El Bosque no Conoce

In the forest I was lost
So made the trees my home
But by and by, with skin on bark
It grew quite tiresome
I acquainted self with elf and lark
But scoffing was the gnome
For all the branches I might cross
And never nearer come

Beauty as Essence

Beauty is the striking stone
Which alone is meaningless
Stricken with zeal, an evanesce
Will then reveal gestalt and spark
Kindling into flame and light
Dwindling night glimpsed for first
Lasting as long as sight has durst
To join the throng of glowing dark

The the fire, the flint, the flare
As one: the flying lark

Schmidt the Buoy (Veil of Distraction)

When I outdoors in private misty dark
Survey the firsts to separate away
From blur, these stars come forth and make their mark;
Yet fog of false light keeps the real at bay.
The ground’s the culprit that emits this light
That disillusions me, and makes me see:
From nearby town this sick-orange shade is spat,
and forces focus on least entity.
Again I find myself by ground confined;
Surrounding sounds now hold me in clenched hand.
I strive in vain to reach out with my mind,
To hear sea’s sounding buoy from loud land.
Life’s higher callings are this way suppressed
By things that people sooner must address

Placid Moon



The moon was ruler of this night

In its full grace and peaceful still.

Earth resembled her hush and white,
Yet blent the peace with chill.



One forest which, subject to cold – 

But also Winter’s proceed, snow –

Through its sounding silence foretold

What seemed imminent woe.



An owl perching in its hollow 

Made ready wings for nightly hunt,

Soundlessly glided like a swallow –

Searching below and front.

A mouse crept solely on the ground;

Attentive, now paused just to list’n,

Though its stalker made not a sound.

Hark mouse, hurry; Hasten! 



The owl closed in toward its mark, then;

Mouse unwary of the sleuth

‘Til the deluding white darkened;

Moon shone light on the truth.



Humanity has the same cry:

A moon in life’s dark night it craves.

A light that will evil descry,

Reveal the truth, and save.



Moon moaned, and shed tears of white snow

Her peace she could not share, she knew:

Life’s absence is the peace she knows.

Abundant void parts Earth from Moon;

Earth’s life’s eternal host-

True peace no life can boast.

Tokens become a Type

What do we seek? The good, of course (no thought to what that truly is, could be.) Well, if the ruler lets us measure deeds, showing what is right, then good’s the stick we see. Known good to goodness is thus transformed; the standard here is made. And suddenly they see all this world should be; first that “goodness” rule is paid. Sticklers to the ‘what,’ they fail to measure the ‘why’. Concerned with mere immediate, the reason they even have the stick cannot, and won’t apply.

Freedom Walks in Sleep

In a wandring night I found myself, and wanderlust indulged
As feather flown and weather blown I floated with the moon.
I drifted dreamlike through the grass, where secrets where divulged.
I sensed below the Absent Figure, and Nobody in cocoon.

The Rustling Faerie and Supine Statue with sublimity engaged,
When I hung myself with two white strands and danced immobile in their wind.
The Shady Fellow introduced appeared as shadow you had caged,
But the darkness delivered despite my trance in legs as well as mind.

A levity of head had I; no weight was placed on me;
I lost control of mind and soul, but won delivery!

Dissonance Breeds Symphonie, If Allowed

We have an order set up, and anything outside of that--a chaotic system--is dealt with by that same piece of mind and that same ear which consider the causes, or rather deemed causes, of cognitive dissonance. We will not define anything chaotic as being ordered, or at least not until we can strip it and understand it in terms of our order. Chaos is only recognized as being destructive because we know not how to deal with its products. If we implement a product of chaos, it could not have been chaos, for chaos can only take from our order since it is not our order. This fear of something fundamentally different is inhibiting, for it deafens our ear to anything we have not heard prior, or cannot place. Please- let chaos have a place, and know it as creative.

Deface Value

I have no consistency. But for the opposite reason of wanting to fit in, or by the definition of fitting in to see myself as more comfortable, more comfortable as having less distraction from what I wish not to be distracted by, what I see as needless... am I thus not the same? I, who search to rid the world of superfluous necessities and superficialities? The necessity to be satisfied too easily found as met? Well, had I not found my own satisfaction in revealing this “shortcoming” to others? A shortcoming so determined by my idea of progression so defined as pursuit of “higher” satisfaction? Well, if satisfaction is so valued, then to have it at all, even if not in its “purest,” is to be valued over not having it. I have lost satisfaction, or rather I have lost hope of attaining it. Perhaps I have tangled myself into this state, as satisfaction, progression, and “best” are intertwined (satisfaction [implied dissatisfaction as a drive] --> progression [repeated perhaps to eternity] --> that best) and the only concrete with which I have to work is satisfaction, as best cannot be known (how would I know it is not mere satisfaction in being where one believes best to be?) and progression could not be the height as its own essence exists to bring something higher {although... I am now intrigued... I would like to believe my state of infinite progression, with only point stops at satisfaction (I* don’t identify with the self that find satisfaction at this time,) to be the height, and this idea that the actual act could be the height... I think not, though my faculties do not allow me to elaborate at this time, except that something must be progressed for that progression to be of worth, not the person, for the person then needs a goal, and that “best” is the reoccurring dearth, as it cannot be defined, but it is needed to give value to satisfaction, a value relative to its ultimate but undefined (undefinable?) self,} so satisfaction here is that flat meeting ground of a standard: the goal, but chosen as such with dissatisfaction (both in the choice and as maintained from prior existence,) so that my decided upon currency entails that I am broke. The phenomenon may also be metaphorically described by satisfaction as a coin** increasing in value, due to the the unidirectional nature of progression, towards the highest possible worth of that coin. The coin must thus be valued, for what else have we, and does the value matter it we know that something can be had? Perhaps the latter was not a helpful metaphor, because the coin of satisfaction cannot be held in its own progression; a transformation of the actual coin must occur, though maybe if we have disregarded progression and the best no change can occur, as it becomes relative only to itself... how could such a thing be valued?


*italics here implicit of the presently identified I in the metacognitive state and under secondary {e.e.?} volition

**i have decided to coin the term “coin” as an essence which has value, not commensurate with other values, but has rather been chosen by default as its related states cannot be defined (thus no price can be designated), and is therefore decided upon as having worth, or worth being pursued, the level of its worth not considered or able to be considered

How a Fortune Cookie Changed My Life

PRELUDE
I might have chosen to entitle this as “How a Fortune Cookie Destroyed my life,” but I did not. The general is that a change occurred, and it affected my life. How I define life may be debatable, but the point is that a change occurred in how I think about how I live my life, which I think is my definition of life, or at least for that I which lives in thought and the mind and with which I choose to identify. I had noticed other doors to this thought before, but luckily then from a distance so as only to see their destructive power, and I had quickly turned away (pretending not to notice so as not to stain my reputation as the fearless one...)-- but one cannot turn so easily from such a portentous piece of paper. That slip which one would seem silly (even) to one’s self to consider seriously ironically inhibits immediate neglect as that lack of serious consideration, (via) the converse {could this be the unseen in the irony, so that it is not actually ironic at all? How prevalent is this in both irony and paradox?} of not allowing the fortune to be earnestly disregarded or hurriedly shoved form the memory. So just as I had to read it when the cookie had been cracked, I had to consider it, for if something is in my mind then it is considered, and what the cookie said could not be lightly considered for long. Its words grasped to me ever tighter, as I could not fight them off, for to do so would have seemed ridiculous, like vehemently swatting away a butterfly which landed on the sleeve-- but this was no butterfly, though it floated to me in such a form, and was rather a giant mosquito requiring a quick and fatal blow before it exsanguinated me, or infected that me with a deadly pathogen. My fortune read: “Your kindness will soon be rewarded.” I was now doomed forever, as its truth was slain in the same act as its being revealed.

Yes, the title might be overly dramatic and cliche, but I wished to emphasize how drastically a change in thought (as apposed to one not of the metaphysical) can influence my life, as afore defined.

**********************************************************************************

I seize that time to incorporate, for I possess expectance for change with introduction to a new idea > philosophy’s importance (being) in it’s ability (power) to transform a life, or rather way of life which may then be translated to the entire human race.... But then the thought comes that perhaps we only change our perspectives and definitions to make it thus a satisfying, no, happy place, and that thought right there is the pangs of the satisfactory drive, a drive towards progression that we may never stand still in society or personal life... what the Hell is progression? It has been marked in ways to increase life expectancy, decrease early-childhood deaths, and increased nutrition (as in less sickness) and communication (between larger ranges and people groups)... but these are quantitative, and we are ever seeking to fill the qualitative with this. We may reach the point where we have... may we ever reach a point? What is all relative? What is the point of progression but to reawaken our happiness, to find it again in something else which of course means it is further ahead... the future; not bettering, not worsening, just differing to attempt accommodation for the present desires for satisfaction. Is “progression” as (ideally) defined then even possible? Could it be impeded merely by those who fail to or refuse to see for selfish ambition? What then is selfish ambition? Was I not above, at very first, approaching a proof that all action, whether veiled by a drive of deepER satisfaction or not, out of selfish ambition? Or must one have to see it as selfish for it to be so, and the the progression would be for something which parades as fulfillment but has just not yet been unmasked? Ultimate satisfaction, or true selflessness in which the person believes to be and is? Then the two must never be in view, though the are mutual necessities... Or is this ultimate groom of satisfaction finally able to see the bride, and to have the selflessness presented to him? Is satisfaction a necessary byproduct of selflessness or not, and would ultimacy change this? Belief (as resulting in decision to value) is necessary for one to have values at all.

Simplicity Births a Word

How to tell when simplification is necessary to make the point, and when it invalidates the point? There is the “to an extent” again, or balance as I might reintroduce to this. Which is why it made my list of themes, or motifs, but now it has just made my point as well, or stolen it... That was just a bit of background which might effect it as a self-inclusive example (still searching for a word or phrase for this... I shall make my own and implement it till then, and though it may not be sufficiently defined, it is understood, so this may wait, especially if it has been defined prior. It exists in another language if not this, but this is still somewhat inconsequential, save for the power and familiarity (though power also corrupts and familiarity dulls) which comes with a preexisting word. To relate back to the beginning, the lack of connotation will simplify my conversation. And now I see the overlap of the negative and positive effects, though there is still the need for balance in minimizing the one and maximizing the other. The positive: an understanding for a word and how it relates to the world is developed, and held in the connotation, so deeper meaning and significance in life could be further opened. The negative: there are very often misunderstandings in connotations, as they differ between people and people groups, and this could very easily lend itself as a tool for misinterpretation, either in inaccurately reading meanings into the text which were unintended by the writer, a reductionist or unaware of the reader’s connotations, or the roles may be reversed where the writer had certain understandings of the word’s relation to the world, or rather the writer’s world, which rendered the reader disabled in interpretation and/or complete understanding. Having no other word at hand, I will draw one from the proverbial hat, or rather cultivate one from Latin roots which are sufficiently undifferentiated and unfamiliar to develop into a word which caries enough connotation (at least once introduced with its etymology) to be identifiable with its meaning, but hopefully not much more to interfere with the intended meaning.

(To Be Continued/Concluded)

Role Reversal as Conspicuous

I stretch my jaw forcefully to draw in air where my autonomic diaphragm might have better been employed, and thence included the jaw muscle as an effect, not an apparent and ostentatious cause.

Metacognition Reclaims Conscious Habit

I sigh over, and over, to expel soul, or my tiresome self, or noxiousness of the world and my relation with it, yet it all inevitably returns as my life depend on it, soiled in the filthy air. Holding my breath is futile... I have not! *remembered that she has not held her breath on the green tile according to her convicted habit* I had forgotten... Now where am I, oh bloody beast of consciousness... your habits cannot be imposed as such, for they will never lounge in the unconscious, as comfort is not theirs; aye, the despise its presence. This is why I must be metacognitive. I had once believed that I might let these activities such as breath holding or specific (though ultimately still random) conscious choices in daily action, typically left for subconscious and thus easiest option, enter into my habitual, though I know now they (or at least some, though their similarities... another discussion {is all to make distinctions? to rework those shoddy connections made when speedy survival (the easy way, though as it feeds on hurried decisions or categorizations it does not permit any pre-thought as to its necessity, and the possibility of its necessity thus dominates [“better safe than sorry” mentality, to use the colloquial,] demand them?}) cannot enter into my subconscious, though I might call them habits still as I redefine the word in the inclusive spectrum of a higher-than-typical (I realize that I sound like a snob here [and elsewhere too, no doubt,] but I do not mean this as self-elevating, but rather a statement I find to be true and helpful in developing my ideas, ideas which I hope will bring more meaning into the lives of others) level of consciousness (hyper, also elsewhere noted as metacognitive thinking {an endless expanse*?}), where habit is defined as being in the consciousness and thereby in the realm of realization, but not inspected by the eye (my Powersurge Stone, the symbol of my metacognitive thought, among other metaphysical powers bestowed on my person) *remembers that she had actually has been holding her breath on the green tiles consciously, but has not self-examined the practice in some time; it has become a hatbit yes, but a habit as defined above.* I now see that I have not forgotten my habits, but that I have forgotten myself. No, they have not yet, whether it is possible or not, entered into my subconscious habits, but that they have split from their mother, secondary volition, I have taken disturbance with. Yes, I had once had this as my intent, or at least not an undesired endpoint, but I had not yet made that distinction between my higher levels of consciousness. I had thought it admirable under the higher level of volition, which does not require constant metacognitive attention, to transform a normally ignored activity into one which I gave thought. True, the metacognitive (though I did not recognize it as such) was needed in order to make the decision about what was to be done or made different (e.g, taking my glass from the crate so that highest degree of symmetry or most interesting pattern would result, which I decided upon, in the waiting pool where metacognition flows into secondary volition, according to what I thought I should value, i.e., seemingly pointless order out of what I thought of as chaotic [seemingly pointless] actions,) but all I needed for success in my endeavor was for that activity to become habit (in the general sense; primitive or otherwise). I was too focused on the deed itself and the result of changing what I considered to be a lifestyle. For a time I lived as such, renewing (changing them or adding new ones) my habits only to avoid relativity and indifference, and continue with the control of the secondary volition. While I still see the value in living a conscious and intentional life and engaging in actions which better prepare one for such a life, I have now become more concerned with paying metacognitive attention to everyone of these actions, to find importance and purpose in them, or else discontinue them as no longer useful. I want my lifestyle to transform into a lifestyle in which metacognition is frequently consulted, at is applied all aspects of my life as some point, to reform then categorize my behaviors into habits, habits, and those always dependent upon metacognitive thought.


*to be considered in its view, and then in the newly inclusives’ view, and endlessly expanding as such. Otherwise said as increasing in complexity as its definition is applied to itself in succession and thereby transformed infinitely. This idea, though it may be tailored to other situations so the metaphor here is not misleading or nonfunctional, will elsewhere be abbreviated as e.e.

Sense of the Scene

These scenes; all the same. Cleaved in two, then each categorized as either ugly to be ignored, or as beautiful to be appreciated, which appreciation can then never be met as what ought to be done never is, and familiarity dulls the senses. They will not acknowledge the vulgar commons of roadsides, and discount the entire area as not worthwhile. Though of course they ignore not their own front porches, not because they are any less numbed to this, but because they do not desire anyone who has not yet become blinded to it to find it unpleasing and thereby more hurriedly swindled into the unnoticed.

A Restless Sounding

For sullen’s sake I lie awake and fight the torments of the hour, that striking hour as clock at crack of door pangs and jars through wax-light streams and waves; an ungulate solid slab of reminder in my ear. I can’t forget, but to forget would even be expectance in increasing piercing remembrance, a funnel of fortitude in that ear.

Lure of the Sail

Why have you run?
There is rapture by the shore.

What have you seen?
There's a faint but luring glow.

How have you gone?
There's a sailor of this lore.

Where have you been?
There is deepness down below.


Who will make you learn?
In eyes I have seen frost.

When will you return?
My heart is a'ready lost.

The Clash

>[The system] asked [him]: "If [she] asked you to go skydiving, would you accept?"
>[He] answered ''yup''

**********************************************************************************

Hey, random thought: do you want to go skydiving?

**********************************************************************************

you should be careful what you wish for. I am a pilot after all. i know plenty of people who jump out of planes.

i have not talked to you in years. how have you been?

**********************************************************************************

While my question was made in a jocular tone, my desire to go skydiving is independent and springs from the realm of the extreme, which excludes any carefulness. I am not one to be careful. Also, because your piloting scares people so much that they would rather take their chances outside of your plane and therefore leap from it, this is meant to meant to bring me caution as to the implicated reality of my words? I no longer have any physical fears, and neither does the introduction into reality give my dreams any more of a grasp on safety; to the contrary. It would be an oxymoron to carefully consider my thoughts of acting free of caution.

Your final statement aims to remind "me" of an observation "I" am equally capable of making, however you failed. In truth it has not been years, it has been an eternity and no time at all, for you have never spoken to me. I transcend time, and the only sense I make it is that of an s. And “how” am I? I cannot answer for the form of “who,” and am thereby rendered incapable of relating this to any function, for it is all relative. But perhaps you think not, or possibly have a definite form off of which to build a reply to your own, redirected question?

**********************************************************************************

What? i mean its just a question. but if you feel the need to write a novel to answer a question that could have just as easily been answered with a "I'm good" and we could go back to not talking for another "eternity". so whatever. I tried to be nice and you kind of spit in my face.

**********************************************************************************

It's clearly not "whatever," and I would apologize for hurting your feelings if I could find that spit of malice within my novel of a text. But no, if I had meant to spit at you I might have done so in person (for "I" did gleam through in those times, though you could not have seen) when it was actually easier; for what I wrote might have flown naturally from me, but it would have certainly have been easier (apart from the effort put into stepping away from myself) to type that insipid and meaningless (but for the pins reserved to make the lie smile) reply of "I'm good." It would seem to me that I was the one to extend kindness in showing that I valued you enough not to cast that lie upon you, and reveal instead to you the truth, however cryptic. Did you actually try? And if so, to promote a facade of a happy conversation in which each masked speaker tossed out a few pin-cheeked platitudes completely unrepresentative of the figures behind the masks? Is your preference that the fruit of truth be exsanguinated to the point of untruth, the mere shell? I can apologize for this: I misread you, and you have clearly done the same, so we are even on this one ground.

You may return to that eternal fog of ignorant bliss if that is your only desire, but I am free of that. Know that I wish you no ill, whoever you may be, and hope instead that you someday, even just for a glimpse, transcend that blinding, heavy haze.

WARNING: Not intended to be read as if written in a condescending tone, but additional apology offered should it be misread as such.

faded fantasy

a gleaming keyhole; a dreaming shoal
a rusted padlock; a dusted dock
an anchored seashore; a rancored roar
a drunken galley; a sunken sea
and none can remember the castaway key

Vociferation:The Irony of Placement (commandV)

V: Voilà! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villian by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation, stands vivified and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin vanguarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition. (he carves a "V" into a sign) The only verdict is vengence; a vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous. (giggles) Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose, so let me simply add that it is my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V.

Evey: Are you like a crazy person?
V: I'm quite sure they will say so.

Warrior of the Wind

“An invasion of armies can be resisted, but not an idea whose time has come.”
—Victor Hugo

“Daring ideas are like chessmen moved forward; they may be beaten, but they may start a winning game.”
—Goethe

“Do not fear to be eccentric in opinion, for every opinion now accepted was once eccentric.”
—Bertrand Russell

“When you are describing,
A shape, or sound, or tint;
Don’t state the matter plainly,
But put it in a hint;
And learn to look at all things,
With a sort of mental squint.”
—Lewis Carroll

A Music Not Heard

When dissonance comes to our ears
We simply tune the instrument
Or else deny, avoid our fears
That melody could sing as bent
So rid ourselves of this discord
And never let our mindstrings hum
To foreign, wild mistral winds
And can never say we’ve tasted rum
As soberness to stolid lends

Fear of the Depths

Their lives are like that of the albatross;
Indefatigably fighting to stay in the air,
Fighting against nothing, for nothing,
Afraid of the wild, unpredictable waves below.

Preserving their lives, but from what? For what?
Is safety thus to be cherished above all?

Not Swept Away

Has felt that rain on her skin, penetrating her sense, drenching into her, washing her away into the hysterical rapids...she stops to collect herself in a pensive pool in the wood sunken with wind-wearied leaves, but how will the downpour not wash her away once again? I am nothing if I do not feel, but I must reserve a that within myself to be she who feels--this will not be swept away; it will never feel a thing, though it is all that feels, and feels all.

In Reflection of the Sun

Footsteps on moon-shafts
Teardrops in light-pools
Orbits of space crafts
Embrace on a moonlit stool

Walk in His reflect
Share in His sorrow
Follow the reject
There’s love in tomorrow

Prison of the Mind

"Move along, move along, dear!" They force, with stiff pretense on their cold-curled lips, as I stop to peer out of the slats which slice the light into sensibly debased slabs. "You're in your way," they offer ineffectively "and mine." they add in an under tone, finally stating their point. "Don't stop, never stop; your mind will follow," yes, on that dog-leash chain. "It's a perpetual machine," they say ironically, mechanically impinged, "No need for stop to think". My mind too must be unplugged from any source of energy but my own movement, and they thus reach for the shutters (there are no openers here) "Are you finished looking out at the sun?" they ask, as though my response mattered; what I did was pointless, and I must be cut off— "I have prepared myself for the blindness," breathing in the last of the filtered light for the long period of breathless dark. They cannot hear that. "Yes." I answer again, painfully betraying, but in a simple definite lie which is all they can ever grasp. That smirk of certainty returns to their inexpressive lips. The stripes of light then narrow into nothingness across my open lids. My eyes close.

The Medallion

Magnificent, and splendid He
Who casts his brilliant gold festoon
Down upon the raging waves

The Ocean, chasing, churning, free
A rebel, heeding only Moon
Dashes froth against the caves

A pitting sorrow smolders now
Within the molten core of light
Clouds of tears shroud gold ideal

A reverent sea to Master bows
Whence, suspended in a silken sky
Sun flows down; but 'tis not real

Thus raw relation’s tempest quelled
But mercy’s never quenched--
Light now tangible is sent

The insolence boasts on, tide-swelled
Though nonetheless with grace is drenched
Dancing, doleful Disk unpent

In thankless spite and wondrous pounding
The pendent for penchant’s forgot
Cavern-hid, it waits as dead

Though cast away, a thundrous sounding
Resounds, surrounds, as empty rought
Of that tyranny--naught said

Awaiting silently instead
In still resplendence golden
Matter-shaft--Medallion

An Account of Ambivalence

I am a model, doncha know? Yeah, I can't even take myself seriously. Especially at two in the morning...not true, that is when I unearth the deepest respect for who I am through my existential debates within myself...I loath that, for all its pretense. And you call it pretense for the mere fact that you understand it not at all, you bloody equivocator! Oh, and at that I should dash all I have, I expect? Because it is not encapsulated in philosophy? A philosophy, I might add, wraps only around itself. No, I should never have expected you to understand, for all you know is....

The battle rages on, but that has nothing and everything to do with this it. Elsie Fleetwood. Explode. No, implode. Just watch if you wish, I'm clearly giving you no type of description for which you are looking. Again, I am far too quick to assume. Be who you are.

A Crackling

Deep, no deeper, no less deep it should be. The throbbing and thrumming tugs at my every tendon--yet I move not. It should be nothing less--mark that, nothing more--than what it is? Deception is not desirable, yet then it is when through its eyes you seem to peer? And what if this is necessary to go deeper, to break the bark which we knew had use as it was, but has it no other, no better, use? The question on the counter now must be cut, or cut at: What is it to be better? I do not know anymore; I never knew; can I ever know? A threefold bandied crackling. The sound which cannot be ignored, though it is always on the back burner. It cries of something to be had, not anymore what should, but what should be should... I am here led into infinity. Tertiary, quaternary, and whatever other powers--to infinity--of the volition. Is the height of this, the utmost possible for the human race then most admirable? And what would, could, should, this be? Or is it rather an individual endeavor to reach a specific height? Is this then due the utmost admiration and therefore striving?

No Hero

I remember a time when daffodils flourished in rain, in the graveyard, nary a care for the wind or spring air. I remember further down, along the stonewall, the desperate crying of kittens for mother. And I know they'll be found, though it has to be me--a hero, a savior, discoverer to be praised--for those kittens then did i care? The vole lays dead on the stone in the graveyard, its insides consumed be insects, recycling, new meaning, no meaning at all to the corpse, the shell of a vole. Disgust I feel, and with hate and revulsion I violently flick away the beetle bearing its offspring, its children it wishes to place in a good home, nourishment, shelter, and life.... I came not to grips, I accept not this life out of death, for a memory I never had--I cling to. Let is free! It desires to live, not to lie, and lie to all it is not dead. For death in this world is a window of freedom, where beauty, infinity, haecceity meet.

Shadows of the Soul

Swing.
Swing.
Swing.
What is swinging, the thought or the thinker, the pendulum triumph of life? Why? Why must we be selfish, why must we be hateful and cruel? Is it possible fro us to step out beside ourselves, our own imperfections as clear as those blemishes we so quickly spot in others. Know thyself, and know that thou art a wicked thing: evil.
Consume me evil, but leave some for me.
Devour me Jesus, but I want a taste--my fists are clenched. I ravenously devour myself, tearing at my flesh. The pain I administer to myself, yet not respect others enough to rent at their spirits, I want to rip them to pieces, yet advice even I'll not give. Darkness, I will be one with you.... If I see no light in light, the darkness I'll find in the Sun, yes the shadow of the sun, a façade it is, and always will be, in this rivering madness of wayside life in a jungle where Everyone's mad, incapable of connection, relating; incommensurate beings, step outside yourselves! Shead that putrid skin and shagging self. Be of yourself to others; improve in the dark pool you'll cleanse and be free.

Chaos Means More

Construct. Build in the rigid format of life, following laws of physics, chemistry, astronomy, mathematics, and life. Only these, within these we must construct our lives or they'll collapse.

A house in a tree
Is something to be
Ever and only in books and in me....

What if chaos leads to order? DO you think this all began, established itself in and abiding by the set rules of science? Is God limited to our understanding? Is he merely what he is to ourselves? Could not one of his rules be chaos? An agent of this is so much more meaningful than she who neatly places her life all in sets, in rows that already exist. But the agent of chaos--oh, wondrous Agent of Chaos!--brings to the world a new life, an new order. Limitation precedes transcendence, but bring yourself to find what the limitation should be, or all else is a meaningless, purposeless flop. We all fall head first, believing this appearance of intentionality, presumptuously assigned as the way it should be done, into the stream of Styx; but he dives with his heart, so that what follows is not the natural sequence of physical self, but an endless abundance of soul and perception. The complexity of it, for and instant, only an instant, is seen to me as me eye opens, opens, my eyeball is free-floating and more, I see more, and I see meaning in this muddle.

Rise

Fall, Movement II

Fall, Movement I

A Cry for Resignation

I shed two tears for you--
The rain, the dark, the solitude
Were welcomed as they grew
A desperate tremor overtook
Lest sorrow dissipate
I feel I must in grief have share
The Lord I gave no weight

I give to Him what pains my most
But not to Him your pain entrust

I wish to hand you o'er to God
But for fear that I should fail
I plead you give yourself to Him
And peace He will unveil

My tears are spilt in vain
His healing tears will never wane

My Life's Motifs

• relationships and interrelatedness
• relativity
• balance
• conviction
• identity, personal and corporate
• paradox
• chaos
• authenticity
• intentionality; lifestyle
• expectations; influential power thereof

Macbeth Act V, sc. v (as recalled form memory)

Tomorrow, tomorrow and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out! Brief candle.
Life’s but a walking shadow; A poor player
Who struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury—

Signifying nothing.

The Child's Fickle Love

The earth has just been saturated by a quenching spring rain, and little _____ is playing apparently by herself, crouching close to the grass-water-mud. She never considers herself to be alone when outside, and here the earthworms wriggling to the surface in escape from their water-logged homes serve the role of companions quite satisfactorily. She gingerly lifts them from their watery fates, and strokes them, speaking to them as a mother soothes a tear-soaked child. However her tenderness is soon to be forgotten, as a few robins touch down before her. Now, not only does she immediately turn her attention to the more appealing guests, but holds their potential friendship in such high esteem she is willing to forgo her relationship with her little wormy friends, and quickly decide to provides the robins with an enticement into amity. In this hope, she tosses her cradled crawlers, now transformed to tasty treats, almost frantically to the birds, calling all the while, “Here, robins! I have food for you!”.

This may be interpreted in a number of ways as I apply it to my life today, and hopefully now I give more worth to worms than as my entertainers and would commit no such despicable equivalent act. But what I will point out that I believe resounds in my life today is that I am ever catering to higher --
-worms in the leaves, saved
-major crisis
-newt

An Inward Musing

Only in the inmost recesses of my mind is the clandestine communion with the other made. The alternate entity will never concede to leave the confines of the mental cell even for an instant, for in doing so its existence would become sullied, and mortality would reign in It as it does in me. No, It will never venture out and give the external world the corrupting hold. However, the immortality of its nature is premised by the necessary intermediation of It, through me, to the outer realm, and likewise I live forever because of the piece of my person I have stowed with It, pure; experience and eternity wed.

E x i s t e n s i o n of the Yellow Subterranean: A Pensive, of Sorts

Unearthing the Foundations:

The one truth to the rebellion is dissent; blind dissent which challenges the sight of the faction as a whole. What can I say but that I have been made guilty in the face of this travesty. The trajectory of truth no longer runs to the sun, but instead the patron is allured by the deceiving light from a rock which possesses no virtue of its own. This ‘Moon’ is inherently devoid of all truth, and the reflected beam is not the truth itself, rather a mere veil. The lie exists only as imitation of truth, and without it there is nothingness.


Verified Ultima
The only way to describe the terror of the utmost is to determine the order of the universe. If this is somehow inhibited, then to enthrall would be suicide.


Delegates Gone Amiss
The only way to the turmound (termite mound) is through the occiferous vein.

Conductive Evangelion
The morbid attire as associated with the underground phalanx was used in conjunction with the conventional corporates of the orthodox cortex.


(1) The Only constructive way to begin a sentence is by obstructive spontaneity. [(1) is false]


Tholkeed and the angels. to corruption. {More lies!} -chesset-


Horrendous Attribute
To take the way of the unborn and twist it into a conundrum of peevish thought would be considered all but disastrous to the Houyhnhnms’ cultural Selkies.


Verisimilitude
The first unknown is under the bucket: the second is the bucket.


Keyholed
Laugher in the light and the languidity of the lagoonic cesspool.


tangible variance of evidence
Hey there to the others of the men in the park. Away! And avast....


Candice and the Monkey Charms
The last thing to be afraid of is the unskinning of a horesen waterloo.
There is none to exhume in the plexor of contemplation. Outside it has become no different in the purple haze of a mixture in the overwhelmed centrifuge of art, handled with curious finger-tips the th the the the the the fallen piece of fruit with ; maybe it is not the only way to become left for dead. The ultimate escape, I dream to fall, to slip, to slough this off, and I want to sleep; to die; to run. Transcribed form underneath; I will repeat, again I say repeat.


A Tampered Ponning
It is quite corruptible that one would distinguish a pear from that chipped circus-red stand upon which it rests.


I hS RO-- I JUST HAD TO!


I like my heart on this medicine, for I had no heart before.


The Plaintiff's Golden Whimsicle
The bacterial sequence is indefinite and indiscriminate, constitution the larger percentage of unfamiliar heroin addicts. From the 1950s to the present, the guava gum-gum population has declines, reaching near heights of utter suicide. An inside perspective grants that no damage will ensue, and provides an alternate interpretation of the ambiguity-laden lexicon which is all the antiquated predecessors have become in this less-than-palpable stance on manuscript’s hermeneutic. The conspiracy, not being limited to the above concatenate arguments, can be seen to express itself even in the field of modern theatrics. The stage has been known to draw upon a number of talents, from visually artistic, to emotionally expressive, and even to musically psychotic, but it the degree to, and manner in which it would advantage the last is shocking and unpredicted. Congenital mutations, made evident in the West Harmer Hospital’s patients by successions of RAT scans in series of nine, have been experimentally proven to have an adverse correlation to endogenous disruptions of the endocrine system, resulting in the carcinogenic growth of hemoglobin templates and thereby transformation of gray matter into an instrumental morphology of the cerebral cortex, which some might consider as tragic.

this is not the only way to be alive
In the livelihood of the forth falling downcast whims in turgid negative instruction and the development of transcendental discovering coalesce in the delving of a new and adoptable day without the surface structure and the daunting of the gauntlet trial-runs through chalice grounds of chains and bones made red in glow and hued, imbued with tendril sweep in the silent swig of life.

Intoduction to a Nondisambiguation

Basically, if this web log takes flight, it will consist of evidence of my struggles through some of my personal conflictions in thought, praxis, and emotions as applied to and/or derived from philosophy, society, and inter-personal relations. Much of this blog may be out of context and therefor rather unintelligible, but this will be more accurate a portrayal of my thoughts and ideas: I do not understand them either (although Nobody understands me perfectly well). There will also be a few other components of this blog which might include random and seemingly meaningless sentences which type themselves out before me (typically identifiable by "The only" at the beginning), stream of consciousness writings, poetry, lists, and missions either in the blueprint stage or already accomplished.

WARNING: You are entering an nonconventional reality zone; use of surrealist spectacles are recommended.