Often I would wander to the highest dune nearest me,and from its vantage I could see business as usual going on.
Men praying and scheming and rushing about feeling lost amongst the machinations theyve let loose,
men grown weary from lifting monuments,
Men sick of unreality,
Men dying to break free.
I smoked often and with relish
When I could, Id drink dregs of sacks of wine left by travelers fleeing across the waste,
I became a sort of weigh station for Rebels fleeing reality,
and with them I would converse.
And often I would grow tired of their company, for I despised men who flee of their own volition,
something they could have changed.
I grew blind from gazing at deserts,
Grew deaf from listening to the pleas of passers by.
My mind lived, and in it now I seek refuge,
At first I felt a prisoner, but then I simply re-defined my assumptions of freedom.
To try to put things into words always is like being a hunter of love. How does one capture a burst of light really?,
no photo, no word, I know of has yet done so, and the ones that come close have been hailed by those present as masterpieces.
the day will come , we will hail eachother as masterpieces.
Ill no longer write, all will have been achieved.
Through the forest at 7:30 am to get the keys for our vehicle, the pine and cedar alive and breathing down my neck dropping dew like sweat onto my brow, the wind cool , like sucking in the breath of god as I run inexpertly on uneven gravel.
I think about my past, how a handful of Judas gold bought me everyday and each day I rehung myself, and resurrected again to repeat the process like Prometheus , like Cain, like all tragic episodic beings. I think of my current freedom from Narcosis, the mark is still on my forehead, but its more of an stain than anything else, and hidden by my hair well enough for me to not be spurned by every man I come into contact with.
What does this have to do with the beauty all around me, nothing? No. It is what gives flavor to the beauty, which otherwise would be tasteless to me, a burden to my heart and tongue . I climbed from a wreck, and though shrapnel clings to my skin, its working its way out healthily and soon ill be Sheep like, and free, no vital organs pierced. My liver which recovers mythically,
all is like myth no?
Another angry inexplicable day, my veins bursting, skin frothing anger that has nothing to do with me, I wonder at myself as I’m wondering at myself as I hate what Im wondering at, knowing its not you, and witnessing the doppelgänger ,is a disturbing thing ,to say the least.
I wake each day knowing i’ll encounter a stranger in my skin, he will harness me, would stride atop me with stirrups if allowed, must be fought, bucked with all of my death hate passion. I apologize if your days are easier than mine, you’ll never be forced to garner a relationship with what ails you, never know the nepenthe, or acquire a temporary panacea, which is partially attained in the seeking.
Or my assumptions are all wrong, and we all harbor this sense of need which pulses as a beat heard in binary by beast in vast quadrants of space whom speak a language which is like what life is to us.
Where are the men who break and grow anew each day? Let me be acquainted with them.
I read recently of the importance of a vast categorization of man and his traits. The question behind this moral impulse is never probed deeply enough,always left alone as if anathema to interrogation.
I’m going to watch an old Star Trek episode, the very obviousness of their falsity and bad props gives me a sense of authenticity I seldom experience in my day to day life.Using currency, exchanging obvious falsehoods verbally with others of my species, building the machinery of my inevitable doom and the bane of my children and their children.
My life being the latter, things sure are odd.
Much as other days begin, so does this one, theres an open patch through the pine where I can see the pink sun rising , overwhelmed a moment,
I think of Whitman and my chest burns, I want to scream a mysticism of Blake like proportions onto the horizon.I wanted to catch hold the morning and grasp it to my breast and smother like a lover , and fall down enraptured, alive, filled pantheistically, overabundanced with what has no words.
I thought of my Brothers and missed them, kinship, long held traditions, the gradual ascension ( or descension) of culture , the sleeping chest of my family rising and falling metronomically to the rhythm set by god or an algorithm ,
im unsure if it matters which anymore.
Its later in the day and i’ve been reading some of the short works of Nadine Gordimer, the grey of the days hierarchical way is slowly fading towards dusk, and I’m now moving on to anthropology and the works of Clyde Kluckhohn recommended by Mead. Ive found to to be singularly instructive and remarkably informative despite some of the updates in discoveries and the subsequent factual discrepancies. It’s the philosophy itself contained in the discipline of anthropology that appeals to me, the yearning to categorize and understand to the best of our ability, our shared raison detre on this globe, and the strange and amazing beauty of differentiation between cultures.
I read these books to gauge how I effect the world around me, to touch the lives of those I could never be but can only surmise and dream of, I read them to learn and to teach, for pleasure and solace as well as for pain and the need to experience challenging theories which upset my own often false sense of philosophical equilibrium.
I encourage others to do the same. One need not be a specialist to be an effect created by reading an influential work, a work which makes you write or even think, that alone makes the mundane surfeit of reality we agree to adhere to less strenuous to the soul , a way to make things bearable.
I don my cardigan,
the house is always like something out of Lovecraft in the morning, and I some weird somnambulist, but my eyes wide open, my mind alive Im here and must try to give it homey associations. These are the problems of the early waker. Darkness. Waiting, Hunger but the inability to eat, time to read and catch up on things but an incessant need to literally do the opposite and stay online and waste my time, (especially since I have so many good books I havent read, even now i hear them in there unhappily crisping their pages in my direction as an attempt to curse me for my apathy and the closure of my mind)as one does.
I was talking to my son about Arcologies yesterday, cities in the sky, and the more crowded world he will live in, he takes it as a matter of course, or maybe he doesnt, I cant read behind the eyes of a child, they are just like us, often more like us, better than us, and more wise. I’m ready for the day we can watch Bladerunner together. By the time we watch it, the world he lives in will probably be quite similar, its already reaching towards a zenith of odd that we act comfortable with but are not, we put on the face, but its plastered, and no ones convinced.
Star Hustler by Lazerhawk playing in my headphones, i inhale my days first and watch the line of sight of my mind alter towards something less like an asshole and more like a guy who is waking up finally, I wipe my eyes, constantly clean my glasses, drink coffee in half cups and refill it when it cools, I repeat this process in exactitude everyday.
The morning star is bright, or maybe it isnt but Ill use that as a literary device to begin with, the sky color is that of dried blood on an orange beach towel, I wonder at what today will bring, yesterday I spoke to a Woman from wisconsin at The Dollar Store while buying domestic nonsense, she is tired,she wonders why she moved. Somewhere in Wisconsin a Texan is wondering the same thing. Everywhere I go people seem so different than when I was a boy, the air of hate seems more charged, the 90s seem so foolish compared to this hard edged reality theyve tried to get us to accept.
Its gonna be a day, thats all that sure.
Things are more green than id like, the way the sun is hittin’ leaf making a glow ,
some yellow dome.
a storm is building,
the sky adamantine and budding like a fruit.
The acronyms of the day sound bitter in my throat. Practiced, their sound like the sound of swords pulled from sheathes well oiled and overused.
Its best to put yourself above in a place where none but you can remain, and burn softly there until peace returns , its soft heels murmuring to you as it walks in the hallway.
The sky has been alive with birds in the crisp mornings, always clammy and in the low 60’s , language flitting back and forth invisibly in the air. I almost unconscious to its sound, and almost overwhelmed by focusing on it. I wonder at what May will bring, the birdsong’s heavier, more important, an augury of some event, a portent.
Brevity being the soul of wit, then I a fool go on, to say more of this thought. There is something to breathing the earth as it comes to life and birds sing of an innocence and natural order of which we are both a part of and apart from.Once we were caretakers. I know it in my bones.
You get the sense of Adam, and the freshness and the temptation that must have frosted the fruit which lured the fool to the illusion wisdom.