Table of Contents

At times I feel my thoughts are as muddled as the serenity of a clear thought broken by a prism of self-consciousness. At times I feel that the spoke not spoken might be better translated in the written word but most times I realize that it requires the ability to explore that part of myself that has been explored one time too many.

Unfortunately, repetition helps not, because i must see myself as someone else before I judge, and when I manage to do that I can only catch a glimpse of scattered thoughts in a meadow that rots of stagnation.

But fortunately, for the sake of future word I managed to strap my ADD laden brain long enough to get the chapter titles for blog thingies yet to be written. I guess it’s a process of a self-exploration but but but atleast I got a roadmap of thoughts…all that’s left is to explore the tangents.

-intuition is a precursor to knowledge
-reality feeds the body, while ideals feed the soul (umbi)
-the basis for evolution is a revolution
-we need to analyze the paralysis of thought
-god + war = resolve
-the commercialization of life has resulted in it becoming a series of ready-made daydreams
-destruction is a form of creation
-can we tell which human beings are solar powered as opposed to power powered?

PS: I AM NOT AN ANARCHIST

The Ocean: Brethren

“We are all sailing down the stream of time which we can neither create nor direct. All we can do is steer with (more or less) experience and skill.”

Broken steps litter the journey towards what one feels might be salvation. Unopposed the stream of people finds the path of least resistance and culminates to form what can only be deemed a reservoir of fear and hope. The reservoir leaks streams which join forces to form a river that grows wider and drives forward faster. The river has many tributaries… leaks from the reservoirs of cliques, countries, groups, the human race. Not only do smaller streams flowing down the staircases of the corporate ‘west’ contribute but so do the streams that gush forward like the very liquid gold that the ‘non-corporate’ drill. It was a movement. Slipping and streaming. Inertia was on their side.

Twists. And. Turns.

Hope, yes it forms, but fear keeps it temperate as it spews out into the hinterland that has no land. The ocean is a funny place. The twists and turns are no more. You find brethren. You find yourself.

2007: a beginning

Within the unforgiving grip of monotony the minutes seem like years but the years seem to go like minutes.


“in an unchanging universe a beginning in time is something that has to be imposed by some being outside the universe; there is no physical necessity for a beginning.”
SH “A brief history of Time’

I don’t know if reading SH’s book was a good thing or not. I am a big believer in the ‘ignorance is bliss’ stream of thought and this book doesn’t seem to be compatible with that viewpoint. I mean is SH trying to subtly tell us that no matter what science proves there needs to be a catalyst or a HIM that can impose a beginning, thereby scientifically proving the existence of god or or or … all our stumbling self discoveries are misplaced… maybe there is no beginning.

Stand your Ground

The fire burns into another lie.
Another reason to stand your ground and watch life pass you by

A mural of words
A composition of thoughts
Stand your ground… apathy hope is not.

Seconds mould ‘now’ into a minute of a year
Of a fire that dies leaving embers of lies to be told
About us, about them, about her, about him. not art.

Stand your ground. Life is an exhibition.
Read the murals. Hear the harmony of thoughts.

We still live in an era of prohibition
Guard your art.

boca

Ounces

Is it better not to whisper that which life kept unsaid?
To tremble with not one, but many ounces of regret
An ounce for fear, love, joy, and those put to eternal bed
But if ounces are ounces, time is now for words to be said.
Words:
NO I AM STRONG. I AM BUT ME
And to fear, love or revel in the joy of bed
is to accept that which cannot be

boca

the artist

The worker uses his hands

The craftsman uses his hands and head

The artist uses his hands, head and heart

the ITs

Heartless creature of the night the ITS are cannibalistic in their search for escape. Whores for the next new thing they fluttered through a wide array of corridors and unmarked doors. Entering but not absorbing. Seeing but not absorbing.

The pack does not have a distinguishable leader but it could easily be dissected into two groups: a group of individuals dripping narcissism and a group of followers who lap up the bedpans of the aforementioned narcissists. Further segmentation is unavoidable.

The fringe
The its
The bums
The bees

As I enter the room I breathe in the questions of an outsider. Who is fucking who? Who is fucked on what? Who knows who?
….Who cares?

An Ode to 'I'

Q. What am ‘I’?

A. The flux of consciousness constituting itself as the
a) unity of itself
b) ‘who’ is what he is not and the ‘who’ is not what he is

Thus ‘I’ is not what at any instant they might want to say I am. I am that towards which I project myself but am not yet.


[Jean-Paul Satre’s L’etre et le Neant has to be the most convoluted book I’ve ever read and I remember that after having leafed through half of it, the above was what I had to jot down so that I had a platform from which to approach what he was going on about… needless to say knowing ‘I’ did not help in knowing JPS]

PS: in no way am I trying to insinuate that I am ‘The Who’.

An Ode to 'You'

“your memory is a composition written for performance by the human mind”

Boca

“My darling anything you wish, anything I am, anything I can ever be… that’s what I want to offer you- not the things I’ll get for you, but the thing in me that will make me able to get them. That thing- a man cant renounce it- but I want to renounce it- so that it will be yours- so that it will be in your service- only for you.”

GW (F.head)

“your absence has gone through me
Like thread to needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its colour”

Separation by W.S. Merwin