The world tilts.
I was running all along the soft warm night
The embers
The windows
The fire
Its conscious
It draws me
Together
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The shine kissed the hills.
Warm grasses swayed beneath the pulling of the wind.
Cross legged and decidedly unclenched….uncloistered….
I gazed at gulls in their fleeting circles….
Should I tread down, once more, to the shoreline?
Should I kick the salty texture of the sea?
Which odd assortment of neural fire must I stoke?
Locomotion was such a drag.
A ritual for sluggards.
So, I sat, like the coastal grasses, heeding only the wind.
Would I become like the bleached driftwood?
Light but substantive…. yielding but substantial….
Was it even a worthy goal?
What is ‘worth’ anyway?
Besides a synapse thwarted…
The remaining sunlight had many hours.
I would keep them.
Stillness, what a joke…
Everything rebels against that clown.
To sit…eschewing motion…
The heart itself knows there is no escape…
And so it moves…so it rhymes…
So it keeps the tension.
So it produces time.
My lips want beer.
My skin wants touch…
Corpus cannot drift cannot wooden be…
Just effulgent suds…
Ethereal…
Uncatchable…
Without a bottle…
Glistening polychromatic in the shine
Kissing the hills
Swaying the grasses
Warmth
Legs grip to behold guls circumscribing
Exulting in direction
Choosing none
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I stride among pillars at dawn
The magnificent sun casts their shadows across the simmering sand
The hawk glides overhead
Silent sacred symmetry
Eternal forms amidst primordial desert
Mortality, infinity, entwined
Will hands arise forever to furnish this duality
Or are they too mere whimsies of the shifting dust
A plaything of the wind
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Despite being a bit panicky from overdoing it today I throw together a brief vlog.
O dear, it seems my hotel stay has made go all doughy. Ah, well. It gives me something to work on during the great spazz attack of 2020.
Subjects
Beer (Hops specifically) – Is it unhealthy?
UPS during CoronaChan
I subscribed to the Epoch Times
What Epoch Says about Corona and my take on that
Prattle
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Not Just Zazz…but Pizzazz
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– The History of Utilitarianism | The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy
Held.
Something is held.
This holding is seperate from perceiving.
It is removed from direct observation.
Removed from the things that sight delivers to consciousness.
When something is held.
That thing becomes a book.
A book bound by the scope of its subject and the alphabet used to assemble it.
A book very much like the literal thing.
This metaphysical volume is imprinted on the synapses of those who hold it.
So it is that we have spent all ages trading books.
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Isn’t it interesting or perhaps more fittingly alarming that we have precious few markers of passage? A letter is such a finite thing. Perhaps no more finite than a tweet but certainly more tangibly finite. Because the leaf, the bit of tree, it will yellow and curl and return to earth. The words that it held in scripts so reflective of the man and mood that etched it, they are so personal, and thus so exquisitely temporal. You can picture these textures in the grand tapestry of time. Yes, of such markers there are precious few.
The modems hum, the screens glow, the constant podcast prattle. These innovations are worth celebrating. Yet as much as they inspire they alter the nature of inspiration. What is the qualia of this novelty?
What sort of poems, novels, philosophies, and sciences will flow from the omnipresent memory of machines? From these mirrors into which we can instill our favorite reflections and gaze thereupon to our heart’s content – can we expect an accurate picture? And if high definition does indeed provide accuracy is it fertile? Or is it merely a reflection of saliencies that serve onanistic solipsism.
It is difficult to tell how we will change. It is perhaps impossible to know how altered we already are. It is definitely impossible to know how altered we were at the advent of the transistor. For such knowledge is ephemeral. It is gone with those that possessed it.
It is precisely this thing, ephemerality, that we must watch.
For a flowers beauty is in the rareness and brevity of its blossom.
A beauty which the plastic rose destroys.
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“There’s nothing out there,” I said stepping across decript floorboards.
They creaked in protest.
“Ok,” I responded. “I guess there’s some wheat in the field. Though it’s wilted.”
The wind shuffled the flies on the brick windowsill.
“What? You thought they were paper airplanes?” I chuckled.
It was cold. It was cold for a few nights now. I wondered where Maria was.
I looked at the tracks. The train was still. I wondered what it was waiting for.
My father’s watch was broken. I left it open where the flies had been and let the rising sun glint off the face.
It’s reflection traveling in the direction of Novgorod.
A crow cawwed in the distance.
It must have been a week since I’d gone up the stairs. I judged as much by the empty tins clustered like crown jewels in the corner.
I fiddled with the cross round my neck.
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You.
You there.
Yes, you with the hair so like the leaves that autumn brings.
Do you know why fall is my favorite season?
It is not just the hint of chill in the air.
It is because rings are made.
Yes.
I love fall because I love decay.
Because I love the evidence of life that has been lived.
The gentle descent of death into rivers as cool, and deep, and gray, as those eyes you’ve fixed upon me.
You shudder and wonder what’s so great about rot.
Well look at the tree’s hair that’s just landed on that delicate shoulder, so near your own leafy crown.
How I love the slight bend in your neck.
How tenderly the angle travels to the collarbone.
You know I see you as a skeleton,
Shhhhhhh… relax a bit,
you’ve drowned your cigarette in gin,
I’ve no desire to harm you.
Here take mine,
a famililar act should steel the nerves.
You know that such lovely lips should not be chimnneys.
But while we’re on the subject of smoking,
why is it that we love it so,
the wrapping of these dead dry leaves and their cremation?
We inhale decay.
And in rings the evidence of life’s passage curls round us.
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IRL fasting has many benefits. Check out P.D. Mangan’s amazing anti-aging site for more on this.
If that’s not enough.
Even Jesus loves fasting. There’s some juju out there that can’t be banished any other way.
Except maybe the internet.
So should you go on internet fasts?
Folks like Bryan Lunduke would probably say yes. Folks like me would probably say…maybe.
Fact of the matter is that I’ve been trying and planning to go on a no electronics sequester, where I produce a bunch of somethign, with a lot of focus; for well…it’s embarassing…for nearly….if not exactly a decade.
Sweet Elijah! You might cry. Your discipline sucks.
At this rate the chariots of fire will never beam you up and reveal why Maynard is such an infuriating shtilib.
Absolutely. Yes. I’m a whimsical beast with very strong drives that are not easily tamed. Which is why I prefer letting them run free. Seems more humane. That is until they go over a cliff.
The nubmer one complaint with all things web related seems to be wasted time. The internet seems to be a distraction machine.
So, it is only natural that people throw up their hands and ask, “Hold on a minute! Hold on a minute! What if I wasn’t voluntarily pulled in a million directions at once! Wouldn’t that be…I don’t…sane?”
So all the goal setting and good intentions begin. Only to be shattered by the realziation that most of your work and social life depends on electronics. Even if you aren’t a blogger.
“Welcome to the machine.” – Roger Waters or some such hippy.
Yes. And now you’re booting up and logging on to answer e-mails or apply for jobs or write this or that and…boom now you’re on YouTube…and well….frankly…welcome to Hell and goodbye time.
Or so it would seem.
I’d suggest that there’s probably a happy medium, wherein you use your baser browsing urges to spice up the legitimate ones, and catalyze learning and productivity.
But at the same time perhaps some fasting would be good towards that end.
Not here to make proclamations just to ponder so…I dunno you tell me.
Or if you don’t want to chat with an overcaffeinated time slayer, then ponder your way to Vallhalla.
Speaking of Valhalla. Pillaging is no longer profitable and mead remains expensive. Please contribute to a thirsty bard.
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So, I was sat here drinking wine and trying my utmost to bang out some fiction and suddenly remembered the smell of a book. Then I recalled the smell of the resteraunt where I’d sat reading that book. Then I remembered the book itself.
It was good feel. The early aughts were a simpler time. When bookstores hadn’t started shutting down all around and random discovery was a lot more likely. This very nineties strain of weird fiction is like the lullaby of a rural Carolina sky in all its isolated grimness. Yes, it was such nights that found me curled up with some bit of reading I’d picked up here and there. It was a necessity to escape the cicada song and the mocking moon.
It was thrilling to wander among the stoic haunted halls of the Wyrd museum and other such places. Though I haven’t read the book since I was just barely in my teens and doubt it would have very much effect on me now; I’m profoundly glad for that sense of wonder. So glad that I felt inclined to share.
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The Fractal Journal 