can’t touch it. Can I torch it? I want to torch it, to singe my hand on the liquid fire,  melting match, feel the scorch i inflict on the monster in my closet;

Slay the dragon, it ain’t gunna happen, if I kill mine woud you kill yours too?  I whisper to the incandescent glow emanating from the moon light and in that one second of solitude my eyesight is restored as precisely that, my eye sight, and I see within my fight my bark my fight drained and faded but still simmers like a spark lit stove heated useless dangerous without cooking substance;

Sparked in the depths of self efficacy and in that moment of clarity silence sings a lullaby to the animal cry of the child whose wonder hides from me protecting me under the jaded resurrected knowledge of experience I use as a ladder to reach the removed disconnected cloud of delirium.

Why I pray for an honest prayer– why I wish my reflection distorted in the mirror would wobble like my face floating on a sun lit river moving as one with the air blown hair wading on the wet slippery surface because that is real and temporary and shifting and real and ideal and temporary and shifting and fuck the fixed ideal fixated idealized look third person glamorama;

Who cackles in nightmares who sleeps in my fears and cozies up with crossed fingers behind her back and a jagged blade next to her closest friend closer enemy, my aspirations.

alex the great, achilles, the iliad

29 Sep

Alexander’s ambition

Growing up, Alexander was fascinated by Homer’s Iliad. It was the character of Achilles — the hero of the story and the exemplar of all manly virtues — that especially attracted him.

Alexander the Great
Sometime in his early formative years he decided to model himself after Achilles.

Emulating the famous hero was apparently encouraged by his teacher, the great philosopher Aristotle. According to the Roman historian Plutarch, Aristotle personally annotated a copy of the Iliad for Alexander. Alexander kept it with him throughout all his later travels, even sleeping with it under his pillow.

Alexander’s mother, Olympias, clearly encouraged him. This woman couldn’t have been more meddling and ambitious for Alexander if she herself were a scheming goddess on Mount Olympus. In fact, she may have consorted with the gods. Or, at least, that’s the rumor she spread.

Olympias informed her son that he was actually a descendant of Achilles. And probably Hercules, too.

And so, in keeping with his family tradition and the great expectations of his mother, Alexander looked for any opportunity to demonstrate his heroic strength and courage.

thank you to the author for sharing

29 Sep important

A bit of ancient toltec wisdom

28 Sep

The Smokey Mirror

3,000 years ago, there was a human just like you and mewho lived near a city surrounded by mountains. The human was studying to become a medicine man, to learn the knowledge of his ancestors, but he didn’tcompletely agree with everything he was learning. In his heart, he felt there must be something more.
One day, as he slept in a cave, he dreamed that he saw his own body sleeping. He came out of the cave on the night of a new moon. The sky was clear, he could see millions of stars. Then something happened inside of him that transformed his life forever. He looked at his hands, he felt his body and he heard his own voice say, “I am made of light; I am made of stars.”
He looked at the stars again, and then he realized that it’s not the stars that create light, but rather the light that creates stars. “Everything is made of light,” he said, “and the space in-between isn’t empty.” And he knew that everything that exists is one living being, and that light is the messenger of life, because it is alive and contains all information.
Then he realized that although he was made of stars, he was not those stars. “I am in-between the stars.” he thought. So he called the stars the tonal and the light in-between the stars the nagual, and he knew that what he created the harmony and space between the two is Life or Intenent. Without Life, the tonal and the nagual could not exist. Life is the force of the absolute, the supreme, the Creator who creates everything.
This is what he discovered: Everything in existance is a manifestation of the one living being we call God. Everything is God. And he came to the conclusion that human perception is merely light perceiving light. He also saw that matter is a mirror-everything is a mirror that reflects light and creates images of that light-and the world of illusion, the Dream, is just like smoke which doesn’t allow us to see what we really are. “The real us is pure love, pure light,” he said.
This realization changed his life. Once he knew what he really was, he looked around at other humans and the rest of nature, and he was amazed at what he saw. He saw himself in everything-in every human, in every animal, in every tree, in the water, in the rain, in the clouds, in the earth. And he saw that Life mixed the tonal and the nagual in different ways to create billions of manifestations of Life.
In those few moments he comprehended everything. He was very excited, and his heart was filled with peace. He could hardly wait to tell his people what he had discovered. But there were no words to explain it. He tried to tell others, but they could not understand. They could see that he had changed, that something beautiful was radiating from his eyes and his voice. They noticed that he no longer had judgement about anything or anyone. He was no longer like anyone else.
He could understand everyone very well, but no one could understand him. They believed that he was an incarnation of God, and he smiled when he heard this and he said, “It is true. I am God . But you are also God. We are the same, you and I. We are images of light. We are God.” But they still did not understand him.
He had discovered that he was a mirror for the rest of the people, a mirror in which he could see himself. “Everyone is a mirror,” he said. He saw himself in everyone, but nobody saw him as themself. And he realized that everyone was dreaming, but without awareness, without knowing what they really are. They couldn’t see him as themselves because there was a wall of fog or smoke between the mirrors. And that wall of fog was made by the interpretation of images of light.-the Dream of humans.
Then he knew that he would soon forget all that he had learned. He wanted to remember all that he had learned. He wanted to remember all the visions he had had, so he decided to call himself the Smokey Mirror, so that he would always know that matter is a mirror and the smoke in-between keeps us from knowing what we are. He said, “I am the Smokey Mirror, because I am looking at myself in all of you, but we don’t recognize each other because of the smoke in-between us. That smoke is the Dream, and the mirror is you, the dreamer.”

I see cadence in exhalation. Breathe in poetry…

28 Sep

Tears, Idle Tears

by Lord Alfred Tennyson
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

    Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

    Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

    Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

Last Words to Miriam

by D. H. Lawrence


Yours is the shame and sorrow

But the disgrace is mine;

Your love was dark and thorough,

Mine was the love of the sun for a flower

He creates with his shine.


I was diligent to explore you,

Blossom you stalk by stalk,

Till my fire of creation bore you

Shrivelling down in the final dour

Anguish—then I suffered a balk.


I knew your pain, and it broke

My fine, craftsman's nerve;

Your body quailed at my stroke,

And my courage failed to give you the last

Fine torture you did deserve.


You are shapely, you are adorned,

But opaque and dull in the flesh,

Who, had I but pierced with the thorned

Fire-threshing anguish, were fused and cast

In a lovely illumined mesh.


Like a painted window: the best

Suffering burnt through your flesh,

Undressed it and left it blest

With a quivering sweet wisdom of grace: but now

Who shall take you afresh?


Now who will burn you free,

From your body's terrors and dross,

Since the fire has failed in me?

What man will stoop in your flesh to plough

The shrieking cross?


A mute, nearly beautiful thing

Is your face, that fills me with shame

As I see it hardening,

Warping the perfect image of God,

And darkening my eternal fame.

Free sense of border crossings between poetry and prose.

27 Sep

The poetic diaries of the Japanese. Haiku and a kind of cultivated creativity that incorporates the minds of men before their birth, with reverence toward tradition and the not-surprising-not-not-presumptuous deviation from ink pens past with the poet’s personal ideological propulsion. Creativity is creating and creating need not be original. The repetitive motion of movement over millennia is a gear creaking in the winds, grinding through the day at a pace so slow that a full apocalyptic turn may be tomorrow, may be the end of time.
I decided to read the works that influenced the poetry of the poets that influence me. Transitive inspiration, perhaps. Unbeknowgnst to me why I seek what I seek, my quest returned to me Kenko’s Essays in Idleness. From 1330. And yet today to me I attest and youll see that the work is relevant to me and sooths the agitated soul like a harp humming through static like asphalt bleeding color like sweating out misery and breathing in melody and rebalancing what I think may be their idea of chi:


137 Tsurezuregusa (Essays in Idleness)

Trs. Kenneth L. Richard

Should we only be interested to view the cherry blossoms at their peak, or the moon when it is full? To yearn for the moon when it is raining, or to be closed up in ones room, failing to notice the passing of Spring, is far more moving. Treetops just before they break into blossom, or gardens strewn with fallen flowers are just as worthy of notice. There is much to see in them. Is it any less wonderful to say, in the preface to a poem, that it was written on viewing the cherry blossoms just after they had peaked, or that something had prevented one from seeing them altogether, than to say ‘on seeing the cherry blossoms’? Of course not. Flowers fall and the moon sets, these are the cyclic things of the world, but still there are brutish people who mutter that there is nothing left worth seeing, and fail to appreciate.

In all things, it is the beginnings and the endings that are the most interesting. Is the love between a man a woman to be understood only in terms of the times they are together? Feel the pain of a relationship that has ended, decry the futility of a brief encounter, spend a long night awake and alone, think fondly of a life beyond one, out of reach, beyond the clouds, remember a moment long ago shared in a thatched hut; that is LOVE.

There is a much deeper appreciation in waiting for the moon to appear just before dawn than in seeing it full and unobstructed for as far as the eye can see. There can be no finer or more poignant moment than to see it appear among the newly budding branches of a mountain cedar, or its light falling between trees, or to see it when it slides in an out of clouds laden with rain. I shiver when I see the moonlight glimmering on the dew laden leaves of the pasania and the oak, so beautiful that I yearn for a friend fromKyoto who would feel the same.

Above all else, are we to see the moon and the cherry blossoms with our eyes alone? It is indeed amusing, even marvelous, to stay at home in the Spring, thinking about a moonlit night from the confines of ones room. People of class never seem totally absorbed in their loves, nor in their pastimes. Country people think only of the gaudiest of pleasures. They sidle up to blossoming cherry trees, hoarding their vantage point, drinking sake, writing linked poetry until, at the end, they viciously break big branches. They have no feelings. They stick their hands and feet into natural springs, leave their footprints in the snow, leave nothing sacred and untouched in this world.

And these people! When they come to see the Kamo Festival in Kyoto, they claim there is not enough to see from the viewing stands, and so they take themselves off to the stalls behind to drink sake, stuff themselves, play Go and Sugoroku, leaving a guard on their seats. When the call is made, they proceed to rush back to the stands, seeing who can be first to see this or that in the parade, and when again there is a lull, they all rush out of their seats. Why the struggle, just to see what there is to see? The cognoscenti from the capital grow drowsy and make no attempt to catch everything. The younger people who serve them make their way in and out, never attempting to push through from behind, or brazenly trying to get a view of what is passing by.

In all this fine splendor of carriages decorated in Hollyhock boughs that have secretly nestled together in the hours just before dawn, I become curious about the high-born occupants of certain of them. Later I see that I know some of the cattle grooms and other servants. Ah, there is much that is splendid, much that is gay, much that is as varied as life. I am never bored. Along toward evening the throngs of wagons, so thick there had been no passage between them, mysteriously vanish until the din of the festival subsides. The curtains and mats are rolled up and all becomes a lonely sight. In these moments, I think I understand the vagaries of the world. The great avenues of Kyoto are made for such festivals.

Many, many people have passed in front of these stands, and many of them I know, which goes to prove that there are not as many souls in the world as I had thought. When all of them are gone, and when my time comes as well to die, it shall not be such a long wait. Fill a huge vessel with water, and one will see that even though it has small pinholes and the dripping seems minor, still it leaks inexorably and finally it is empty. Though there are many souls in Kyoto, not a day goes by without dying. Is it really only a few each day? Many are the days when the dead are seen off to Toribeno, or to Mt. Funaoka, or to some other unnamed crematory hill, and the process never stops. Caskets are made. There is no end of buyers. It never ceases. One never knows when death will come. The young and the strong are not spared. It is a strange sense of gratitude to know that one has escaped today. Can one afford to think of the world in easy terms? It is like a game of checkers with all the pieces arranged on a Suguroku board. Eventually, no matter what the count or the direction of the game, all of the pieces will be removed until only one is left. And this one cannot escape. It too will go.  A warrior off to battle knows he is near to death; he forgets his home, his position. A man who chooses a grass hut and lives in retirement, in harmony with the stream and the stones of his garden, thinking that it happens elsewhere, is deluded. Even in a quiet mountain seclusion, the evil enemy, the brevity of life, will catch up with one. To look into the face of death is similar to a warrior entering the enemy camp.

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